The Christmas Theory

Boughs So Green

After a mere ten minutes spent pretend-shopping for a tree, Noah's dream of ticking off every item on our bucket list lost out to another one.

Breakfast.

In the blink of an eye, I'd lost all three of my friends to the food trucks being set up in between the craft market and the petting zoo. I'd barely finished shouting out my coffee order before they'd retreated from the sea of evergreens and towards the red barn. And, then, it was me doing most of the pretend-shopping. 

Not that I was really complaining about it. The entire ranch and its rows of pines and firs screamed 'Hallmark movie', and after my fair share of Christmas' on the coast, I firmly believed that I was overdue for the Hallmark experience.

I was rather enjoying having some time to myself, anyway. Time to wander silently through the trees, to get lost in the wintry atmosphere, to bask in the smell of peppermint that wafted over from the hot cocoa stall. It was nice to indulge in some alone-time after having so little of it over the last couple of days.

It was nice, at least, until a sudden yelp from the hayride claimed every ounce of my attention.

The branches of a fir cradled me like a shield as I watched the resulting exchange from across the way. A young boy with round, rosy cheeks and glasses bigger than his face had tripped on the last step down from the wagon, then stumbled onto the thick grass below. I would have gone over to see if he was okay, of course, if several other guests hadn't already done the same.

But it wasn't just any of their blurry faces that I was concerned with.

It was one face in particular that I found myself tracing from afar. One person who I couldn't seem to tear my defiant gaze from. Ironically, it was the same person who I was trying my hardest to forget, if only for a measly minute or two.

James' expression was so soft, so tender, as he dusted the boy off and helped him to his feet. I was too far away to hear what he said, but not far enough to miss the way whatever it was turned the boy's tears into laughter quicker than he'd fallen over in the first place.

Naturally. Mothers, dogs, stepfathers, kids—James had a way with them all.

A featherlight fluttering roused in my stomach. I shook myself off as if that would make it go away. Honestly, I've never really been a fan of small children. So why was watching James take care of one making me tingle with the urge to carry his?

I groaned. I audibly groaned. Because I was disgusted with myself. I was a sickening, infatuated, yearning mess.

Such a mess that the irony of pining in pine trees was totally lost on me.

I thought that getting off that bus and into the fresh, open air would clear my mind of the blond infiltrating every inch of it. But, no, apparently not. Apparently, nothing could help me when it came to my crush on James.