Flower(46)

“Then let’s just have fun,” I suggest, and duck around the side of the reindeer’s pen, our bodies hidden by the wood siding of a shed.

“I can work with that.” Tate surprises me by pinning me tightly against the wooden wall. His body against mine, his hands around my wrists, his breath hot against my neck make me feel bold. I smile up at him, silently daring him to kiss me.

His gaze drops to my lips and lingers there, just before he places his mouth on mine. I kiss him back fiercely, my wrists bound by his fingers, his body caging me in.

I want more.

He breaks away to kiss along my jaw, my neck. His mouth is hot, his teeth nibbling on my skin. When he lifts his head to look at me, I see the dark need in his gaze. Our eyes remain locked as he kisses me. A simple kiss, a mere brush of lips on lips. Again.

And again.

Until our eyes close at the same time and our tongues meet, his hand gripping my hips. I reach for the zipper on his coat and undo it. He moans against my lips and a thrill goes through me.

In this terrifying, wondrous, overwhelming moment, I would let him do anything.

Anything at all.

He moans again, then breaks the kiss. “What are you doing to me?” he asks, sounding tortured. His face is stark and serious, his lips swollen and damp from our kisses.

“I think you’ve got it backward,” I whisper, breathing deeply. I can’t believe the way Tate makes me feel—like I’m being drawn to him by some invisible thread. I’ve always pictured myself trudging up a steep hill, forcing myself forward under the weight of school and work and my own impossible expectations. With Tate, I feel light. I feel free.

He doesn’t say anything more, just shakes his head, then pulls me deep into the rows of trees, an endless sea of choices. We drag out several, examining them more closely.

“Why did you ever leave Colorado?” I ask, finally breaking the silence as he wedges himself back between a cluster of trees, certain he sees the perfect one tucked in the back.

“I always knew I would. I wanted to be a musician since I was young.”

“But you left without your parents?”

“Sort of. I won a singing competition in Denver when I was fifteen. They flew me out to LA so I could perform in front of a record exec. He signed me on the spot.”

“And?” I prompt.

“And...everything changed. I went on tour, I made two records that both went platinum within a year. It happened so fast I didn’t really have time to think about what was happening.”

“And your parents didn’t move with you to LA?”

“They did at first. Traveling back and forth between here and there. But as things got crazy, as I got more...well-known, they started trying to tell me how to live my life. Maybe they were right, but I didn’t want to listen.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Tate steps out from the crush of tree limbs, bringing with him the thick scent of fresh pine needles. “I did things I wish I could take back,” he says more seriously now. “But I’m not that person anymore, Charlotte. I want you to know that.”

I’m not entirely certain what he means—it feels like there are still things he isn’t telling me, important things, but his face has turned guarded. I decide not to ask, not right now.

Instead, I move in to give him a chaste kiss. “Charlotte,” he whispers against my lips, then kisses me again. His lips are warm and our breath comes out as vapor in the cold air. I don’t want him to let go. I want his mouth to press against mine until winter evaporates into spring. I want to stay here, hidden among the Christmas trees until the night shifts over the sky and everyone has gone home. But Tate lifts his mouth from mine, both of us a cloud of warmth in the frosty snow. And then I feel the flakes, floating down from the muted gray sky. It’s snowing. Soft crystals land in my hair and on Tate’s shoulders.

And in that moment, in his arms, I have everything I could possibly want.

*

Tate and I agree on a skinny, floppy-looking tree. Nothing like what I pictured we’d choose. It sags a little on one side and bows oddly near the top, but somehow, it’s perfect. Tate carries it over one shoulder back to the entrance, where the holiday music continues to blare from the overhead speakers, now mixing with the falling snow.

Much to my surprise, Tate’s parents selected an equally homely-looking tree. Tate’s dad studies ours, running his hands over the limbs with a serious look on his face, then turns to Tate and says, “Looks like we both know how to recognize a good thing when we see it.” And he actually smiles, clapping Tate on the shoulder. Helen laughs and brings a hand to her mouth, like she might cry seeing the tension between them lift.

It takes Tate a second to absorb the compliment, to realize his dad is trying to make an effort, but when he does, I can see his face lighten. His eyes find me, his dimple flickering to life.

We decide to purchase both trees. But when Tate reaches for his wallet, his dad waves it away. “You might be Mr. Moneybags, but I’m still your father.”

His mom snaps a photo of us standing beside our chosen tree, one of Tate’s arms around my waist, the other holding up the lopsided tree. The snow drifts down around us in slow motion, and the twinkle of Christmas lights feels like a holiday dream.

I never want to wake up.





THIRTEEN