Flower(45)

“He described me?” I ask stupidly. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering he had to warn them he was bringing someone home for the holidays, but every reminder that I’m on Tate’s mind brings its own fresh thrill.

“Of course. When he told me he was coming home and he was bringing his girlfriend, I wanted to know every detail.”

Girlfriend. My mind reels at the word. We’ve yet to discuss any labels, both of us content just to live in the moment. I glance down at Tate, who is still on his knees, wrestling with his old pal.

“We got Rocco when Tate was nine,” his mother tells me. “That dog practically raised him.”

“And Tate hasn’t been back to see him in years,” his dad says, his voice edged with accusation. A second of uneasy stillness overtakes the room.

Tate’s eyes flash to his dad, then to me—his jaw a hard line.

Helen rushes to say, “It’s so nice to have you both here now. I’ve made up the guest room,” she adds. “I hope you’ll be comfortable, Charlotte.”

“I don’t need much,” I assure her, smiling at her and then at Tate, who is finally pushing himself up from the floor, his hands still scratching the dog’s ears.

“Our kind of girl,” Bill says. And I sense he implies more than just the obvious. I think about what Tate said on the plane: how his parents didn’t agree with his lifestyle. The money and the big house and the private jets—they don’t understand any of it. They are ordinary people and they appreciate ordinary things. In which case, we’re going to get along perfectly.

After a pause that Tate makes no effort to fill, Helen stands from the couch. “Well, I guess I’ll show Charlotte to her room.” Her mouth is curved in an uneasy smile. “Tate, honey, your room is just how you left it last time you were here. You can put your things in there.”

“Your mom keeps it like a museum,” Tate’s dad says. “Like she’s waiting for you to move back in.” I can’t tell if it’s meant to be a joke—nobody laughs.

Tate and his dad bring in our suitcases while his mom leads me down a hallway on the first floor to the room where I’ll be staying—not with Tate. Obviously not with Tate. I’m not sure what I was thinking.

“Coming, Charlotte?” Tate’s mom calls from in front of me.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the moment. “Be right there.”

*

The next day, we drive to a massive lot that has been converted into SANTA’S TREE WORKSHOP—as the wooden sign hanging from a fence announces when we pull in. Apparently, picking out a huge, beautiful tree on Christmas Eve is a Collins family tradition. I can’t help sighing with envy.

At our house, Grandma pulls out a deteriorating plastic Christmas tree she’s had since the nineties. We position it in the corner of the living room beside the TV, and hang a single strand of lights and the dozen or so ornaments she’s had for equally as long. We’ve never had a real live tree.

“Divide and conquer?” Tate’s dad says as we stand in line for cups of hot chocolate. The girl working the stand is dressed like an elf—complete with stick-on pointed ears.

“Works for me,” Tate says, not meeting his dad’s gaze.

“Each couple brings back a tree; whichever is the best goes home with us.”

“Deal,” Tate agrees, and shoots me a look—he clearly intends for us to win. But my mind is stuck on the word couple. Is that really what we are—Tate and I?

Before we separate, I steal a last look at Tate’s mom. Her eyes are bright and dewy from the cold. She seems happy to finally have her son home, even if there is still obvious tension between Tate and his dad. Her family is back together. And that’s a start.

Santa’s Tree Workshop is gigantic, far larger than any of the corner lot tree stands we have in LA. There’s a small outpost called Santa Land where kids line up to sit with a jolly-looking Santa. There are booths where you can buy festive knit hats, toy trains, even a small fenced area where you can pet a reindeer. This is more than tree shopping; this is a holiday emporium of everything tinsel-laced and candy-cane coated.

I pull Tate over to the reindeer. The majestic creature stands behind the fence, munching a pile of hay, and I lean against the fence and gently extend my fingers to feel his woolly coat. He blows hot air across my hand and licks me with his long tongue.

“Hey,” Tate says beside me, stroking the reindeer’s mane. “This girl’s taken.”

I smile and pull my hand away. The reindeer drops his head back to the hay.

“He’s cute.” I lean against Tate, pressing my forehead into his chest. Breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat rise beneath his coat, makes my body flood with a warmth that the cold cannot reach. Tate seems so different here—he’s not worried about the paparazzi trailing him wherever he goes, and so far, no fans have recognized him. Maybe because no one expects Tate Collins to be strolling through a Christmas fantasyland in Telluride, Colorado. But it also feels like more than that. Like there are burdens that weigh on him in LA, but he’s managed to leave them behind.

“Shall we start our search for the perfect tree?” Tate asks into my hair.

I nod and pull away. But he keeps his hand laced in mine.

“This contest is rigged, you know,” Tate murmurs, still not looking at me. Some of the hurt and vulnerability from yesterday returns to his face. “My father thinks he knows what’s best—no exceptions.”