She turns to the display, sniffing once, pretending she didn’t just melt all over me. Eyes still shiny, she picks a small one, practical, already mentally mapping the square footage of her shoebox apartment.
I grunt and grab a bigger one. “We’ll make it fit,” I say when she opens her mouth to argue. “It’s Christmas. Bigger is better.”
She laughs, soft. “You would say that.”
Ten minutes later the tree is bungeed into the bed of the truck, and we’re back on the road, Lucy Falls only twenty minutes away.
The town is quiet when we roll in, all brick and twinkle lights and that shiny-hometown-movie charm that hides anything less than magical. I ease down to twenty-five, cruising the main drag, and Tally leans her head against the passenger window, staring out at the familiar storefronts.
As we pass Karla’s, her eyes cut to me, hopeful. I don’t even pretend to resist.
I pull into the small lot and park.
“Let’s get some donuts,” I say.
“Bran?” she says softly.
I pause with one foot on the pavement, half in, half out of the truck. “Yeah?”
“You’d better be careful,” she says, gaze flicking from me to the glowing sign and back. “A girl might get ideas.”
Her expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it. Tender, almost. The sarcasm is still there, but it’s wrapped in something new. Something that looks suspiciously like hope.
She climbs out and shuts the door before I can answer.
Maybe I want you to get ideas.
The thought lands in my chest like a stone in a pond, ripples spreading.
I meet her at the door to Karla’s and catch her hand, tugging it into mine. Our palms slide together, her smaller hand fitting into my much larger one like it was made to.
She glances down at our joined hands, then up at me.
“As long as they’re the same ideas I already have,” I say, “I’m okay with that.”
She bites her lip, speechless for once, and moves ahead without answering. That’s okay. We have time. I’ll make sure of that.
The bell over the diner door jingles as we step inside, warmth and the smell of sugar hitting us both. For a few minutes, we’re just two people ordering donuts at the counter, arguing about whether maple bacon is an abomination or a gift from above.
(It’s a gift, obviously.)
She picks out a dozen like it’s a serious strategic operation, and I let her, because watching her light up over sprinkles is the most peace I’ve felt in days.
We take the box to go. I balance it on one arm while I unlock her apartment door with the other, the Christmas tree leaning against the railing outside like it’s standing guard.
Inside, the space feels even smaller than usual, but warmer somehow. Lived in. Hers.
I set the box on the counter and the keys in the dish by her door, muscle memory already forming where she’s concerned.
“We can decorate tomorrow,” I tell her, jerking my chin toward where the tree waits outside. “Right now…”
I push the door closed and turn the deadbolt, that solidclicksinking through my bones.
“I need to make love to you, Tallulah.”
The words surprise me. No less than they surprise her.
But they’re true. NotI need to fuck you.I’ve done that. Plenty of times in my life, with women whose names blurred together after a while.
