Alexei pops it open without being asked. Inside, among the usual assortment of things we might need, is a carefully organized collection of tools.
"You have a saw?" I ask.
Alexei reaches past the crowbar and the bolt cutters and pulls out a folding saw. "Never know when you might need to carve something up."
I take it from him with a nod of approval.
I shrug off my suit jacket and hand it to Dmitri. He takes it with a raised eyebrow but says nothing.
The snow is deeper here, untouched and pristine. My dress shoes sink into it with each step, but I don't care. I'm focused on the tree. On making my wife happy.
Saw in hand, I kneel in the snow and find the right angle. The first cut bites into the trunk with a satisfying crunch. Then another. And another.
Behind me, I hear Dmitri's low chuckle. "This is insane."
"Probably," I grunt, working the saw back and forth. "But you know what they say, happy wife, happy life."
“Then it better be a magical tree."
I don't answer. Just keep sawing.
Alexei appears at my side, and together we guide it as it starts to tip. It falls with a softwhumpinto the snow, sending up a cloud of white powder that catches the sunlight like diamonds.
"We'll need the rope," I tell Alexei.
He's already retrieving it from the trunk. Between the three of us, we manage to haul the tree back to the SUV and lash it to the roof rack.
Dmitri hands me my suit jacket and I brush the snow off before shrugging it back on. My hands are freezing, but I barely notice.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Nikolai," he says.
"I always do."
"This is different."
Maybe it is. Maybe I'm losing my edge, letting a woman with big brown eyes and a sharp tongue get under my skin in ways that could prove costly.
But as we climb back into the SUV and Alexei pulls onto the road, the tree secure above us, I find I don't care.
If Holly wants a tree.
She's going to get a goddamn tree.
15
HOLLY
"No, no,dorogaya," Katya says, her flour-dusted hands guiding mine. "You must fold, not stir. See? Like this. Gentle. Gentle.”
I laugh and try again, this time folding the rich, buttery mixture the way she showed me. We're making a cake, and the kitchen smells like heaven. Like warm honey and butter, all mixed together with the lingering scent of the Christmas cookies we baked earlier.
The counter is covered in our creations. Gingerbread stars dusted with powdered sugar. Chocolate crinkle cookies that look like they're covered in snow. Delicate butter cookies shaped like snowflakes. And now, this honey cake that Katya promises will be the crowning glory of our day's work.
"Perfect," Katya says, watching me fold the last bit of flour into the mixture. "You are a natural baker, I think."
"I don't know about that," I say, but I'm smiling.
I haven’t seen Nikolai since last night.
