While she’s tying the scarf over Jack’s eyes, I peer down at the drink in my hand. The little red cup has lit Christmas trees decorating the sides, and the smell wafting from the opening is honestly … intriguing.
The imprint of her red lipstick on the edge holds my attention for way longer than it should.
A surge of curiosity builds in my chest, and I lift the cup to sneak a tiny sip. As soon as the sweet peppermint flavor hits my tongue, I recoil, scowling down at the opening.
What the fuck? It’s way too sweet.
But I let the chocolate and peppermint melt on my tongue a little, and then, checking to make sure Lena’s still not looking, I steal one more sip, just to try again.
Bleh. Still too much going on.
“Okay. What’s your favorite number?” she asks Jack.
“Thirty-seven.” He beams.
“I didn’t know that,” Auggie says as we all laugh. “Are you sure? Because that’s going to make this process a little—”
Lena cuts him off with a sharp look. “You cannot interfere with fate, Auggie. If he wants thirty-seven, that’s our number.”
Auggie puts both his hands in the air, conceding, as Jack’s little legs twitch with excitement.
When Lena still hasn’t looked my way, I steal another sip of the coffee in my hands and minimally enjoy it that time. It really does taste like someone liquefied the entire holiday season and poured it into this cup.
As I lower it from my mouth, Zara’s gaze snaps in my direction, and her lips curve up knowingly.
“How many times should we spin him?” Lena asks Pen.
“Five hundred forty-three times,” she answers with a mischievous grin.
“How about five?” Zara offers, and Pen rolls her eyes.
“Okay, everyone knows the drill, right?” Lena says, the ringleader directing her troops. She turns around as I’m pulling her cup away from my mouth for the fourth time. Her adorable nose scrunches as she sends a mock glare in my direction.
Then she spins Jack five times before steadying his shoulders. “Thirty-seventh tree you hit is the one. Ready? Go!”
She releases him, and he wobbles on his feet for a moment before reaching his hands out and stumbling like Frankenstein toward the tree lot. Laughter ensues from the rest of the family as he crashes into his first tree, the pine needles prickling his cheeks.
“One,” everyone cheers, and Lena holds a finger in the air.
They’ve been doing this tradition since I met them. Apparently, Lena wanted to choose the tree this way when she was six years old, and they’ve kept it alive since then. One year, the Juniper Gazette followed a sixteen-year-old Lena around the tree farm, snapping pictures and cataloging the whole process until she hit her thirteenth tree.
Jack’s thirty-seven is definitely the biggest number I’ve been a part of.
My first holiday with the Santos family, Lena tried to convince me to do it. She thought her dancing lashes and hands clasped under her chin would convince me, but it didn’t. The next year, she tried threatening to never speak to me again, and that one was a little harder to refuse, but I managed it. Then the final time, she offered to make my favorite cookies if I did it.
“Please? I’ll make you those crinkle cookies you like.”
“I can make those for myself,” I argue, patting the top of her head.
She growls and crosses her arms. “But everyone in the family does it.”
Exactly. That’s not me.
As Jack bumps into his seventh tree and falls over, Lena reaches for her cup. “Totally forgot about this,” she says as she pulls it from my hand. Then her gaze jumps to mine. “Gavin. Mr. Plain Black Coffee. Did you drink half of my peppermint mocha?”
She grins broadly, and warmth pools in my cheeks.
“You did,” she squeaks, pointing a finger at me. “You left me two sips!”
