Chapter 15

“ H aven, dear…Haven? HAVEN.”

I spin around at the tap on my shoulder to find Mr. Roundtree, from the Aspen General Store across the road, looking agitated, and apologetic. But mostly agitated. I lower my hands covering my ears.

“Hey, Mr. Roundtree!” I shout, pretending like I don’t know why he’s come in. But I know. “What’s up?”

“Do you think you can do something about that?” He jabs his finger to where the band is warming up.

It’s the Christmas band Mrs. Loughty booked before she left for her round-the-world trip—and more evidence that she wanted to turn her back on the entire holiday season.

The band is so loud. And awful. Really awful.

I think they’re playing “Santa Baby,” but I’m not sure. Sounds like a couple of cats being strangled.

They’ve only been going half an hour, and it’s truly a miracle Mr. Roundtree is the first person to come in and complain.

I sigh. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Roundtree. Let me deal with it.”

“Thank you, dear. I know you’re working hard for today, but I’ve not had any customers this morning.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.” I pat him on the shoulder and walk over to where Saylor is carefully arranging the gingerbread houses. “Say, I’m going to get the music turned down.”

She looks up at me and pulls the balled-up cotton wool from her ears. “What?”

I roll my eyes, because why didn’t I think of that. “Shall we ask them to turn the music down?”

“Oh god, yes. No one’s going to come if this is what they’re greeted with. It’s loud enough to start an avalanche.”

“Yeah.” I nod and follow Mr. Roundtree outside.

I didn’t realize how much the windows had been muffling the sound, because the moment I open the doors I swear my eardrums burst. Mr. Roundtree hurries off to safety, while I stand in front of the makeshift stage that is erected for the band and competition presentation every year.

It’s super hard to get their attention—all five of them rocking out to whatever it is they’re playing— hell if I know —all five of them with their eyes shut. In the end, I spy the adaptor cords plugged into the amplifiers and yank it out.

My bones immediately stop vibrating from the bass and there’s silence. Sweet, sweet silence.

“Cut!” the lead singer shouts to his bandmates, glancing around to figure out the source of his broken speakers, before his beady eyes narrow on me holding two ends of a plug—one in each hand. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, we need the volume lowered. We can’t hear ourselves speak in the store.”

He swipes his long bangs away from his eyes and peers down from the elevated platform he’s standing on, squinting through the windows.

“There’s no one in there.”

“That’s true.” I nod. “Very true. But there will be, and when they are, we’re going to need to hear what they’re saying. So can we keep the volume down?”

He says nothing, so I cross my arms and find myself in a stare off with the guy. I’m certain none of them are old enough to drink, and I’m hoping if I stand here long enough he’ll find me suitably intimidating. I’m tired and antsy today, and certainly not in the mood to be messed with.

“Sure, but you’re not going to get the full effect of our creative output,” he huffs, eventually.

“It’s ‘Jingle Bells,’ bud. We can manage.” I turn back to the store. “Thanks.”

“Nice work, Havey.” Saylor slow claps when I’m in the warmth again, with the door closed. “Well handled.”

Her mouth is twitching, I know she’s holding onto a laugh because she rarely sees me snappy. Or in a bad mood. Not that I’m in a bad mood per se but I’m not in a great mood.

Normally she’s the bad guy of the two of us. She’s the one used to dealing with unruly kids.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just sometimes forget what you’re like when you’re moody.”

“Ugh. I’ll take them some cinnamon buns, they’ll be fine.”

“Haven, the whole street will thank you for getting rid of that terrible noise.” She frowns, sweeping her arm over to the doors. “Plus, they’ve not stopped playing. They’re still terrible, just quieter. I don’t know what Mrs. Loughty was thinking, they’re not the usual guys she has.”

I shrug, because I’ve been thinking the same.

For the gingerbread competition finale, there’s usually a very jolly Christmassy band outside the store, occasionally one of the groups Joe books in The Old Saloon, and they all dress up in Santa costumes, which the kids love. The main road is cordoned off to traffic, so everyone stays around, hanging in the street drinking hot chocolate, queuing up for food trucks stationed at the far end, or eating whatever they’ve bought from the store. The whole town gets involved, and everyone loves it.

But the guys who turned up this morning look like they’d be more at home in a high schooler’s garage with posters of Metallica. There’s nothing remotely Christmassy about them, and thinking about it, they did seem super surprised holiday tunes were on the playlist for today.

“Yeah, I dunno. But at least we can hear ourselves think now.” I switch on the coffee machine, because I need coffee. “What do we have left to do?”

The pair of us look up as a loud clatter comes from the direction of the kitchens, and Kyle starts shouting. This morning has been a little high stress, to put it bluntly.

The Saturday finale is the one day of the year when the bakery opens later—ten a.m. and stays open until after the winners are announced later in the afternoon. But no matter how much later the doors are opening today, there still doesn’t seem to be enough time to get everything done.

Yesterday, Saylor, Kyle, and I, plus a couple of the local Aspen celebrities spent the day judging the two thousand entries. I’ve never been part of the judging as I’ve always entered, so I hadn’t realized quite how tricky it was, or how much work it entailed.

The houses were sorted into categories—Traditional, Under 10s, Most Creative…etc.—then each category has a winner, runner-up, and third place, and once they’ve all been decided, a Best in Show is chosen. It took all day.

This year’s entries are strong. The Rivern family’s, another group who turned their house into a cable car with skiers inside, and a super-traditional European-style house with lots of piped icing. Surprisingly, only one Santa’s Workshop this year, complete with Candy Cane Lane.

But I only have eyes for Alex’s.

Several times I zoned out because I was staring at its little swinging Wylder Trees sign outside. Or the tiny bell. The door with its panes set out in frosting. I still don’t know how he managed to make it quite so beautiful and detailed. It’s the most precious gingerbread house I’ve ever seen. All the more so because it was made for me.

It is impossible not to be biased either. Because in my opinion it should easily win every category, except Under 10s.

The race to win is close, but more importantly, we’ve raised nearly seventy thousand dollars this year, and a check will be presented to the local children’s hospital after the winners are announced at the presentation this afternoon.

I glance over to Saylor when I realize she’s talking, because I zoned out again. “Huh?”

“There are still some houses to move out from the kitchens to the display. The winning entries are front and center already.” She gently taps the swinging sign on Alex’s house—winner of The Most Creative Gingerbread House. “Are we expecting our new champion to come in and collect his prize?”

Sucking in my cheek, I shrug a shoulder. I’m not sure. “He’s going home today. I don’t know what time his flight is.”

She walks over and throws her arm around me, which weirdly makes me want to cry. “Don’t worry, Havey. He’ll come, I’m sure. He’s been so adamant about winning, there’s no way he’s not going to want to know whether he’s been crowned.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I sniff, catching the roll of tissues Saylor chucks at me.

So dumb. I don’t know why I’m getting all emotional over a guy I’ve known less than a week. But as I stare at his gingerbread house, I know . It’s the same feeling I had a couple of nights ago on our date. It’s because, to Alex, I was nothing more than Haven who owns the tree shop.

For the first time in four years, I was myself. He took me away from my worries about money, and how I was going to plan my future. What I was going to do with myself. Instead, I got to be.

You’re a human being, not a human doing, my mom used to say. And this week is the first time I truly understand what she meant.

It also made me realize how much I crave human touch. And not just the fling of a passing tourist. I’ve been so bogged down in sorting my life out, I hadn’t stopped to enjoy it. Alex has been the combination of fresh air and the hefty kick up the ass I needed. I’ve already decided that “making time for myself” is going at the top of my New Year’s resolutions—ones I plan on keeping—and that includes dating.

Now I just need to figure out how I can find a six-foot-three Englishman with brilliant blue eyes who lives in Aspen, or at least within a twenty-mile radius.

“Dry your tears, Havey, we got visitors,” announces Saylor.

I blow my nose, turning to find the visitors I’ve been waiting for all morning. All four of them, walking through the doors of the bakery.

“God damn . What are they putting in the water over there?” Saylor mutters under her breath, moving to stand next to me, because she’s never seen the four of them together, and the first time is an experience.

It’s clear they’re set apart from anyone I’ve ever met; the only other time I’d seen them together was the night at the bar, but this morning, in daylight, there’s an air of nobility and dignity surrounding them I hadn’t noticed before.

All the same height, same long legs and broad chests, same arresting bright blue eyes, full mouths, and dark stubble. One of the twins has a baseball cap on with the Aspen Valley Polo Club logo— Miles . Which means it’s Hendricks with his rich brown hair flopping in that deliberately mussed up way—perfectly imperfect. And they’re both wearing identical mischievous grins, their dimples popping. I feel my cheeks glow, because I’m wondering if Alex has told them about what we did. What I did to him, what he did to me. Whether they can tell by simply looking.

I shake it off and glance at Lando. He’s the darkest of the four, his hair is curlier, his stubble almost classifies as a beard, which kind of matches his brooding personality. Even if you didn’t know he’s the eldest, you’d know . There’s a seriousness about him that’s not present in the others.

Then there’s the only one I have eyes for—Alex—his chocolatey brown waves flicked away from his smooth brow like he’s just run his fingers through it. It’s making me want to run my fingers through it.

“Hey.” Alex grins.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Haven.” The twins chorus in sync, to which Lando rolls his eyes.

“Hi, guys.”

“Came to collect my prize.”

I shake my head at Alex, with a grin. “How do you know you’ve won?”

“I won,” he replies, holding my gaze.

“The prizes are announced at three p.m.”

“We’ll be in the air, our flight leaves after lunch.” Alex’s bottom lip pouts in exaggeration, and he reaches out to take my hand. “You need to tell me.”

“Oh, put him out of his misery,” says Miles. “He’ll be bloody unbearable the whole way home otherwise.”

“Okay…” I point over to the display where the winners are laid out. “They’re all there. Your house won Most Creative.”

Hendricks and Miles whoop and rush over to the table, triumph spreads across Alex’s face as pulls me into him.

“I knew it,” he murmurs, smacking his lips to mine.

“Pays to sleep with the judge,” calls Miles from across the bakery as he inspects the rest of the entries, and behind me, Saylor barks out a laugh. “Ooh, this one’s a good one.”

“Hey, ours is a bloody good house. I didn’t need to sleep with the judge to win it.” Alex protests, and brings his lips closer to my ear. “But I couldn’t stop myself.”

My body goes from warmish to boiling hot in less than a second.

“It’s quite the entertainment out there.” Lando nods toward the band. It’s getting busy; the food trucks are setting up, and now the music is quieter, more people are hanging around.

It’s still terrible though.

I grimace. “Sorry about the Christmas music.”

“Is that what it is?” replies Alex. “I like it.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell what they’re playing. Doesn’t sound anything like Christmas to me.”

I crack a smile. “I guess that’s a silver lining then.”

“Sure is.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Lando check his watch.

“Al, we need to be quick. Remember.”

“Yeah yeah. Just pick what you want to take home and give me a minute.” Alex waves him off, and Lando goes to hurry along the twins. “So…”

“So.”

“I’ve had fun this week.”

I stare up into his eyes and try to commit them to memory, but I already know I’d fail miserably. Pointless, anyway. “Me too. Thanks for helping at the bar, and buying all the gingerbread. And the decorations.”

“You’re welcome.” He laughs, but it’s kind of awkward.

This is kind of awkward, especially when Alex looks over to check on his brothers buying up everything that’s coming out of the kitchen. There’s a reason I hate goodbyes and it’s this awkwardness. It almost ruins everything about the last few days, because it’s clear neither of us knows what to say or what to do. I’m tempted to offer him my number, but again, what’s the point? He lives seven thousand miles away. It’s not like I can booty call him on the way home from The Old Saloon.

We’re still standing there when Miles appears holding two large store bags. “Stocked up for the flight.”

“Excellent.”

“See you again, Haven. Thanks for keeping the Grinch occupied this week.”

Alex shoots him a scowl, then turns to me. “I should go, but I wanted to come and say goodbye.”

“Have a safe flight.”

“Thank you.” He leans in, his lips resting against my cheek before he steps away.

The four of them file through the door, each of them turning to smile and wave one last time before they disappear out of sight.

And that’s that. My Christmas fling has flung.

I get through the rest of the day on autopilot; serving customers, thanking the participants, announcing the winners, and presenting the check.

And in between, I try not to cry.