Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

ROWAN

She’s looking at me like I slapped her. Or maybe like she wants to slap me. Fuck. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.

Yes, you did, whispers a voice in my head, adding, you asshole.

“Look,” I say. “I know why you’re doing the show. My sister told me about your nonprofit, and—”

“Then you know that there are some things more important in life than looking like an idiot on screen,” she says, with so much goddamn nobility, she might as well be a princess for real.

“You’re not going to look like an idiot. They’re the idiots.”

The thought of her kissing any of them makes me want to grind my teeth until a back molar crushes. But that’s not because I want those pretty lips for myself. It’s just obvious to anyone with eyes that she’s worth all six of the remaining men.

“They’re not all idiots,” she says, looking away, and her words strum something in my chest.

“Oh? Which of them has caught your attention?”

I’m not sure why I’m asking something I don’t want her to answer, only I’ve never been smart when it comes to this sort of thing. It’s like I was born with my romance button broken, or so my sisters tell me. Like there was only so much of it to go around between us Mayberry siblings, and my portion was the romance equivalent of a few grains of salt.

“I don’t want to talk about the guys,” she says. “Why do you spend so much time on set if you think the show is stupid?”

There’s an awareness in me—of her, her head tipped toward me, those big eyes soaking me in from behind their dark shields like I’m her Prince Charming—but I muffle it. Because I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be looking at me like that if she knew I’m the cause of all the little accidents and mishaps that have been happening on set. The inconveniences that have caused the guys to grumble. Turning her orange, however temporarily. So I look away.

“She’s my grandmother, Kennedy.” I take another strike at the trunk, savoring the burn of my muscles, because this, at least, is something I can do.

“So you’re loyal to her?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“No, I’m loyal to my sisters. If she weren’t calling me, she’d be calling them, and she’s already fucked up their lives. She doesn’t get to me.” I pause, swallowing, and examine the trunk. “Besides, even though she’s a battle axe, she’s a little old lady. It’s our job to take care of her, or at least to make sure she’s eating and taking her medication. When our mother walked out on us, she left us with our grandmother. Nana wasn’t the kind of woman who’d give us band aids and make it all better, but she did at least keep us.”

I can feel her looking at me, a not-unpleasant burn.

“You’re loyal.”

“I’m pragmatic,” I say, making another strike with the ax.

“You don’t like compliments.”

“Not undeserved ones, no,” I say, finally looking at her. She’s studying me over the top of my cup, her gaze pointed. A few strands of her hair have escaped the knit cap and are playing in the slight breeze.

“I’m starting to think you’re deserving of a few,” she says. “Setting aside the whole strumpet thing.”

“You can compliment me on my choice of beverage,” I tell her. “I’ll accept that since you’re drinking it.”

“Because you gave it to me.” She puts a finger in the air. “Takes care of difficult old ladies.” Another finger. “Feels sympathy for women who’ve had close brushes with terrifying Santas.”

Before her smile can wash over me and make me lose my will, I turn back to the tree. Another couple of strikes, and it’ll fall.

Holly’s going to like this one. It’s full and tall, but there’s a slightly sparse spot in the back that makes it look less than Hollywood ready. There’s such a thing as too perfect, after all.

“It’s about to come down,” I tell Kennedy. “Make sure you’re standing back.”

I’m hit with an image of her being struck by a branch. It would be a hell of a thing for her to have to go to an emergency room when she’s not even supposed to be here.

It’s not really possible for her to get hit where she’s standing. Even so, I say, “Come over here next to me.” There’s an unintended huskiness to the words, and I give myself a mental shake.

She hustles over and stands near me, the heat of her like a beacon. She smells slightly of apple and whiskey.

“Aren’t you cold without your coat?”

“No,” I say, adjusting to her proximity. “Physical work keeps you warmer than any coat.”

She makes a little sound, and I realize there’s another possible interpretation to my words—one I didn’t mean but was maybe thinking about anyway.

“I’ve always loved fresh Christmas trees, but this is kind of sad,” she says in a soft voice.

“Too late to turn back now,” I tell her. “Besides, they’re grown for this purpose. If you didn’t choose one, it wouldn’t be fulfilling its purpose.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice not to have any purpose to fulfill? To just exist?”

There’s a thread of longing in her voice, and I look at her in spite of myself. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her that they’re Christmas trees, for fuck’s sake, but I know she’s not really talking about the trees.

“People are allowed to be wildcards sometimes,” I tell her. “Not Christmas trees.”

She smiles slightly. “You’re right. And anyway, it’s coming down. It’ll look beautiful.” She pauses, but I can tell she has more to say. Those little strands of hair dance under her knit cap. “I wish I could see it once it’s decorated.”

“Maybe Harry can keep sneaking you out.” Reaching over, I tuck the hair back into her cap. “It can be a whole thing.” I can’t interpret the look she’s giving me from behind those glasses. I only know that I like it more than I should. “Of course, your six boyfriends wouldn’t like it.”

She laughs. “I’m pretty sure there’s only one or two who would care.”

“Jonah?” I ask innocently, but in my chest, there’s an unhappy burn. She’s thinking about Marcus probably. Pretty boy Marcus with his millions. How am I supposed to compete with that?

You’re not, dumbass.

“You know, your grandmother and Harry made me keep Jonah around,” she says, lifting a finger to her lips as if I might feel compelled to share gossip.

I scowl. “Doesn’t surprise me to hear my grandmother did that, but Harry’s getting the shit chores at the house tonight.”

She laughs in apparent delight. “It’s okay. They’re right. Having characters like him around will make the show interesting. It’ll make more people watch, so more people will hear about Leto’s Hands.”

“Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “It’s the nonprofit I work for. Leto’s Hands.” She makes a face. “My mother always says they might as well have called it Leto’s Handouts. Leto is the Greek goddess of motherhood.”

“I may not have gone to college, but I’m not stupid,” I say, even though I’ve never heard of Leto or her hands.

She frowns. “I never implied you were. A lot of people don’t know what the name means.”

“So maybe you should rename it.”

The wrinkle between her brows smooths over. “Maybe. But if they were going to do that, they probably should have gotten to it before I had it written into my contract that I get to mention it at least once every episode.”

A laugh escapes from me, because fuck, my grandmother must hate that. “What does Leto do with her hands?”

She gives me a chastising look. Okay, fair enough.

“It’s a nonprofit that helps single mothers,” she says.

I’m tempted to ask what drove her to work at such a place, because when people seek out a calling like that, there’s usually a specific reason that compelled them to. But to my surprise she offers up the information without being asked. “My nanny when I was a little girl. She was a single mother. Her daughter is Olive, my best friend.”

I study her for a moment, letting this new information slip into place. Kennedy Littlefield isn’t anything like I thought she would be.

“You ready to watch a tree come down, Kennedy?”

She smiles at me. “Yes. If I had my phone, I’d even take a video.”

“I’m glad it got locked away in phone jail.”

Her pretty, tinkling laugh is my accompaniment as I make the last few strikes to the trunk. Well, that and the faint echo of a pretty shit version of “Santa Baby,” which I can never listen to without thinking of the dance my mother did at a town party when I was nine, and she was trying to make the then-police chief into Husband Number Four. She’d crowded us kids into the corner and told Bryn not to let us leave her sight. Bryn was Type A from the womb, and she’d kept us all organized, a snack plate each, but she hadn’t been able to crowd out our vision.

That sour thought is in my head as I take those final strokes. Still, there’s a certain satisfaction inside me as I watch the tree come down, the smell of pine sap wafting into the air as it thumps to the ground. The knowledge that I’ve done something special for my sister, something she’ll appreciate. The knowledge that Kennedy is probably watching.

I turn to her, and sure enough, she has a look of wonder on her face.

“You’re used to having other people cut your trees down for you, huh?” I ask as I prop the axe against the trunk and strip off my work gloves. I could wear them to move the tree, but I don’t like the way they feel on my hands.

She glowers at me. I deserve it.

“Sorry, that was a shit thing to say. I was trying to make a joke.”

“It’s okay.” She makes a face. “The truth is, I’ve never had a real Christmas tree. My parents have this famous Christmas Eve party. Or at least they like to think it’s famous, but the trees are never real. They’re these super convincing fakes that they spray with pine scent. My mom wouldn’t want to get needles all over the floors, even though she wouldn’t be the one cleaning them. But it’s just not the same.”

I have to laugh at the thought of people spraying fake trees with pine scent because they’re neater. “No, I suspect it’s not,” I tell her. “What do they do at this famous Christmas Eve party?”

“It’s awful,” she says. “There’s a lot of expensive hors d’oeuvres and champagne, and every year, they put together these crazy favor bags, but there aren’t any presents under the tree, and there’s no warm cider or hot chocolate. The only Christmas carols they play are from the philharmonic orchestra.”

“Sounds like your suitors would fit right in,” I say. Even as I say it, I know I’m closing a door between us—putting some sort of ending to this moment that’s felt strangely right. But that’s a good thing, because I can’t afford to have thoughts about Kennedy, and I shouldn’t want her to have thoughts about me.

“Oh shit,” I hear Oliver exclaim, followed by a shriek. Kennedy and I exchange a quick look, and then I’m running through the Christmas trees, Kennedy racing after me. It doesn’t take me long to find them. Ralph’s isn’t huge, and I’m good at following noise. Sometimes, before my little sister Ivy went to live with Jay, I’d be left alone with her. I’d have to basically echolocate her by listening to her little grunts and happy squeals. She’d always be engaged in some self-destructive activity—trying to eat my grandmother’s bobby pins or pulling thorny roses out of a vase so she could pull the petals off.

By the time we reach them, the shouting has stopped. Actually, Oliver has Harry wrapped into a hug, and they’re both laughing. I feel a twinge of regret, like I’ve interrupted a moment that should have been allowed to play out. They pull apart as we near them.

“What happened?” Kennedy asks. Her sunglasses are still on her face, but her cap is askew from her run, that long pretty hair spilling out.

“I…” Harry starts. Swallows. “A squirrel…”

“When the tree came down, a squirrel jumped on his head from inside the branches,” Oliver says through a rumble of laughter. “We didn’t even notice it was in there before it happened.”

“What’d you do?” Kennedy asks.

“I ran!” Harry says, and Kennedy starts laughing. Harry joins her, and then Oliver, and then me, even though I’m not altogether sure why we’re laughing, other than I’m relieved it was only a squirrel that landed on him. If it had bitten him, his short, thinning blond hair wouldn’t conceal the mark, so I’m guessing he’s good on the rabies front.

“It stayed balanced until I brushed it off,” Oliver says at last, wiping his eyes. “I think it was in shock.”

“Thank you,” Harry says as he reaches out and touches Oliver’s arm. “You saved me.”

“I didn’t save you,” Oliver says with a grin. “It was just a squirrel. But if that’ll convince you to go out to dinner with me, let’s pretend I did.”

It’s starting to feel more like we’re intruding on their moment, so I say, “I’m going to bring my tree out to the truck. Will you help me, Princess?”

“Only if Harry doesn’t need me.”

Harry gives a nervous shuffle, like he still feels a phantom squirrel on his head, but stays put. “Candy cane,” he says to Kennedy.

She smiles at him, and he waves and then salutes. We take off, walking toward my fallen tree.

“Will I take one end, and you’ll take the other?” she asks, her eyes gleaming a bit behind those glasses, as if she’s excited about it.

“No,” I say with a snort. “More like I’ll take it all.”

“But you—” She gestures back toward the guys.

“They were having a moment,” I say with a shrug.

Her grin is more contagious than it has any right to be. “You are matchmaking.”

“No, I’m not,” I say defensively, even though I kind of am, I guess. “I’m just letting them work shit out. That’s what a friend should do.”

“Yeah,” she says, bumping her shoulder into me playfully. “That is what a friend should do.”

And if there’s a pleasant hum from the place where her shoulder touched mine, it’s probably only because of the moment—the high of seeing Oliver happy, of having cut down the perfect tree, of being with—

“You’re going to let me help with at least part of it, right?” she asks as we reach the tree.

“How about you carry the ax and your drink?” I say, nodding to the little cup sitting by the tree. I shrug into my coat.

“It feels like you’re giving me a job that doesn’t matter,” she responds, pouting a little.

Shit. She’s cute when she pouts too.

“It matters,” I say. “Ralph is very particular about his axes.”

“And you?” she asks.

“Am I particular about my axes?” I ask, raising my brows as I study the tree.

“Are you particular about who touches your things?” she asks, lifting her eyebrows in return. “Because you seem resistant to letting me touch your tree.”

I laugh, but my mind mentally substitutes another word for tree. The thought of Kennedy touching me, running those small smooth hands over me, sends blood pumping down south, but I think of a dozen different shitty things to get myself back under control. Spiders pouring out of animatronic Santas’ mouths. My grandmother stalking around the set of Matchmaking the Rich as if she might magically become rich too if she’s enough of an asshole. Jonah Fucking Highbury kissing Kennedy.

Clenching my teeth together, I heft up the tree.

“You’re really going to carry it by yourself?” Kennedy says, seeming kind of annoyed.

“It’s easier,” I insist.

She doesn’t look convinced…or like she’s not in any mood to touch my tree anymore.

“Can you get the other things?” I ask, standing there with the tree in my arms, like I’m giving it a hug.

“Fine,” she says with a sigh, collecting them. It makes me laugh a little more when she picks up the ax so tentatively, like it’s a dead animal she’s lifting by the tail.

“It won’t hurt you,” I say.

“I’m not stupid,” she snaps, throwing my phrase from earlier back at me. “I might not have much experience with axes, but I know which is the sharp end.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I mean it. Ralph really does care about his axes. And I wouldn’t want to litter out here.”

She gives me a nod of acknowledgement, but I can tell she’s still feeling salty about me not letting her help.

“You can help me get it into the bed of the truck,” I offer before I can catch myself. “And get it strapped in.”

“Really?” she asks, sounding much more excited than the task warrants.

It shouldn’t be charming, but it’s goddamn adorable.

“Really.” I’m sick of standing still with my arms around the tree like it’s my long-lost relative, so I start moving back toward the cabin. I swing around it, while Kennedy ducks in to return the ax.

It takes her awhile to come out. Is she talking to Ethel? The thought makes me smile— strumpet— but it’s not hard to imagine. Kennedy’s the kind of person who could probably draw anyone into conversation just by being herself.

I’ve already got the tree into the bed by the time she comes out with a little shopping bag.

“You already got it in,” she says with disappointment.

“You’re going to help me get it strapped in,” I tell her. Because I did wait for her to come back for this step. “What’d you get?”

She lifts a long-sleeve T-shirt out of the bag. The slogan says We Put the Christmas in Tree , which frankly makes zero sense. I’m guessing Ralph came up with it after drinking too much of his special sauce. It’s enormous—large enough to fit two of her at least.

“You like sleeping in big shirts or something?” I ask. I don’t hate the thought. My mind supplies an image of Kennedy wearing the huge shirt, her hair down, and nothing else.

She tosses it to me. “This one’s for you. I got one in my size too.”

I catch it, surprised to feel a knot forming in my throat. “You thought I’d want to remember this?”

A dick question, but she immediately says, “I knew you would.”

“Thank you,” I say, folding the shirt. I open the driver’s door and stick it inside the truck, feeling a little off kilter, like I’m no longer sure what to say or do with her.

When I shut the door, she’s waiting for me. “Let’s do this,” she says.

I show her where to anchor the bungee cords, and there’s a strange energy humming between us the whole time—a promise. We’ve just finished the task when Oliver and Harry emerge, both of them seeming pleased as they heft Oliver’s tree over to his blue Subaru Outback. Harry is red enough to match Ralph’s old Santa coat when I glance at him.

So that’s going well, at least.

I steal a look at Kennedy, and she smiles covertly at me, as if Oliver and Harry’s potential romance is a project we’re working on together. I like that more than I should, especially since I would strip my family of every last connection to matchmaking if I could.

Kennedy makes a come here gesture, and I step closer, crowding her because one step doesn’t feel like enough.

She sucks in a breath, then says, “He’s letting Harry help with his tree,”

Her words make me smile.

“Didn’t want you to go back to the house smelling of tree sap, Princess. It would be a tell.”

“You didn’t think I could carry it,” she challenges, tucking some dark hair back into her cap.

“No, I didn’t,” I agree. Because it’s true, and true things should be copped to whenever possible.

“One of these days I’m going to surprise you, Rowan,” she says, looking up at me, close enough that I feel the warm puff of her breath on my face and smell the sweet scent of spiked cider.

I don’t tell her that she has already surprised me. I don’t tell her that I’ve surprised myself more than anyone else ever could. Because, fool that I am, I have a thing for Kennedy Littlefield.

I lean in a little more, almost close enough to kiss her, and—

“Rowan?” someone says from behind me.