Kye
There’s a little niggle in the back of my mind that tells me I shouldn’t be as amused at this turn of events as I am. It took everything I had not to burst into laughter in the kitchen as the realization crept its way over her beautiful face.
She was stuck with me, shopping for a Christmas tree.
Thank you, Mom.
“This isn’t a date,” Chelsey snaps, stalking toward my truck. “Before you get any ideas.”
I pull the front door shut and jump down the porch steps. “Didn’t even cross my mind, Chels.”
“Pfft.” She folds her arms and stares at me.
“Seriously, it didn’t.” I hold my hands up and stop in front of her. Her eyes narrow into thin slits, and her gaze holds a serious chill. I run one hand through my hair and sigh. “You don’t have to come.”
“What?” Her eyes widen after only a few seconds. “You mean . . . you’re not gonna make me?”
I shrug. A few strands of blond hair sweep down and cover Chelsey’s eye. I reach out and gently push them back. My fingers linger on her cheek for a second, and my lips tug to one side when she doesn’t move away. “Nah. I’m not gonna make you. It’s just Christmas tree shopping, babe. It’s not like you’re gonna be able to lift it into the truck anyway, are you?”
Her brows pull together. “That’s beside the point. Your mom and Leila just backed me into this, and you have a chance to torture me for hours on end at a tree lot. And you’re telling me I don’t have to suffer? That I can go home and eat chips and do nothing but binge on Netflix?”
“That’s exactly what I’m tellin’ you. But just remember this when you need your own tree and have no one to put it on the back of their truck for you.”
She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and takes it between her teeth. “Hmmm.” She steps to the side and looks at the back of my truck. “Can you fit two trees in there?”
“Depends how big they are. . . .”
She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side.
“This could be a real dumb question, but what are you doin’?”
With a huge sigh, Chelsey turns to me with a resigned look in her eye. “I’m actually considering killing two birds with one stone and doing this, then getting you to take my tree to my apartment. Will you carry it up the stairs, too?”
“Sounds like you’ve put a ton of thought into this.”
“I’m a quick thinker.” She shoots me a sassy smirk.
I rub my hand across my forehead and lean against the truck’s door. “What’s in it for me? If I take your tree right into your apartment and set it up for you?”
One of her eyebrows quirks up. “The thrill of knowing that you’ve helped out a poor, single woman? And that she might be nice to you for one day?”
“How about a date?”
“What?” She blinks quickly. “A date? Again?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it ended really well last time,” she drawls.
“I thought it did.” I grin slowly and reach out to tug on a lock of her hair. Instead of pulling, though, I twirl the soft strands around my finger and move closer to her. “You could say it ended with a bang.”
Her cheeks flush. She focuses on a spot on the ground, but she can’t hide the way her gaze flits back to me. Fuck, she’s so adorable when she’s embarrassed. I’ve learned that she rarely lets her emotions show, so when she does, it’s nothing short of fucking incredible.
“Fine,” she whispers, still looking down. Her chest heaves as she takes a deep breath. She reaches forward for the door handle and presses her body against mine.
A tiny squeal leaves her, and I take the chance to wrap my arm around her slim waist. She tenses at my touch, but she exhales slowly, the warm gush of air crawling across my neck. We stand there for what seems like the longest minute ever, pressed together, my breath teasing hers, and her trying her hardest not to touch me back.
Eventually, finally, one of her fingers hooks through one of the belt loops at my hips.
“I’m teasing,” I whisper, dipping my head. “You want a Christmas tree, then, babe, I’ll get you a Christmas tree. No date needed.”
Chelsey shakes her head. “No. You said a date. I’ll give you one. As long as it doesn’t involve a bottle of Jack and my powerless apartment.”
“How about a bottle of vodka and my bedroom?” I grin as I offer it. “Because . . .”
“No.” She laughs and steps back, pushing her hair from her face and meeting my eyes again. The dark blue hue of her eyes is bright, and she hesitates with a small smile. “Just . . . a normal date. Even if I hate every second.”
“Okay.” I open the passenger-side door. “We’ll come back to this discussion after today. Get in and let’s find us some Christmas trees.”
Chelsey hesitates for all of a second before she climbs into the cab of my truck and reaches for her seat belt. The door shuts with a resounding slam, and I climb in the driver’s side. I tug my keys from my pocket and shove them into the ignition, then hand Chelsey a stack of three CDs.
“What are these?” she asks, spreading them across her lap as I reverse in silence.
“CDs,” I answer simply.
“No iPhone hookup in this thing? And what’s wrong with the radio?”
I bite my tongue and swerve onto the clear main road. Chels reaches for the radio button on the dashboard, and of its own accord, my hand reaches out and bats hers away. “I don’t listen to it,” I answer and turn onto the road that’ll guide me out of Shelton Bay. “The stations are obsessed with us. I prefer not to listen to us once we’ve released a single.”
She rests her hand on her lap and looks down. “Have you never listened to yourself?”
I shake my head but leave it there. No—I haven’t. We haven’t, not really. Background noise is the extent of our perusal of our own abilities. Once it’s recorded and deemed good enough for the album, we don’t hear it again. We’ll sing it, but we won’t listen to it.
We’re humans just like everyone else. We can listen to a “perfect” song and find a hundred shortcomings.
That strum on the guitar could have been harder. That note could have been held longer. That segment could have used an extra drum beat.
We’re not perfect. We know it. We just don’t need reminding every time we get into our cars.
“Then . . . this one.” Chelsey puts the disc into the CD player, and the first thing that comes on is Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
“You’re kiddin’ me.”
Her response is a sweet smile that almost alleviates the pain of this song in my truck. Almost.
“Fine,” I grumble. “We’ll listen to Christmas music.”
“We are Christmas tree shopping.” She laughs, and, as if the sudden upbeat smacks her around the face, she sways side to side.
When I glance at her, she merely smirks and returns my look out of the corner of her eye. Hers is just filled with a ton more laughter and amusement than mine is. She shimmies her shoulders with the smallest of giggles and leans across the center console.
And she opens her mouth.
And she sings.
She sings like she’s been singing nonstop for years, like every note is as simple as hopscotch.
Chelsey Young sings as if she’s an angel that’s been dropped from the sky with no other purpose than to do what she’s doing right now.
Holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I had no fucking clue she could sing.
I had no fucking idea she could make a two-decade-old song sound brand new.
I swallow hard and take the turn toward Percival Town, where the tree lot is. The song ticks over to “Last Christmas” by Wham!, and I beat my fingers against the steering wheel. She’s stopped singing although I wish she’d continue. I wish she’d take this song, too, because I bet she could sing it to perfection.
When she doesn’t sing along to the chorus, I do. My voice is rusty, to say the least. Despite my attempts to sing every day, it’s not the exercise my vocal cords are used to, because more often than not I forget. Singing’s something I do for work, not for fun. Although I sure miss the fun part.
Glittering blue eyes cut toward me, but I continue to sing, letting every note roll off my tongue like it’s made to be there.
“This song is depressing,” Chelsey mutters. “Mariah’s is much brighter.”
I turn into the tree lot and meet her eyes. “You want me to sing that?”
She’s quiet as I pull into a spot and put the truck in park. The quick shake of her head is the only indication I have of her refusal, so I take it and jump onto the graveled parking lot. The crunch that mirrors mine seconds later tells me she’s out of the truck, too.
I’ve been coming to the Percival Town tree lot for as long as I’ve been alive. At least as long as I can remember. One year, Dad tried to bring home a tree from another lot. Ten minutes later, he was pouring gasoline over it in the backyard and setting it on fire at Mom’s orders. That was the day we learned that it was Percival Town tree lot or bust.
Chelsey shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt and hunches forward. The wind here is damn cold. I don’t hesitate before unzipping my hoodie and draping it over her shoulders.
“Here,” I say, stepping back from her. “You looked cold.”
She glances down at my sweatshirt. “I’ll warm up in a minute.”
“Obviously. You’re going to be wearing two sweatshirts.”
“I’m okay.” She pulls mine off and hands it to me.
“Put the sweatshirt on, Chels.” I run my gaze up and down a tree and move on.
“I don’t need it,” she argues, jogging after me and shoving it into my hand.
I move before she lets go and touch the branch of a tree. “Just wear it. I’m not cold anyway.”
She lets out a scream of frustration. “You’re so stubborn!”
This from the one refusing to accept a stupid sweatshirt.
My fingers curl around her wrist, and I pull her against me. She gasps as we collide, and I snatch my hoodie from her hand.
“Put. The. Damn. Sweatshirt. On.”
She sighs loudly, and with a glint of resignation in her bright blue eyes, snaps, “Fine.”
I release her to hold the sweatshirt open, and she turns and wrestles her arms in. I move in front of her and grab the bottom of it, fixing the zip and tugging the pull up, like I would for Mila. “There,” I murmur. “That wasn’t hard, was it?”
She opens her mouth but ultimately settles with a head shake. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, and slowly, she lifts a hand to my arm. I drop my gaze to where she’s touching me. Her finger trails lightly across my tattoos, pausing at the bright green stopwatch.
“Why the watch?” Her voice is soft, barely audible over the whine of the wind rattling through the trees.
I stretch my arm out and twist it so the watch faces up. My skin tingles as she traces the perfectly round circle. “Time is something you’ll never get back. Live in the moment and don’t worry about anything past right now, because for all you know, something amazing could be waiting for you.”
She nods slowly and glances at me through thick lashes without a lick of mascara on them. “Wise words.” A chill whispers across my arm as she drops her hand. “Your arms are cold. Take it back.”
She grasps the zipper pull, but I reach out and still her hand with mine. “I’m not cold,” I lie as another breeze sparks goose bumps on my arms. “Keep it and let’s find the right trees.”
“I . . . Okay,” Chelsey gives in, finally, and turns her head. “I like that one,” she says, pointing to a tree around five feet tall and three feet wide at the bottom.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “It’s too skinny. You need a tree with a bit of ass.”
Her eyes glitter as a small laugh escapes her, and her cheeks pink as that small laugh evolves into something that warms me. She laughs bigger than I’ve ever heard her laugh before, and she covers her mouth with a hand tucked into the arm of my sweatshirt.
I lift my eyebrows, grinning, as she leans forward and rests her forehead on my chest for a long moment. “You all right, babe?”
She shakes and stands upright, looking at me, and although she’s no longer laughing out loud, every single giggle is dancing in the brightness of her eyes. “ ‘A tree with a bit of ass,’ ” she quotes. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“The lack of the tree’s ass, for one.” I point at it. “Look. It’s too skinny. You need it to be bushy. It’s not a Christmas tree without it.”
She presses her lips together, and with a tiny nod, walks backward slowly. “So you like ass and bush. Noted.”
It clicks.
“Only on trees! Wait! Fuck!” I wipe my hand across my eyes. “I like ass. Not bush. Shit, I mean if it’s well-trimmed. . . . I’m not discriminatory about bushes!”
She’s doing that laugh again.
It hits me that she’s messing with me. Chelsey Young is a pain in my ass.
And that laugh . . . it’s doing something to me. Her eyes meet mine, and I’m pretty sure I could fall right into them and never feel the need to come back out again. I’m even more sure she’s gonna chew my balls off for this next move, but I’m gonna do it anyway.
I close the small distance between us with a few short strides, take her face in my hands, and lower my mouth to hers.
Her laughter dies on my lips.
Instead of fighting as I expect her to, she puts her hands to my waist and leans into me.
And then the heavens open. And I don’t mean metaphorically.
Chelsey screams as ice-cold raindrops pelt down on us. I laugh. Her dramatic reaction is almost as amazing as listening to her laugh.
I quickly arrange the two hoods so they fit together then lift them over her head. “You wanna go?” I ask over the pitter-patter of the rain as it bounces off the gravelly ground.
She shakes her head, tucking her hair inside the hood. “I’m not leaving until I have my Christmas tree! And your mom will kill you if you leave without hers.”
True that. “Fine. But we’re looking for ass and bush, remember?”
She grins. “Ass and bush. Got it.”
“That’s a big tree,” Chelsey whispers, looking at it in the middle of her apartment. “It didn’t look that big at the lot, did it?” She chews on her thumbnail and looks at me.
I shrug and sip my coffee. After a pit stop at home to help Dad get Mom’s monster of a Christmas tree set up and to change my clothes, I did as promised and set up Chelsey’s. “Well, it didn’t really look quite so assy in the lot, but that’s probably because there were assier trees.”
She raises an eyebrow with a look that tells me I’m crazy.
She’s late to the party. I already know I’m crazy.
“Ohhhh!” she groans, leaning against the wall. “Where’s it gonna go? The only way this beast is fitting in my apartment is if I put my sofa into storage for the rest of the month! Why did you let me buy such a big tree?”
“In my defense, I assumed you knew what size tree you needed.”
“But it didn’t look this big at the time!”
“You’re kind of being a diva right now.”
She opens her mouth but snaps it shut and glares at me instead. I answer with a half-grin I know reeks of cockiness.
“It’s a tree, babe. Just cut it back a little,” I suggest.
“And that?” She points to the ceiling, where the branch that the star usually sits on is currently bent at a ninety-degree angle.
“So trim down a little.” I shrug.
“With what? Nail clippers?”
Women. Everything is ten times worse than it needs to be. Every fucking time.
“Look, shift your sofa over a little and it’ll go in the corner by the window.” I motion toward the empty corner. “I’ll get Dad’s shears and come over tomorrow to cut it back.”
“I can buy shears,” she bristles. “I do everything else.”
“And I bet the last time your toilet got blocked or you struggled building furniture that you just muscled through and did it all by yourself,” I drawl, keeping my eyes on her as her cheeks flush.
There we go.
“I may have asked for help from my neighbor,” she mutters. “Fine. Can you at least help me move the tree so you can cut it back tomorrow?”
“I didn’t hear a ‘please.’ ”
“I swear to fucking God, Kye Burke, I will hurt you.”
I laugh. The thought of her doing something that could physically hurt me is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. “Try it. See how quickly you get flipped over and fucked as punishment for your stubbornness.”
She narrows her eyes and shoves her sofa along a couple of feet. There’s just enough room for the tree, and before I can get around the island, she grabs the pot it’s settled in and tugs.
Luckily for her, I’m quicker than the effect gravity has on a six-foot Christmas tree toppling over, and I get there before it buries her.
“Rein in that diva,” I warn her, righting the tree. “Next time I might not be here to keep you from getting crushed.”
I expect her to come back with some snappy retort or an insult, but a few seconds pass with her giving me the evil eye before she blows a raspberry.
“Seriously? Mila has better comebacks than that.”
“Fuck you.”