“Here, let me help,” I said, reaching for one end of the tangled string.
“Careful,” she warned. “These things are like Christmas-light quicksand. The more you mess with them, the worse they get.”
She wasn’t wrong. What had looked like a simple knot turned out to be an intricate web of twisted wires and tiny snowflake bulbs. We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, our fingers occasionally brushing as we tried different approaches to the puzzle.
“Oh, come on!” Sylvie exclaimed when one particularly stubborn section refused to budge. “What kind of monkey-loving knot is this?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Did you just say monkey-loving?”
Her cheeks turned pink. “I don’t curse. Well, not really. My mom always said there were better ways to express frustration.”
“And monkey-loving is better?”
“It gets the point across without offending anyone’s delicate sensibilities,” she said primly, then immediately contradicted herself by glaring at the lights and muttering, “Stupid, no-good tangle of bull—” She caught herself. “Bulldozer parts.”
I was thoroughly charmed. Watching her try to navigate her frustration while maintaining her clean language was like watching someone try to have a heated argument whiletiptoeing. It shouldn’t have been endearing, but somehow it absolutely was.
“There!” she said triumphantly as a section finally came free. “Got you, you little sugar-coated devil!”
It took us nearly twenty minutes, but we finally managed to untangle the entire string. The snowflake lights were actually quite beautiful when they weren’t twisted into an impossible knot, delicate little crystalline shapes that would look magical once they were hung and illuminated.
“Now comes the fun part,” Sylvie said. “Hold the ladder.”
I steadied it as Sylvie climbed up with the string of snowflake lights. From my position below, I had an excellent view of her legs as she stretched to reach the mounting points along the window frame. Her jeans cupped her ass perfectly. I found myself momentarily distracted from my ladder-holding duties.
“Are you actually holding the ladder or are you just enjoying the view?” she called down, catching me red-handed.
“I can multitask,” I replied, tightening my grip on the ladder rungs. “Safety first, appreciation second.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You’re terrible.”
“I prefer charming.”
“That’s debatable.”
I watched as she carefully positioned each section of lights, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. There was something mesmerizing about seeing her work. I loved the way she had a vision for how everything should look and the patience to make it happen perfectly.
“How does it look from down there?” she asked, leaning back on the ladder to survey her progress.
The snowflakes were beginning to create a cascade effect along the window, each one catching the natural light and reflecting it in tiny sparkles across the room. Combined with thegarland and other decorations Stacy and Brom were working on, the space was transforming into something amazing.
“Beautiful,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I was talking about the lights or the woman hanging them.
She climbed down the ladder with a bright smile. “Okay, next window,” she announced, already gathering up the excess string of lights.
We moved systematically around the room, and I found myself falling into an easy rhythm with her. Hold the ladder, hand her supplies, offer occasionally helpful suggestions, and try not to get too distracted by the way she moved or the little sounds of satisfaction she made when a section came together perfectly.
It was domestic in a way I had never experienced. Growing up, decorating had been something the staff handled. Even at family gatherings, there was always someone else to manage the details while we focused on more important matters. But there was something deeply satisfying about being part of the process.
“You’re actually pretty good at this,” Sylvie said as we finished the third window. “Have you done much decorating before?”
“Not exactly,” I admitted. “But I’m good at following directions when they come from the right person.”
She gave me a look that suggested she wasn’t entirely buying my innocent act. “Uh-huh. And what makes me the right person?”
The honest answer would have been complicated, so I shrugged. “Boobs.”
Her face bloomed red as she swatted my arm. “Kent!”
