Page 81 of A Love Like Christmas Time
“Oh God.” He buries his face in his hands.
“See? You put up a Christmas tree, and you didn’t turn to ash,” I declare, grinning proudly. “Maybe there’s still hope of converting you into a Christmas lover.”
“This is so wrong.” He eyes the still bare, artificial tree with an expression somewhere between awe and disgust. “I mean, really? Plastic?”
“Says the guy who hasn’t had a Christmas tree at all in how many years?” I arch my eyebrow, side-eyeing him. God, I can’t wait to decorate the tree.
“Fifteen,” he grumbles, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “But at least when I did, they were always real ones.”
“Oh, by all means.” I gesture toward the window. It’s snowing again, though it’s not falling quite as thickly as yesterday. “If you’d prefer, please, go out there and get me a real one.”
“Do you have an axe?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as if he’s seriously considering it.
My brows knit together, and I cock my head. “Why would I have an axe?”
“One, because you have a fireplace,” he says slowly, pointing at it. “And second, if you want an actual tree in here, you’re going to have to chop it down yourself. Which is traditionally done using an axe.”
“The cool thing about living in the twenty-first century is that I can order firewood online. And when I do, I can pick whether you want logs or have them cut down to fireplace size,” I explain to him slowly, enunciating every syllable the way you’d explain it to a child. Then I grin. “Or I go all damsel in distress and ask Kieran to chop it for me.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.” He narrows his eyes, without a doubt imagining Kieran missing the log and accidentally chopping his bones instead. “He seems like the kind of guy who’d send an axe flying.”
“Only if he wants to.” I shrug. “You’d be surprised, though. The wood-hacking TikToks are his best-performing videos. If you think about it, I’m actually doing him a favor when I ask him to chop wood for me.”
“Honestly? I don’t even want to know why he would post wood-chopping videos.” He shakes his head. “Come on, let’s make your strange cookies.”
“Yay,” I say, hopping toward the kitchen.
Jenna and Taytay are busy exploring the new object in the living room. I can hear the plastic branches rustling as I take the dough out of the fridge.
“Oh God, that’s stone hard.” I tap against it.
“Give it here, I got it,” Caleb quips, dusting some flour on my counter. “Do you have a rolling pin?”
“Yes,” I say, carefully pulling open a few drawers until I find it. “Ha! There it is.” I pass it to him.
“I’m going to give it a quick knead before we press it in there,” he says, and does just that with a quarter of the dough. Once it’s somewhat malleable, I hand him the form.
He sprinkles a good amount of flour into it, then taps and turns the form, until the flour is in every of the tiny nooks.
“Okay, I’m going to press the dough in there,” he explains, nodding towards the string. “I’ll hold it in place while you cut through the dough by placing the string on the wooden block and pulling it right through the dough.”
“Yes, chef.” I salute, earning myself an amused head-shake, and cut some string off.
The first attempt is a disaster. I can’t get a good grip on the string without cutting off blood circulation in at least one of my fingertips, so we switch for the second try. I keep my hand flat on the dough and keep the form in place, while he pulls the string through the dough. And we almost make it. Then I lose my grip on the form, and it almost flies off the counter.
“Okay.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “Almost. We’re getting there.”
This time, he helps me keep the form steady by pressing his thumbs against the sides.
“What the—?” His gaze suddenly drops to his calf. “Why are you climbing up my leg?”
“Jenna,” I scold, knowing it’s futile with this cat. She’s an adorable, tiny people-climber. And it appears she’s now trying to climb the mountain that is Caleb.
“I can’t blame her, to be honest,” I add. An adorable pink creeps into his cheeks. “Just ignore her.” He looks down at her one more time before he continues carefully pulling the string through the dough.
“Yes!” I smile when he makes it through and I can take the top of the dough right off.
“Don’t celebrate too early,” he mumbles, putting the string aside. “Turn the form around. I wonder if it will come out.”
