I set the empty container on the counter without breaking eye contact. “Yeah?”
“I didn't just come here to bring you soup.”
“I figured.” My thumb traces circles on the inside of her wrist.
She bites her lip, and then her expression shifts to something playful. “I actually came over because your apartmentis depressing as fuck.” She gestures around at my bare walls and minimal furniture. “It's like a prison cell in here, but with better appliances.”
“What?” I drop her wrist, taken aback.
“Seriously, do you even live here? There's nothing on your walls. No personal touches.” She hops off the counter and spins around, arms wide. “And it's December, for God's sake! Not a single holiday decoration.”
I stare at her, completely blindsided by this turn in conversation. “I don't do decorations.”
“Clearly.” She rolls her eyes. “That's why I'm here. You need a Christmas tree. Lights. Maybe some garland.” Her eyes light up as she speaks, her hands moving animatedly. “Just a little holiday cheer to make this place feel less like a furniture showroom and more like a home.”
“A Christmas tree?” I repeat, like she's suggested I install a fucking roller coaster in my living room.
“Yes, a Christmas tree! They're these magical things with branches and ornaments.” She's grinning now, practically bouncing on her toes. “There's a lot that stays open late near the campus. We could go right now.”
I open my mouth to say no. I don't do Christmas trees. I don't do decorations. I don't do holiday cheer. But the way she's looking at me—eyes bright with excitement, smile wide and hopeful—makes the refusal die in my throat.
“Alright,” I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “Let's go get a Christmas tree.”
She actually squeals—a high-pitched sound of pure joy that should annoy me but somehow doesn't—and grabs my hand, tugging me toward the door. Then she freezes, her expression falling.
“Shit, I'm sorry.” She drops my hand. “You've had a long day. We can do this some other time.”
Something animalistic surges through me at the disappointment in her voice. Before I can overthink it, I growl low in my throat, bend down, and scoop her up, throwing her over my shoulder in a fireman's carry.
“Beckham!” she yelps, half laughing, half protesting as I grab my keys and wallet with my free hand. “What are you doing?”
“Getting a fucking Christmas tree,” I mutter, walking out of my apartment.
“You are such a caveman,” she says, smacking my back lightly.
I don't put her down until we reach my truck. When I set her on her feet, her cheeks are flushed pink and her eyes are sparkling with mischief.
“That was completely unnecessary,” she says, but she's grinning.
“So is a Christmas tree,” I counter, opening the passenger door for her. “Yet here we are.”
The tree lot is busy even this late, families with kids running around and couples holding hands while they browse. Christmas music blares from speakers mounted on poles, some pop singer butchering “Jingle Bell Rock” while colored lights flash overhead. It's like we've stepped into a fucking Hallmark movie.
“Isn't this amazing?” Hennessy asks, grabbing my hand and tugging me forward. Her enthusiasm is almost contagious. Almost.
“It's a lot,” I mutter, but I let her pull me deeper into the maze of pine trees.
“Too big,” she declares, passing a massive blue spruce. “Too small,” she says about the next. “Too sparse…too crooked…too?—”
“Picky,” I finish for her. “You're too fucking picky.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “I'm selective. There's a difference. This is your first Christmas tree in how long?”
“Since I moved out of my parents' place. So over twenty years?”
Her jaw drops. “Twenty years without a Christmas tree? That's just sad, Beckham.”
“I've survived,” I say dryly.
