by Tara Wylde
It looks like something directly off the front of a Christmas card.
Atticus pulls on the leash and whines. He wants to explore, and he’s not being shy about it.
Paul rounds the back of the car, snow crunching under the soles of the brand-new boots we stopped and purchased on the way here.
“Ready?” he asks and takes my gloved hand in his.
“This is ridiculous,” I say as he leads me away from the car and toward the big red barn just a few feet away. “The city is full of shops that carry perfectly good artificial trees. There was no reason to spend an hour and a half driving just to buy a real tree.”
Paul slants me a look. “Have you ever had a real tree?”
“No,” I admit.
“Trust me, once we pick one out and get it set up at your place, you’ll throw away that silly fake thing you have in that box.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my tree,” I tell him.
“It’s purple.”
“What’s wrong with purple?” Never, not in a million years, will I admit that while I loved the idea of a purple Christmas tree when I was in college and purchased the tree in an after-holiday clearance sale, last year I thought it looked silly, and had started thinking about getting a more traditional option.
“In the grand scheme of thing,” Paul says, “nothing. But trees aren’t supposed to be purple.”
He leads me through a small door in the side of the big barn.
The interior is like a Santa’s workshop for adults. Long picnic tables covered with wreaths and other handmade Christmas decorations take up most of the floor space.
I pause beside a huge wreath that’s decorated with tiny red berries and pine cones. A large, perfectly tied satin bow is attached to the bottom. It’d look great hanging on the Blind Pig’s front door.
I turn over the tag and gasp. It’s beautiful, but the price is way out of my budget.
“Do you like it?” Paul asks.
“Yeah but it’s so-”
He reaches out with his free hand and grabs the wreath.
“It’s too much money,” I hiss between my teeth, hoping no one hears me.
“Stop worrying.” Paul places a light kiss on my forehead. “I’m buying it.”
I open my mouth, ready to provide a list of reasons why he shouldn’t, but before I can draw the breath needed to say the words, he places a silencing finger over my lips. “Please. Don’t fight me on this. I want to do this for you.”
The earnestness and the sweetness in his expression silences my protests. “Fine.”
“Great.” Paul tugs me towards one end of a cavernous room where a bored-looking teenager is sitting and flipping through a magazine. Three huge, insulated hot beverage dispensers are on a table beside her.
“Let’s get a hot chocolate and see what other decorations they’re selling.”
22
Lara
“Oh, look at this one.” I hold up a darling hand-carved Santa. “It’ll look amazing on the shelves behind the bar.”
It’s not easy to put the Santa in the cart without checking out the price, but I manage. I add it to the top of the pile of ornaments and decorations I picked out during the hour that Paul and I spent happily perusing the contents of the picnic tables.
“I think you’ve looked at everything here,” Paul says in a warm tone. “Twice.”
“Probably.”
But just in case we’re wrong, I turn a full circle, taking stock of each table, making sure there’s not some wonderful, hidden treasure I’ve missed. Satisfied I’ve seen everything, I turn back to the cart Paul’s leaning against and wince.
When Paul got us cups of hot chocolate and asked the teen if they had shopping carts, I’d rolled my eyes, only to be stunned when the girl pointed to a small row of them.
Now, I understand why.
There’s no way the two of us could have carried all the treasures I’ve picked out in our arms. And I’m not the only one stocking up on Christmas decorations. Three other women are filling their own carts, though they’re being a bit more selective and paying closer attention to the price tags than I did.
Looking at the contents of my cart, and thinking about the first cart I filled, the one Paul left with the teen so she could total up the items while I continued to shop, triggers my guilt complex. I’ve been actively avoiding looking at the price tags, but based on what the wreath cost, I suspect that the total of everything I’ve selected exceeds the Blind Pig’s monthly mortgage payment.
“Do you want me to put some of this stuff back?” I offer, even though I don’t have any idea how I’ll pick out what to keep. I’m already attached to every item I selected.
“Don’t even think about it,” Paul says in a warning tone.
“But this stuff is so expensive. And I don’t actually need any of it.”
Paul curls his fingers into the front of my coat, tugging until I’m standing directly in front of him. He cups my face between his big hands.
“Lara.” His chocolate-scented breath washes over my face. “I worked hard to build a successful business specifically so I had enough money that I didn’t have to worry about whether I need something I want.”
“But…”
“Watching you shop, picking out the things you like is fun, and that is worth every single penny I’m about to spend. So stop worrying and enjoy yourself.”
I’ll never know if it’s the sweetness of his gesture, or if the magnetic pull I’ve been desperately trying to ignore finally gets the best of me, but I do the one thing I promised I wouldn’t.
Placing my hands on his shoulders, I rise up on my toes and press my lips to his.
It’s a sweet kiss, chaste even. Little more than a slight touching of skin against skin, yet the slight contact wakes up my entire system, setting up a warm sensation deep within me that slowly spreads outwards, until that and the lingering taste of hot chocolate on his lips are the only things that matter.
I love you.
The words, pale pink and in the fancy font frequently used for wedding invitations, flash through my brain, as clear and bright as a sign.
Knees trembling, I draw away. Something briefly burns in Paul’s eyes before he conceals it.
Love? Really?
Worry knots my stomach as I follow Paul to the teenager, where he parks the cart beside the first one I filled up and requests a hand saw.
Carrying my best friend’s baby is already complicated enough, and we haven’t even begun to discuss how to handle that situation. The last thing I need to do is add a messy emotion into the mix.
I square my shoulders.
No, I decide, I’m not really in love with Paul. This weird flash of emotion, this desire to proclaim my feelings to Paul and the rest of the world, that’s nothing more than pregnancy hormones.
23
Paul
Finding the perfect Christmas tree isn’t for the faint of heart. The last thing you want to do is settle on a tree and cut it down, only to locate one you like better as you make your way back to the front of the tree lot. That’s why I always make sure I check out each tree before choosing “The One.”
Lara and I walk up and down the tidy rows, taking in the enormous selection and weighing the pros and cons of the different varieties. We’ve agreed that a blue spruce will look best in the Blind Pig and that her apartment is the perfect place for a nice jack pine.
Atticus, looking even more ridiculous in a heavy blue parka and matching blue booties than he does in his natural hairless state, is having the time of his life. When I spoke to the farm owners to arrange to have the two trees we were picking out transported to the Blind Pig, they’d fawned over the little dog and said he was allowed to run around off leash.
Atticus was taking full advantage of the situation by chasing every squirrel, rabbit, and chipmunk he came across and darting under each tree we passed.
Lara is another story. She’s answered my questions, but otherwise she’s
been quiet, like she’s living inside her head rather than in the present. She’s been this way since she kissed me in the barn.
I drop an arm around her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
I expect her to tell me she’s fine.
“Why were you looking for a surrogate?”
I wondered how long it would take for her to ask about that.
“My whole life I’ve always wanted kids, but it never seemed to happen. This summer I was driving past a house and saw this guy in the yard playing catch with his kids and I had this moment of blinding panic. Time suddenly seemed like it was going too fast and I was afraid that if I didn’t have a kid soon, I never would. Since I wasn’t involved with anyone, using a surrogate and a fertility clinic seemed like the best solution.”
I jam a hand through my hair and capture Lara’s gaze with mine. “This is such a strange conversation to be having with the woman who’s pregnant with my child.”
“It’s not one I ever imagined having.” Lara chuckles and bends to scoop up a handful of snow. She packs it into a ball and tosses it. Atticus’s belly all but drags across the snow as he chases after it.
“Did you want to have kids?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess so, but I’ve always thought of them in kind of an abstract way. They were like these things I wanted to have someday, maybe, but I wasn’t like you. They weren’t something I’ve ever really thought I needed to have in my life.” She smirks and shakes her head. “Now, it looks like the matter has been taken out of my hands.”
I brace myself and ask the one question I’ve needed to ask since yesterday, but haven’t been able to. “How do you feel about this baby?”
The amusement drains from her face, and just like that the world seems like a dimmer place. I’ve always heard about people who had smiles so bright they lit up the room, but before meeting Lara I’ve never known someone with that power.
“Honestly? I’m still having a hard time processing it.” Her hand moves to her stomach, covering it. “It didn’t seem real until yesterday, when I saw the ultrasound. Now I can’t stop thinking about what’s growing inside of me, relying on me for everything.” She shivers. “To tell you the truth, it’s really scary. And the damned pregnancy hormones aren’t helping. I hate how my emotions keep yo-yoing all over the place.”
We walk for a few steps in silence, each considering what we’ve learned about the other.
“I do know one thing,” Lara says, her voice soft. “I’m not acting as your surrogate. I’m not going to have this child and let you whisk him, or her, off to North Carolina. I will be a part of their life.”
“I didn’t expect anything else.” I stop and turn to her. I wait until she’s looking into my eyes and really listening before I continue. “Don’t, not even for a moment, think I’m going to try taking this child away from you.”
She shoves her hands into her pockets. “And how is that going to work with us living in two different states? It’s not like we can swap him back and forth every other week.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I have a plan, but I don’t. It’s too soon. My idea will send her running for the hills and that’s the last thing I want to do. “We have seven months to work something out. We just need to give it time.”
Lara starts walking again. I fall into step beside her.
We round a corner and skid to a stop. “Perfect,” Lara breathes.
She’s right. The blue spruce before us stands at least eight feet tall and is nearly as wide as it is tall. The branches grow close together. The tree is stunning; add a few lights, some tinsel, and place a star on top, and it’s going to be a work of art.
“Is this the one you want?”
Lara looks awestruck. “It’s way better than anything I’ve seen in any store or catalog,” she whispers.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” I drop to my knees and prepare to wiggle under the giant beast of a tree. “Now do you see why I said you needed a real tree?”
This is the only part about getting a real tree that I really hate, cutting it down. If I wasn’t so hung up on the experience, I’d pay someone to cut it for me.
The way the tree is shaped means that the ground directly beneath it is dry and free of snow. But the same low-hanging branches that will look amazing once it’s in a tree stand make it nearly impossible to get under the damn thing.
As I wiggle under the tree, the needles tangle in my hair and poke at my neck’s bare skin. Snow works its way between the waistband of my jeans and my skin. I imagine that this is the tree’s way of fighting back, of trying to discourage me from cutting it down.
Ignoring the discomfort, I finally find the trunk and start sawing, cursing the awkward position that means a banged elbow each time I run the serrated teeth across the bark. The sharp scent of sap fills the air.
After what seems like an eternity, the tree starts to wobble. One or two more swipes and it’ll topple.
“Lara,” I yell, hoping she hasn’t wandered off.
“Yeah?”
“Grab your dog. I don’t want him crushed when this baby comes down.”
She doesn’t respond but I hear the crunch of her boots in the snow, hear her call Atticus’s name. The branches start to feel like they’re reaching for me as my claustrophobia kicks in.
“Any time now,” I mutter to myself. How long can it possibly take to make sure that dog isn’t in danger?
“He’s safe,” she finally yells.
“’Bout time,” I mutter and run the teeth of the saw across the trunk one more time. Above me, the tree shudders and starts to tip.
“Timber,” Lara yells at the top of her lungs as it falls to the ground.
Relieved to be out in the open again, I wipe the sweat off my face and start to sit up, only to get a huge wad of snow in the face.
24
Paul
Lara shrieks with laughter as I wipe snow from my face.
“I am so going to get you for that.” I scoop up a handful of snow and start packing it into a snowball. “You’re going down.”
Face red with laughter, Lara backs up. Atticus runs a circle around us, confused by what we’re doing, but ready and willing to join in the fun.
“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t sound very contrite. “I couldn’t resist. Honest.”
Snowball ready, I shift to my knees and cock my arm back. Atticus, who must think I’m holding a ball, races between us and rears up on his hind legs, mouth gaping open.
I let the snowball rip.
Lara pivots. Probably, she meant to run to one of the nearby trees and take cover, but she only gets one step before her legs tangle with Atticus. Together, they tumble to the ground.
Not being the kind of guy to let a golden opportunity pass me by, I vault to my feet and scoop up another handful of snow as I close the distance between us.
Lara makes a vain attempt to get up, to scurry for cover, but she’s too slow. I drop down on top of her body, pinning her to the ground, and rub the snow in her face.
Howling with laughter, she jerks her head from side to side, shaking off the snow. She works an arm out from between us and manages to maneuver a handful of snow down the back of my shirt, but I barely feel it.
With her hair fanned out on the ground, face red from the cold and covered in melting snow, and indigo eyes full of laughter, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
The world around me narrows until the only thing I’m aware of, the only thing I care about, is her.
I sink my fingers into her damp hair, holding her in place while I lean forward, crushing her mouth with mine. She reaches for me, her arms winding around my neck as her lips part, granting me access, allowing me to plunder the dark recesses of her mouth, tease her tongue with my own. I never thought chocolate and snow could taste so intoxicating, but as long as they linger on Lara’s lips, I can’t get enough of them.
Heat flames within me as I slide my hands down until the
y feel the edge of her coat and slip beneath it, touching her warm, soft skin.
Rational thought fizzles, lost in a cloud of mindless pleasure and desire. It’s been eight long weeks since I last touched Lara, really touched her. Last night, after everything, just didn’t feel right. I stayed at the hotel again. I didn’t want her to think I was taking advantage. But if I wait any longer there’s a good chance I’ll implode.
She moves beneath me, arching her back, pressing her breasts into my chest, leaving no doubt that she wants me every bit as much as I want her.
I deepen the kiss. My hand slides up along her rib cage and brushes against the side of her satin bra.
Something warm runs down my ankle. I try to ignore it, but it grows hotter and wetter by the second. Puzzled, I break the kiss and look over my shoulder, meeting Atticus’s gaze. Just past his head, I see his hind leg, suspended a few inches above my ankle.
“You little shit!” I roll to one side, removing my leg from the line of fire.
“What’s wrong?” Lara digs her elbows into the ground. Her gaze sweeps over Atticus, then to my wet leg and snaps back to the patch of yellow snow between us.
“Don’t even think about laughing,” I warn even as her eyes start twinkling.
She claps a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shake.
“That’s laughing,” I accuse. “It’s not funny.”
Unable to contain herself, Lara explodes with mirth. Atticus, the little mood killer, licks her face.
Finally, she regains enough control over herself to sit up, though she continues to chuckle.
She stands and picks up Atticus, hugging him close to her side. “Really, if you stop and think about it, he just paid you an enormous compliment.”
“How do you figure?” I sit up and brush snow off my jacket.