Serena beams up at me, lifting a little box up for me to see. “You would not make me sad again by refusing my gift, would you?”
“No, I wouldnot,” I answer without hesitation. This makes her smile even bigger. That smile steals my breath and settles my heart right in her little hands.
“Open it. I made itjustfor you,” she coos, pushing the box at me.
Stepping back a little, I take the gift. I think better of putting space between us, so I grab her hip to draw her close again. I am thrilled when she does not hesitate, letting me have my way.
“You made it for me, did you?” Taking out the glittering ornament, I shake my head. It is black, with a grinch face on it.
“It suits you,” she teases, still beaming that beautiful smile at me.
“Yeah, I suppose it does. What...what am I to do with it?”
Serena blinks at me, taking a quick look around the cabin. Her face falls, her eyes going big again. Jesus, she’s fucking adorable. Standing up straight, still letting me hold her close, she shakes her head as if chastising me. Again, I want to laugh, but I do not because I see she is very serious.
“Slater. You need a Christmas tree, chief!”
“Do I?” I wonder, frowning as I take the same look around she did.
“Yes. You will put one up, won’t you?”
“Sweetheart, if you want me to put a Christmas tree up, Iwill go cut one down this minute and put it up. Just so I can hang this gift.”
Serena nods with a smile. “Yes. I want you to have a tree up.”
“Hold that thought. I will be right back.”
To keep that smile on her face, I go outside with axe in hand to cut down my first Christmas tree.
Chapter Four
Serena
Watching a lumberjack cut down a Christmas tree was not on my bingo card this winter.
Standing at a huge window overlooking a yard full of trees, I cannot help but giggle. In the warmth of his house, with a roaring fire going behind me, I watch him wander through the trees. It is snowing outside, the skies gray, but he hardly seems to notice. Even in just gray sweatpants and bare feet, he bulldozes through the flurries with purpose.
“Slater Roth is a mad man,” I whisper to myself.
Seeming to find one he approves up, he goes to cutting it down. I laugh. What in the world is going on in that man’s head? Still watching, I forget about what is going on in his head as my own thoughts overtake me. It would be unfair to judge me for my thoughts—a big, barbaric, beautiful man is literally chopping down a tree just to hang the gift I brought.
Slater’s back flexes with every swing of the axe. He does it with ease. His thick arms coil with power as he swings again and again. Dark tattoos trail down his back, but they cannot hide the scars there. I find myself wanting to trace the jagged edges of the raised flesh or brush my lips over it to soothe any hurt it may cause him.
“Lord help me, he is getting to me,” I admit.
Turning from the window, I take a calming breath, trying to shake off the buzz running through me. It is impossible, of course. This buzz has worked its way from my head to my heart. Now it throbs between my legs. I tour the room, trying to find some reason to think twice about all the noise in my head. All the things that brought me back up on this mountain on my own,with a storm darkening the skies overhead.
“He is all alone up here,” I rasp, tracing my fingers along the bare mantle over the fireplace.
There is more missing here than a Christmas tree. There are no photos, no mementos, no sign of his life being lived. Just a long leather couch sits across from the fire, a pile of wood stacked in the corner. A thick rug lays before the fire, but the small living room is bare otherwise. I keep nosing around the small cabin, looking for any sign of who he is.
I circle the kitchen slowly, even being so bold as to open cabinets. He is stocked with food, spices, and plenty of meat and vegetables in his fridge. Everything is neat, lined up perfectly, no dirty dishes or old pizza boxes and crushed beer cans.
“Slater is so alone,” I whisper, the ache in my voice ringing clear.
Going down a long hallway, I stop at a door that is cracked open. Once I step inside, I gasp. It is beautiful and full of the life I was looking for. Small structures fill a long, wide table. One look and I know what they are. I see the bar, the small flower shop, the butcher. Almost all of Main Street Driftwood is done with all the little details perfectly in place.
“Thisis Slater,” I declare, carefully touching his handiwork.
