"You were listening at the door, weren't you?" he accuses, but there's warmth in his voice I haven't heard in years.
"A mother knows these things." She serves us each a slice.
I take a bite and groan. "Shit, I forgot how good this is."
"Language," Mom scolds automatically, but she's beaming. "So, honey, what are your plans for tomorrow? Need help unpacking?"
And there it is. That too-casual tone that means she's up to something. I've heard it enough times to recognize the warning signs.
"Actually, I was planning to move the rest of my stuff from here, get the apartment sorted." I study her face, waiting for whatever scheme she's cooking up. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason." She fusses with her napkin. "Although . . . Ivy still needs help picking up the town tree. Your father was supposed to do it, but he pulled his back this morning—"
"I did not pull my back—"
"Shoveling snow, dear." Mom steamrolls over his protest with ease. "Terrible timing, really. Such a shame for Ivy to handle it alone."
"Seriously?"
"What?" Mom blinks innocently. "I just think it would be kind if you helped. The tree's quite large. I wouldn't want her to get hurt trying to do it on her own."
"Mom. You can't—"
"And you know how important the town Christmas celebration is to everyone." She takes a delicate bite of pie.
Dad snorts into his coffee. "Verysubtle, Dorothy."
"I have no idea what you mean." But her eyes are twinkling with that dangerous sparkle that means she's already decided how this is going to play out.
This is the opening I need.
At least with the tree, she can't run away. Well, she could, but if there's one thing I know about Ivy Hart, it's that she'd never let personal drama affect her responsibilities to Hallow's End.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if I get stabbed with a rogue pine needle, I'm blaming you."
"Of course, sweetheart." Mom pats my hand. "Though you might want to wear something nicer than those ratty jeans. First impressions are important."
"This isn't a first impression," I remind her. "She's known me since freshman year."
"Exactly. Which means you have a lot of making up to do."
Dad laughs at that. "Your mother's never wrong, son. Best to just agree with her."
I pace beside mycar, the frost-covered gravel crunching with each step as I try to calm my nerves after the drive to Grayson Tree Farm. Even with my snow tires, and white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, the icy roads had my heart in my throat the entire way. The December morning air bites at my cheeks, and I blow into my mittened hands, breath curling into tiny clouds.
Around me, families are already streaming into the farm, kids racing between rows of evergreens while parents clutch steaming paper cups from the visitor center's hot chocolate stand. The scent of pine mingles with sugary sweetness, creating that perfect Christmas-card atmosphere that usually makes my heart light up.
But today, all that's left is the dread gathering in my stomach. Tree hunting with Greg Miller wasn't on my holiday wish list, and he's already ten minutes late. I check my phone again, rehearsing polite small talk in my head. If I stick to safe topics like weather and proper tree-stand maintenance, we can get through this without any awkward almost-mentions of his son.
The familiar rumble of a truck engine makes me look up, and my heart stops. I know that blue Ford pickup truck, but that's not Greg behind the wheel. Because there, pulling into the spot next to my car, is Caleb.
The universe must be having an absolute field day with this one.
He gets out from the driver's seat like some sort of flannel-wrapped gift I never asked for. The scruff along his jaw is new. A little harder, a little more grown-up.
He's not even dressed for the weather, the idiot. No coat, no gloves, no scarf. Just beat up sneakers and jeans. Apparently, time in Boston taught him nothing about winter survival.
Caleb approaches with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, and I can't take my eyes off him. He's trying to look casual, but I catch the tension in his jaw.
