“No, not that one.”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

I turn around to where Mark stands stubbornly beside a tree that is so not the one.

I take in the seven-foot, impressively symmetrical evergreen. “It has no character.”

Mark crosses his arms, the tree saw dangling just slightly threateningly from his hand. “How do trees have character?”

“You know, quirks. Flaws. Bald spots. I never trust anyone that’s too perfect.”

“I’m perfect.”

I smile at his matter-of-fact tone. “Yes, honey. Maybe that’s why we’ve never dated, you see? You’re too smart, too good-looking, too confident.”

He narrows his eyes, as though trying to gauge my level of sarcasm, and the thing is . . . it’s sort of true. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before now, but Mark is, well . . . hot. Like, super-hot. As in, when we were seniors in high school, I’d dragged him to the mall so I could get shoes for homecoming, and a modeling scout from Manhattan had practically forced Mark to take her card.

He still gets mad whenever I bring it up, but the truth is he’s even better-looking now than he was back then. The jawline’s even more defined, the little chin dimple even more compelling. Add in the slightly crooked smile, intense eyes, and perfect amount of scruff, and, well . . .

He’s far more beautiful than I.

In lipstick, Spanx, a push-up bra, and high heels, I’m a 6½. In his wool coat, scuffed work boots, and cheap jeans, Mark’s a 10. I’ve seen him in a tux once, for his brother’s wedding, and my head nearly exploded.

Let’s just say it’s a good thing I friend-zoned myself before he had to.

Rigby comes bounding through the trees with a muddy stick in his mouth, and I bend down and wrestle the stick away, hurling it—okay, fine, awkwardly tossing it—so he can go chase it.

“I’m still pissed you put a sweater on my dog,” Mark says, trudging after me through the trees.

“Our dog,” I corrected, “is wearing his holiday outfit.”

I went with a snowman motif this year. Much better than last year’s reindeer sweater, which Mark had rightly argued made the dog look like a turd.

“Speaking of clothing choices, what’s going on with yours?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, stopping to inspect a promising tree. It’s nearly perfect, but a touch too tall for my living room.

“I mean, you’re looking awfully dolled up for trudging through the forest.”

“I’m not dressed up. And it’s only because you’re helping me that I’m not going to make fun of you for using the phrase ‘dolled-up,’” I say, halting in front of a tree.

No, the tree.

“This one.”

Mark stands beside me and gives it a skeptical once-over. “What about that patch of dead branches in the middle?”

“Beauty mark.”

“The way the top curves to the right?”

“She’s curvy.”

“’K. What about the dead bird on the left?”

I gasp and frantically look for the dead bird, then sock his shoulder when I realize he’s joking. “Wait, one more thing . . .”

I dig my key chain out of my coat pocket, giving my travel Magic 8 ball a quick shake.

It is certain.

I show the response to Mark, who rolls his eyes.

“Come on. Let’s get cutting,” I say, shoving the key chain back in my pocket.

“Oh yes, let’s.”

He doesn’t move, and I turn to see what’s up.

Mark’s watching me with a little smile. “I said I’d help. Not that I’d cut it down all by myself while you watch.”

I frown a little. “But you always—”

“Times are a-changing, Byrne,” he says, using the saw to indicate the frost-covered ground. “Here, get down. I’ll walk you through it.”

“I can’t lie on the ground in this,” I say, glancing down at my faux-fur parka. My white faux-fur parka. And my best jeans, the ones that, even half off, are far too expensive for rolling around in the dirt.

“Thought you weren’t dressed up,” he says, tucking his tongue in his cheek.

Oh. Ohhhh. So that’s how this is going to be.

If I had even a lick of sense I’d just tell him that I dressed up because I know Joey Russo, high school boyfriend extraordinaire, is working the checkout stand today and I need to look my best.

But there’s nothing—and I mean nothing—more insufferable than letting Mark get his way when he’s got that smug, I-outsmarted-her look on his face.

So instead I smile prettily and lower myself as gracefully to the ground as I can, considering my jeans are tight from too many holiday treats and my boots have a three-inch heel. A chunky heel, but still.

He blinks in surprise, and it’s almost worth the dirt I’m getting on my outfit.

I’ve called his bluff.

A gentleman would extend a hand and haul me to my feet, tell me he was just joking, and that of course he’ll cut down the tree for me. Mark’s a gentleman.

He hands me the saw.

Or not.

“Lie on your right side, scoot as much beneath the branches as you can.”

“You can’t be serious,” I mutter.

But I do as he says, giggling when Rigby bounds over and licks my face.

I start to pick up the saw, but my gloves make the process awkward, so I tug them off and shove them in my pocket.

A moment later my eyes widen in surprise when I feel a hard male body against my back. “Um, what are you doing?”

Instead of answering he reaches around me and maneuvers my hands as he wants them around the saw, then places the saw against the base of the trunk.

“Right there,” he says, his breath warm on my cheek.

For several horrifying, humiliating moments, I forget that this is Mark. I forget that it’s my best friend, the guy who’s seen me puke after a vicious case of food poisoning, the guy who I’ve sat side-by-side with, in my ugliest sweats, watching Lord of the Rings (all of them) while eating nothing but cold pizza and way too much popcorn.

Sure, I’ve hugged him a million times, given him a smacking smooch on the lips at midnight on New Year’s Eve, and fallen asleep on his shoulder once or twice over the years.

But for whatever reason, this moment right here feels different. I feel his strength, his sheer bigness. He’s hard to my soft, big to my petite. Because, yes, he makes me feel petite, and that’s nice.

I tell myself the awareness is just because he’s so warm against my back compared to the cold ground beneath me. It’s the contrast of the two sensations—that’s all.

Then his hand closes over mine, maneuvering the saw a little higher on the trunk, and I nearly whimper. He too has removed his gloves, and his big palms are warm and strong on the backs of my much smaller hands.

“There,” he murmurs, his voice just a tiny bit raspy. “It’s not quite as thick higher up the trunk.”

Annnnnnd now we’re talking about thickness. And trunks.

My mouth is entirely dry, and my body . . . not so cold.

Get it together, Byrne.

I shift slightly under the guise of getting a better angle at the tree trunk, and not because I’m aching to arch backward toward his trunk.

No. No. No no no no, you did not just have that thought.

“I got this,” I say. I’m talking about both the tree cutting and the control over my hormones, and I hope like hell he only assumes the first.

Gripping the saw firmly with both hands, I drag it back and forth across the trunk.

Nothing happens. I don’t think I so much as scratch the bark.

“Harder,” Mark mutters, a trifle impatiently.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For many reasons.

And then I do exactly what I need to get my brain back to friend-zone status. I shoot my elbow backward, jabbing him hard in the ribs. “Help.”

He grunts, though I’m sure I hurt his six-pack not at all. Then he slips his other arm around me, closing both his hands over mine.

It’s only the fact that Rigby’s wriggled under the branches to lick us both unromantically on the ears that keeps me from doing something idiotic, like rolling into his embrace.

Then Rigby bounds off to chase a bird or something, and I’m right back to where I don’t want to be—physically aware of my best friend.

“You want slow and steady strokes, not short and jerky,” Mark says.

I bite back a moan.

He demonstrates what he means, pushing the saw against the trunk and dragging it back and forth with patient rhythm. Sure enough, the teeth of the saw break the bark. Progress.

I put a little of my own effort into it, pleased when it seems like our joint efforts speed up the process slightly.

I focus on the motion of the saw, trying to keep my attention on the progress rather than Mark’s proximity.

When we’re a bit more than halfway through, he tells me to stop and releases the saw.

“But we’re almost done!” I protest.

“Exactly.” He rolls out from under the branches, then crouches down and offers me his hand.

I take it, letting him haul me out and to my feet. I bump against him a little bit awkwardly, my hands on his shoulders.

I risk a glance at his face, curious if the weird awareness is one-sided.

Yup. His face looks just like it always does. Not quite impatient, but neither does he seem like a man who’s overly aware of my feminine charms.

I don’t know whether I’m disappointed or relieved.

Relieved, my brain insists. The last thing I need when I’m trying to hunt down my exes is to start getting sexy thoughts about my BFF.

“All right, remember this from last year?” he asks, pointing at the now leaning tree. “You’ve got the easy part. Just push on it lightly as I saw through the last bit so it falls away from me.”

I lift my fingers to my forehead in a salute. “Don’t let tree crush Mark. Mission accepted.”

Mark’s gaze lifts to my forehead, his eyes tracking the spot where my fingers touched my forehead. Then he gives a faint smile, lifting his own hand to touch the spot. He rubs his thumb gently over my forehead. “You’ve gone and got dirt all over your face.”

Well, then. That’s sexy.

His eyes lock on mine just for a second as he touches my face, then he pulls his hand back.

“You can put your gloves back on now.”

I take a deep breath. Right.

Mark disappears once more beneath the tree, and after verifying that Rigby’s out of the way of the falling tree, he quickly cuts through the last bit of the trunk.

I push as instructed, and a second later the tree drops softly to the ground.

I extend a hand to help him up, and he lifts his eyebrows at the offer. “You realize I’d be pulling you down rather than you pulling me up.”

My hand shifts until I’m giving him the middle finger, though I doubt he can tell with the gloves on. “I’m trying to be nice. Also, is it just me, or would that entire process have gone a lot faster without me?”

“Probably,” he admits with a grin, pushing to his feet without my help.

I extend my arms to the side so he has to take in the fact that I’m now completely covered in mud on one side. “I’m a mess.”

He looks pointedly down at himself. “So am I.”

“Yes, but—”

I break off, realizing that I’m about to give away the real reason I’d wanted to cut down the tree today as opposed to waiting until tomorrow, when it’s less crowded and when Mr. Gavelroy gives a discount on weekday trees.

“But . . .” Mark lets the saw swing from one finger and leans forward slightly.

I cross my arms. “Nothing.”

He smiles. “Bullshit.”

“What—”

“That was Joey Russo helping the Culvers attach a tree to the roof of their car, wasn’t it?”

Damn. “Maybe.”

“Uh-huh.” Mark gives the saw a little swing. “And you used to date him, right?”

“For a few months, junior year.”

He shakes his head. “I could have saved you the trouble. That’s not the ex who you missed out on keeping around.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he comes into the restaurant once a month and insists on slathering my ribeye with ketchup,” Mark snaps, moving toward the base of the downed tree and motioning for me to move toward the top.

I do as instructed. “Okay, so he doesn’t have great taste in food. But—”

Mark gives me a look as though to say this should be good.

I try to think of a defense for Joey, but I don’t really have one. Not only is Mark prickly about anyone “adjusting” his dishes with anything more than basic salt and pepper preferences, but he’s got a point. The steak at his restaurant is perfect as is, with delicious butter flavored with delicate herbs and just the right amount of red pepper flakes. Ketchup would ruin it.

He picks up the base of the trunk, and I reach down, fiddling with the branches until I can find a spot on the trunk that’s sturdy enough so I won’t risk snapping the top.

Together we hoist the tree to carrying position, and Mark whistles for the dog, who comes bounding through the bushes.

I groan when I see Rigby. His holiday sweater is now totally covered in brown mud. “Oh, baby. You’re a mess.”

“Sort of like his mom.”

I glare at Mark as I begin to walk backward. “If you knew I was here to see Joey, why’d you let me get all dirty?” I grumble.

Mark’s grin is all the answer I need.

He’d made me get dirty because I’d be seeing Joey Russo.

Saboteur!

“Oh well,” I say, keeping my voice deliberately light and breezy. “A little mud won’t matter much if I can get him into the gift shop.”

Mark gives me a sharp look. “Why’s that?”

“Didn’t you see it when we passed?” I ask innocently. “Big old piece of mistletoe right over the door. Couldn’t be more perfect for my mistletoe test.”

Mark’s grin vanishes completely, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why that pleases me so much.