She rolled her eyes, but I caught the blush that crept up her cheeks as she gave me a playful shove. “Shut up.”
This girl. Why was she so easy to be around? There was something about her that made me feel more relaxed, more genuine than I had felt in years. She had this way of calling me on my bullshit while simultaneously making me want to be better than I actually was.
And why did I find myself wanting to be around her as much as possible? Every moment I spent with Sylvie made me want to extend my stay. I wanted to find more excuses to linger in her presence and discover new things about her that would inevitably make this whole situation more complicated.
But the question that really haunted me, the one I kept pushing down every time it surfaced, was the most important one of all: How would she change when she found out what my family was really planning for her home and this community?
Would she look at me with disgust? Hatred? Betrayal? Would all that warmth and trust in her eyes turn cold when she realized I’d been lying to her from the moment we met?
I tried to imagine explaining to her that the Bancroft “investment” would mean bulldozing everything she loved. That the deal involved turning her family’s legacy into an industrial wasteland, scattering her community to the four winds. The mental image of her face when she learned the truth made my stomach clench with something that felt dangerously close to panic.
“Earth to Kent,” Sylvie said, waving a hand in front of my face. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”
“Just thinking about logistics,” I lied smoothly. “Fifteen trees is a lot of work. I might need to do some stretching first.”
“It’ll be fun,” she said with the kind of confidence that suggested she’d never met a challenge she couldn’t charm her way through. “Besides, I’ll be there to supervise. Make sure you don’t drop anything important.”
“Supervise, huh? And what exactly does supervision entail?”
Her grin turned wicked. “Pointing out everything you’re doing wrong, mostly. And maybe bringing you hot chocolate if you’re good.”
“Well, when you put it like that, how can I refuse?”
The truth was, I didn’t want to refuse. Despite the guilt gnawing at my insides, despite knowing that I was digging myself deeper into a deception that would eventually explode in all our faces, I wanted to spend the day helping her decorate trees for a party that celebrated everything I was plotting to destroy.
I wanted to see her in her element, directing the transformation of the lodge into something even more magical than it already was. I wanted to watch her face light up when she stepped back to admire a perfectly decorated tree. I wanted to be the reason she smiled.
Even if it meant becoming even more of a bastard than I already was.
“Alright,” I said, standing up and extending my hand to help her to her feet. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Fifteen trees, professionally transported and ready for decoration.”
She took my hand, and the contact sent an electric shock up my arm that had nothing to do with static electricity. “I knew you were a gentleman under all that city boy attitude.”
If only she knew how wrong she was about that.
“Do I get a discount for putting in manual labor?” I asked.
She laughed. “You know, if it was anyone else, I would probably say yes. But we need the money, and you have it. Don’t you want to make the investment look better?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not sure that’s fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, big boy. Come on. Before the trees, I need to finish hanging snowflakes.”
“You’re hanging snowflakes?”
“Yep. It’s going to be a winter wonderland. I have these cute little lights that are shaped like snowflakes. They’re so cute!”
I followed Sylvie back to the storage room where she had boxes of decorations stacked nearly to the ceiling. She rummaged through them and appeared to know exactly what she was looking for, even if it took some digging to find it.
“Aha!” she exclaimed, pulling out a tangled mess of lights that looked like it had been through a blender. “Found them!”
I stared at the knotted disaster she was holding up like a prize. “Those are lights?”
“Snowflake lights,” she said proudly. Her expression fell as she really looked at what she was holding. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. They’re all tangled up again.”
She set the mess down on a nearby table and started trying to work out the knots, muttering under her breath. I caught fragments of her complaints—something about “dadgum lights” and “sugar-honey-iced-tea” and my personal favorite, “son of a biscuit eater.”
It was the most creative collection of clean cursing I’d ever heard.
