Page 18 of Checking It Twice
Chapter Eight
Pine and Possibilities
Clare
Hartley Christmas Tree Farm looks like the set of a Hallmark movie. Rows upon rows of evergreens stretch across rolling hills dusted with fresh snow, their branches heavy with white powder that catches the late afternoon sun like glitter. The air smells like pine and wood smoke from the warming hut, where families huddle around with hot chocolate and the kind of Christmas magic I’d forgotten existed.
I’m standing at the edge of it all, watching the Drake family scatter across the lot like they’re conquering territory, and I can’t decide if I want to laugh or run.
“You look terrified,” Mitch says, appearing beside me with two steaming cups of cocoa. He’s wearing a dark wool coat that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad, a gray beanie pulled low over his hair, and that easy smile that probably got him out of detention his entire high school career.
“I’m not terrified. I’m…” I search for the right word. “Observing.”
“Observing what?”
“The way your family operates. It’s like watching a very organized militia deploy for battle.”
He follows my gaze to where Evan is measuring trees with the seriousness of someone planning military strategy, while Maddie argues with Karen about the merits of Fraser Fir versus Noble Fir. The kids are racing between the rows, shrieking withlaughter, and his dad is examining saws like he’s choosing a weapon.
“We take Christmas seriously in the Drake household,” Mitch admits.
“I can see that.” I wrap my hands around the warm mug, grateful for something to do with my fidgeting fingers. “In my family, Christmas tree shopping consisted of my mom buying whatever fake tree was on sale at Target and my dad complaining that even the fake ones shed.”
“That’s depressing as hell.”
“That’s reality.” I take a sip of cocoa and immediately burn my tongue. Perfect. Nothing says ‘sophisticated fake girlfriend’ like minor self-injury.
Mitch notices my wince. Without a word, he takes my cup and blows gently across the surface before handing it back. The gesture is so casual, so instinctive, that it hits me harder than it should.
This is what it would be like, I realize. If this were real. If I were someone who got taken care of instead of doing all the caretaking myself.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Mitch! Clare! Get over here!” Karen’s voice carries across the farm with the authority of a general commanding troops. “We need your opinions!”
Mitch extends his hand to me, and I stare at it for a moment. His fingers are long, strong, probably soft despite the calluses Iknow he has from hockey. Taking his hand means committing to this performance, stepping deeper into this fantasy of belonging somewhere.
I slide my palm against his.
The fit is perfect. Too perfect. His fingers curl around mine with just the right amount of pressure, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a way that sends heat racing up my arm. He starts walking, tugging me gently along, and I let myself be led into the chaos.
“For warmth,” he says quietly, not looking at me.
“Right. For warmth.”
Except it’s not that cold, and we both know it.
The Drake family has gathered around a cluster of Fraser Firs that all look identical to my untrained eye. Karen is gesturing enthusiastically at one that’s at least eight feet tall, while Tom stands with his arms crossed, studying it like it might attack.
“This one’s perfect,” Karen declares. “Full branches, good color, excellent needle retention.”
“It’s too big,” Tom says.
“There’s no such thing as too big when it comes to Christmas trees,” Maddie chimes in. “Go big or go home.”
“We are home,” Evan points out. “And that thing won’t fit through the front door.”
