“Surviving isn't living.” She tugs me down another row of trees. “The perfect tree matters. It's going to be the centerpiece of your living room for the next few weeks.”
I follow her through the lot, watching as she examines tree after tree with critical eyes. Her hand never leaves mine, and if I look too closely at that, I’ll have to admit I never want it to leave.
“Oh my god,” she gasps suddenly, dropping my hand to rush forward. “This is it. This is the one!”
The tree she's standing in front of is about five feet tall, full but not overly wide, with evenly spaced branches. She’s barely taller than the damn thing. It looks exactly like every other fucking tree we've passed, but the way her face lights up tells me this is somehow special.
“What do you think?” she asks, turning to me with those big brown eyes.
What I think is that I'd buy every fucking tree in this lot if it kept that smile on her face. “Looks good to me.”
She beams at me, then flags down a worker. “We'll take this one!”
The guy who approaches us looks about twenty—somecollege kid working the lot for extra cash. He takes one look at Hennessy, and his entire demeanor shifts. His chest puffs out, his smile widens, and his eyes do a slow up-and-down of her body that makes my jaw clench.
“Great choice,” he says, completely ignoring me as he steps closer to Hennessy. “You've got a good eye.”
She smiles politely. “Thanks. How much is it?”
“For you? I might be able to offer a special discount.” He winks—actually fucking winks—and I feel my blood pressure spike.
“Just tell us the price,” I interject, my voice hard.
The kid finally glances at me, his smile faltering slightly before he turns back to Hennessy. “Eighty for the tree, but I'll throw in a stand for free.”
“That would be great,” she says, seemingly oblivious to his flirting.
I pull out my wallet. “We'll take it.”
“Cool, cool.” He's still looking at Hennessy. “You want help loading it?”
“No, I can doing myself,” I nod toward the parking lot.
I head toward the truck with the tree, leaving Hennessy when she said she wants to look at wreaths. The needles scratch against my neck, but I barely notice through the irritation coursing through my veins. It's ridiculous to be this worked up over some college punk making eyes at her, but here I am, grinding my teeth like a jealous teenager.
After securing the tree in the bed of my truck, I turn back toward the lot to find Hennessy. That's when I see her, backed against one of the wooden fence posts with the tree kid standing way too fucking close. His hand is on her arm, sliding down toward her wrist while he leans in, saying something that makes her laugh uncomfortably.
Something snaps inside me. A rage I've never felt before.
I cross the distance in seconds, my vision tunneling until all I can see is his hand on her body. Before I can even process what I'm doing, my fist connects with his jaw. The impact sends a satisfying jolt up my arm as he stumbles backward, eyes wide with shock.
“What the fuck, dude?” he gasps, hand flying to his face.
I ignore him, turning to Hennessy. My hands find her waist, pulling her against me with enough force that she gasps. “Mine,” I growl, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as she stares up at me. “Beckham?—”
“We're leaving,” I cut her off, keeping one arm wrapped possessively around her as I turn back to the kid, who's still sprawled on the ground. “Touch her again, and losing a tooth will be the least of your problems. Don’t touch what doesn’t fucking belong to you.”
I steer Hennessy toward the truck, my body practically vibrating with adrenaline and rage. She doesn't resist, matching my stride even as I feel her trembling slightly under my grip.
“Get in,” I order, opening the passenger door.
For once, she doesn't argue. Once she's inside, I slam the door and stride around to the driver's side, yanking it open with enough force that the hinges protest.
“You punched him,” she says as soon as I'm behind the wheel. “You actually punched him.”
I start the engine, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. “He shouldn't have touched you.”
