Sylvie would demand more. I just knew it.
“Alright,” she said on a sigh. “Hard part is done. Now comes the real work.”
“More work?”
“Decorating,” she said with a smile.
“I’m not sure I’m cut out for that,” I told her. “I’m probably better off hauling boxes and trees.”
“They don’t have to be perfect,” she said. “Slap some lights on, a little garland, and a few ornaments and they’re good to go.”
That sounded way easier than what I knew it would be.
We started decorating the first tree and I couldn’t help but notice that all Sylvie’s fierce determination transformed into something playful and light. She teased me mercilessly for my apparent inability to understand the concept of “balancing” a tree. I didn’t know what the hell that meant. But she kept moving my ornaments after I placed them.
“No, no, no,” she said, relocating a silver ball I’d hung on what seemed like a perfectly reasonable branch. “You can’t just hang everything at eye level. You need to create depth, visual interest. Think about the overall composition.”
“It’s a Christmas tree, not a museum installation,” I pointed out. “I told you I wasn’t good at this.”
“A Christmas tree should feel organic, natural, like it grew that way on purpose.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please show me a picture of a pine tree in the wild with ornaments hanging off it.”
She laughed. “You know what I mean. I’ll finish this one. You put the lights on the next one. That’s pretty basic.”
I had a feeling she was going to have a certain way those were supposed to be done as well.
When she caught me wrapping lights around the tree like garland, she looked genuinely horrified.
“What are you doing?” she asked, rushing over to intervene.
“Putting lights on the tree. That’s what you told me to do.”
“Not like that! You have to weave them properly.” She demonstrated, carefully threading the string of lights up and down each branch, creating an even distribution that somehow made the tree look fuller and more luminous. “See? In and out, around each branch. It takes longer, but the effect is worth it.”
I wanted to scream. The level of detail and precision she expected was mind-numbing. Ididwarn her I sucked at decorating. Clearly she thought I was joking. I couldn’t remember the last time I had strung lights on a tree. I wasprobably five, if that. But I found myself going along with it anyway, partly because she was so enthusiastic about the process and partly because it gave me an excuse to watch her work.
She was too hot for her own good. I was starting to wonder if she had any idea what kind of effect she was having on me. Every time she reached up to hang something on the higher branches, her sweater would ride up slightly, giving me glimpses of smooth skin and the curve of her waist. When she stretched to reach a particularly tall spot, I could see her belly button. And dammit, I wanted my tongue in that cute little hole. I wanted my tongue on all of her if I was being honest.
When was the last time she’d walked around naked? When was the last time she’d been with a man? The thought of some other guy’s hands on her body made my blood run hot with something that felt dangerously close to possessive anger, which was completely irrational and more than a little alarming.
I dismissed the thought and tried to focus on having fun with the decorating process. Despite my initial resistance to the whole enterprise, there was something oddly satisfying about transforming bare trees into something magical. And Sylvie’s enthusiasm was infectious. She narrated the whole process, explaining the history of various ornaments and sharing memories associated with different decorations.
“This one,” she said, holding up a slightly battered angel with faded gold wings. “This was my great-grandmother’s. It’s been on a Northwood Christmas tree for over a century.”
There was something moving about the continuity of it, the way each generation had added their own touches while preserving the traditions that came before.
We were working on the same branch at one point, both reaching for the same spot, when our hands touched. The contact was brief but electric, sending a jolt up my arm that hadnothing to do with static electricity and everything to do with the woman beside me.
We both froze for a moment. I caught her looking at me with an expression that mirrored what I was feeling—awareness, attraction, and the kind of tension that made the air between us feel charged.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back, but not before I noticed the slight tremor in her fingers.
“Don’t be,” I said, my voice rough with desire.
By the time we finished decorating all fifteen trees, dinner had come and gone. Sylvie didn’t seem inclined to stop, and I wasn’t going to be the quitter that complained about being hungry.
“Alright, are we ready?” she asked.
