Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 96312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 482(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“No. More than the dollar store, but they’re on sale right now with a buy two, get one offer. And it’s more expensive to replace dead strands every year than to buy a good quality one from the jump.”
“I’m not driving to Sullivan Hardware in this weather. Do you do online ordering or anything? Home delivery?”
He grumbled again. “I’ll bring them out to you next time I’m out this way. It’s fine.”
“Answer the question, Sullivan. Do you offer online ordering?”
“Yes, okay? Jesus. SullivanHardwareLegacy dot com. But if I see an order from you, I’m ignoring it.”
We continued working together on the lights on the tree, then moved to the decorations. Occasionally, our hands would brush, or I’d catch him watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Throughout the entire process, we gave each other hell about our placement choices, our complete lack of good taste, and any other thing we could think of to exchange good-natured insults over.
“That ornament’s too heavy for that branch,” Maddox pointed out, reaching around me to relocate it. His chest pressed against my back for a moment, his breath warm on my neck.
“You’re just jealous because my side of the tree looks better,” I managed, trying to ignore how my skin tingled where he’d touched me.
“Your side looks like a department store display. No soul.”
“Better than your side looking like a five-year-old decorated it.”
His soft laugh rumbled through me. Our teasing gradually gave way to something more comfortable. Away from prying eyes and local gossip, Maddox seemed to relax slightly, his responses becoming less guarded, his rare smiles less grudging. “Christmas trees are supposed to look like five-year-olds decorated them.”
“Not in my family. We had professionals decorate them.”
“Oh.” Maddox turned off the camera since the tree was done. “What was it like for you, then? Holidays growing up in the Hayes household.”
The question caught me off guard.
We settled on opposite ends of the sofa, the fire crackling between us and the colorful, twinkling tree. The storm howled outside, making the cabin feel like our own private world. I’d found a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet, and we were each nursing a small glass in between bites of cheese and crackers from a welcome pack I’d found in the fridge.
“Picture-perfect,” I replied honestly. Something about the firelight and whiskey, the intimacy of being trapped together, made my usual deflections feel hollow. “Actually, that’s a lie.”
Maddox raised an eyebrow but waited silently. His patience unnerved me more than questions would have.
“They were… curated,” I admitted. “Everything matched the color scheme my mother chose that year. Professional tree decorators and gift wrappers. Family photos in coordinating outfits, everyone smiling like we meant it. No messes. Nothing unexpected or unsanctioned.” I traced the rim of my glass. “I made a paper chain for the tree when I was seven. My mother threw it away because it didn’t match.”
“Oof.”
I shrugged. “My mother felt strongly that my father’s insurance firm had an image to maintain. I guess we were extensions of that image. Nothing genuine allowed to spoil the aesthetic.”
“I guess it led naturally into being a style influencer?”
The question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. “Maybe. Maybe I wanted to control the image for once, instead of being controlled by it.” I took a sip of whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat. “What about your family? Before…”
I trailed off, not sure how to reference the loss of his parents. The photograph I’d seen on the internet when I’d looked up the local news story had been devastating.
Maddox’s eyes reflected the firelight as he gazed into his glass. “The opposite of yours. Chaotic. Loud. My dad insisted on cutting our own tree every year and making sure Maya and I knew how to use the axe and haul it ourselves. Mom baked enough cookies to feed half the town. The Sullivan Hardware Christmas Open House was an annual event—kind of still is, though smaller now.”
“That sounds…” I searched for the right word. “Nice,” I said lamely. “Really nice.”
“It was.” His voice softened with memory. “After the accident, Maya and I tried to keep as many traditions going as we could. For her sake, mostly. She was fourteen when it happened.”
The weight of his responsibilities suddenly seemed so clear—not just the business but becoming a parent to his sister at a young age, preserving their family legacy while his own grief was still fresh.
“That can’t have been easy,” I said quietly.
He shrugged, a gesture that carried more history and grief than words could express. “You do what you have to.”
Without thinking, I shifted closer on the couch. Not touching, but close enough to feel his warmth. “Is that why you’re so resistant to my world? The content creation and ‘manufacturing moments,’ as you call it.”