5. Zoey

5

ZOEY

H ugo leads me away from the ice skating rink and past the Christmas wonderland with its blazing lights and fairground music. We leave the lights and laughter behind us and head toward the quiet end of the park.

The snow has settled in a thin layer on the ground, and shoppers scurry past leaving footsteps in the snow.

He keeps his hand in mine and warmth radiates from him, filling me with a warm toasty feeling despite the biting cold.

I know I shouldn’t be sucked in by his charms, but there’s something about the Christmas lights strung throughout the park and the light snow falling around us muffling the sounds that makes it feel like we’re in our own private world. A magical world where maybe, just maybe, this good-looking, smart, funny man could really be into me.

At the far end of the park there’s an old railway bridge. It’s not used any more but the structure is from the 19th century, with latticed railings and fading paint. It gives this end of the park a charming old world feel.

“This railway used to take the logs to the factory when my great granddad ran the place.”

He has a note of pride in his voice. He may claim not to be interested in the family business, but he sure is proud of it.

“But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”

There’s a small fence under the bridge, and he swings his legs over it.

I hesitate. That fence is there for a reason. “I don’t think we’re meant to go over there.”

“You’re right. We’re not meant to go up here. But we’re going to.” He smiles at me mischievously.

I’m not usually a rule breaker, and even jumping a fence in a corner of the park makes me nervous. I look around, but this part of the park is empty.

It’s not a tall fence, but I’m shorter than him and I’m wearing a skirt. I try to hoist my leg up and realize it’s not going to work.

Suddenly his arms are around me, and my feet are lifted off the ground. He swings me up like I’m as light as a feather and puts me down on the other side of the fence.

His arms are firm around my waist and I want to press myself against him, bury my face in that ridiculous sweater.

But I stop myself in time.

He must have taken dozens of girls here. It’s no good getting all squiggly over a guy who’s way out of my league and just playing with me to annoy his dad.

So I move away, and his hands drop from my waist. I feel the loss of the warmth immediately and wrap my own arms around my shoulders.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” I say, filling the awkward silence.

He grins. “Into the woods.”

There’s a steep slope into a wooded area and he goes ahead, offering me his hand to help me up the slope.

We reach the top and he pushes through a thick line of bushes, holding them aside for me.

Snow shakes off the branches and drops silently to the ground. I bend over, brambles scraping at my coat as I follow him through the bushes.

“This was a lot easier to get through when I was a kid,” he says.

We push our way through a bushy area until we come to a clearing. Thick trees make a circle that opens up to the sky. A layer of unbroken snow covers the middle of the clearing, and the trees block out the sounds of the town. It’s silent and beautiful.

“It’s just as I remember it.”

He’s got a wide grin on his face, and for a moment I can imagine him as a boy, clambering up here to get away from the bustling town center below.

He rests his hand on an old elm tree. “It’s been years since I’ve been up here, but these old trees look the same.”

He runs his hand over the smooth bark. “The wood of the elm is the best for rocking chairs. Supple and pliable.”

He moves to the next tree, which I don’t know the name of. It’s thick and the bark hangs in shaggy tufts.

“The hickory. It’s a hard, sturdy wood, best for tables and outdoor furniture.”

He goes to the next tree. “And this one, the mighty oak. We’re not supposed to log these anymore, but there’s a lot of reclaimed wood out there. They make beautiful flooring.”

His eyes are lit up as he talks about each tree. There’s a passion there that I haven’t seen before. I watch him with my arms folded.

“I thought you weren’t interested in furniture making?”

He shakes his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I love the furniture making business. I’m just not interested in running it.”

I frown. “So you do want to work for your dad?”

There’s a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, and he takes a seat. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.” I sit next to him.

Just sitting beside him makes my heart race. Our thighs are almost touching, and I have an urge to run my hand over his leg. Instead I put my hands together and stuff them firmly between my legs.

“Ever since I was a kid, Dad’s been training me to take over the business. As soon as I could walk, he used to take me around the factory, explaining what each area of the business was doing. And I loved it. I’d be there after school every afternoon.

I knew everyone in that building, from the cafeteria lady to the designers to the guy who packed the orders. Everyone knew me around the place and they were really kind, always taking their time to talk to me.” He laughs. “I know now it was probably just because I was the boss’s son that they had to be kind.”

He picks up a stick and digs at the snow.

“The place I loved spending the most time was in the design lab. We make wooden furniture, and aside from a few classic lines, we design new pieces every season. That’s the key to our success. The limited pieces that customers can order from the catalog and know they won’t be getting the same furniture as their neighbors.”

He looks at me quickly. “Sorry, you probably know all this.”

I shake my head. “No, go on. You obviously care about it a lot.”

“Yeah,” he continues. “I loved watching the new designs come together, the sketches, the blueprints, the workshop. Usually the first attempts were a bit wonky. The weight would be off or something. But when they finally got it right and a new dresser or table came out finished, it was a beautiful thing to behold.”

His eyes are shinning as he talks. He’s obviously passionate about making furniture.

“If you’re so passionate about it, then what’s the problem with taking over the business?”

He looks at me. “I’m passionate about designing furniture. I’m not passionate about selling it.”

I’m beginning to understand what he’s trying to tell me.

“I used to come up with designs of my own, and some of them we made. But once I went to college, Dad said I needed to focus on the business side of things. He’d rather I was wooing clients and making deals with our suppliers. But the thing is that I hate doing that stuff. I’m not good at it.”

He digs at the snow, taking a while before he speaks again.

“We had an argument about it. Several arguments actually. I wanted to design furniture, and he wanted me to look at spreadsheets and talk bullshit to clients.”

“So you left?”

“Yeah. I needed the space. So I packed up and got on a plane.”

“That must have made your dad angry.”

He rubs at his beard. “Yeah. A bit, but he thought I just needed some time.”

A realization hits me. “He thinks you’ve come back to take over the business. That’s what he’s going to announce at the Christmas party tonight. But you haven’t, have you?”

He takes a moment to answer. “No. I need to tell him once and for all that I won’t be taking it over.”

There’s pain in his eyes when he says that. He must know how much he’ll hurt his father.

“When are you going to tell him?”

“Tonight at the party.”

I wince. “That’s brave.”

“Yeah, it won’t be an easy conversation, but it’s got to be done.”

I thought Hugo was just another privileged kid, but there’s something about him standing up to his father that I admire. He’s got passion, he’s got soul, and he’s got heart.

He squints up at the sky, which is starting to turn dark. “I should probably get on with it. I guess we’d better head to the office.”

I check my watch in the fading light. “I think we’d better go straight to the party.”

He rubs his beard, a slow smile turning up his lips. “There’s just one thing before we go.” He looks up. “Do you know what type of bush this is?”

I peer at the small leaves and white berries. ”Is that...?”

“Mistletoe.” He’s grinning like the cat who got the cream.

I feel heat spreading up my neck as he leans toward me. “Whoa, you’re not going to...?”

He cuts me off. “Oh yes I am.”

He presses his lips against mine, and they’re warm and soft. The heat flows through my body, shooting delicious tingles all the way between my legs. I open my lips and his tongue darts in, softly exploring my mouth.

It’s a long slow kiss in which my world realigns. I forget the preconceptions I had of him, and in this moment it feels so right, so connected, like we belong together.

Then the kiss ends. He looks at me with wonder, and my heart leaps. Does he feel it too?

He doesn’t say anything, just takes my hand and stands up. We walk hand in hand back to the car, not talking. I lean into him, and he puts his arm around me.

It feels natural and right; we could be any couple walking together in the light snow. And for the first time today, I dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s not playing with me. Maybe he’s sincere, and maybe this might just work.