“What makes one tree better than another?” I found myself asking, genuinely curious despite myself.
Her face lit up like I’d just asked her to explain the meaning of life. “Oh, there are so many factors! Needle retention, branch strength, symmetry, fragrance, color consistency.” She launched into what was clearly a well-practiced explanation, her enthusiasm never wavering even as she covered topics that should have been mind-numbingly boring.
But somehow, listening to her wasn’t boring at all. Maybe it was the way she moved her hands when she talked, or the way her eyes sparkled. Maybe it was just that her passion was infectious, even for someone like me who had never given a single thought to the finer points of Christmas tree selection.
Or maybe it was the way she kept unconsciously moving closer to me as she talked, close enough that I could catch hints of her scent. It was something warm and spicy, like cinnamon and vanilla. When had I been aroused by the scent of cinnamon?
Shit. I was in trouble.
CHAPTER 5
SYLVIE
Watching this impeccably dressed stranger pick out a Christmas tree was like watching someone choose a piece of furniture. He was approaching the task with the mindset of finding something purely functional, with absolutely no emotional investment whatsoever. He’d selected a perfectly fine Fraser fir, but the way he’d done it made it clear he couldn’t have cared less if he’d picked that one or the tree next to it.
Still, a sale was a sale, and I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Perfect choice,” I told him with my brightest customer service smile. “Let me get Ozzo to help us get this tied up and loaded onto your car.”
I looked around the lot, scanning for Ozzo’s distinctive bulk among the other customers. It took me a moment to spot him over by the Noble firs.
“Ozzo!” I called out, waving my arms to get his attention. “Need you over here!”
He looked up, saw me gesturing toward the well-dressed man, and immediately abandoned his current customers to jog over with his characteristic loping gait.
“What’s up, boss lady?” Ozzo asked as he approached, slightly out of breath from his sprint across the lot.
“We need to get this Fraser fir tied up and loaded,” I told him, gesturing to the tree our mysterious customer had selected. “This is Kent.”
“Kent Bancroft.”
The name meant nothing to me, but something about the way he said it suggested it should. Like he was used to people recognizing it and responding accordingly. Was he an actor? Politician? I really should watch more TV.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bancroft,” I said. “Ozzo here is our tree-loading specialist. He’ll get you all set up.”
Ozzo beamed at the title, clearly pleased to be acknowledged as a specialist in anything. “You bet! Let me grab some rope and we’ll have this beauty secured in no time.”
What followed was a comedy of errors that would have been funny if it hadn’t been happening in front of a customer who clearly had money to spend and might potentially spend more of it if we didn’t completely embarrass ourselves.
Kent’s sleek sedan was beautiful, but it definitely hadn’t been designed with Christmas tree transportation in mind. Ozzo kept walking around it, scratching his head and muttering things like “Huh, that’s interesting,” and “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Problem?” Kent asked. I could hear the impatience creeping into his voice.
“Nah, no problem,” Ozzo said cheerfully. “Just gotta figure out the best way to strap this baby down without scratching up your paint job. This is one nice car, mister. What kind of engine you got in this thing?”
“It’s a rental,” Kent said flatly, clearly not interested in discussing automotive specifications with Ozzo.
“Oh, well, that’s different then,” Ozzo said, as if that changed everything about the tree-securing process. “In that case, we can just?—”
“Ozzo,” I interrupted before he could finish whatever thought was about to come out of his mouth. “Let’s just focus on getting the tree loaded, okay?”
It took another ten minutes, but eventually we managed to get the Fraser fir secured to the roof of Kent’s car. It looked slightly ridiculous—this massive evergreen strapped to what was clearly a luxury vehicle—but it was secure and unlikely to go flying off on his drive home.
“That’ll be one hundred dollars even,” I told him as Ozzo stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Kent pulled out his wallet without hesitation and handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill. No haggling, no complaints about the price, no questions about whether we took credit cards. Just cash, like a hundred dollars was pocket change to him.
Which, based on everything else about him, it probably was.
