Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 52062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52062 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 174(@300wpm)
We’re half an hour from the lodge when a sign for a Christmas tree farm catches my eye.
"Alexei, pull over."
He doesn't hesitate and guides the SUV off the road and along the driveway leading to the farm. The tires crunch against packed snow as we come to a stop.
Dmitri looks at me like I've lost my mind. "What are we doing here?"
I'm already opening the door, stepping out into the cold. "Wait here."
The tree farm is mostly bare. What's left are scraggly things, half-dead and sad. A man in overalls and a heavy coat emerges from a small shed, eyeing me with the wariness of someone who knows trouble when he sees it.
"Help you?" he asks.
"I need a tree."
He gestures to what remains. "That's all I got left. Two days before Christmas, you know. The good ones went weeks ago."
I scan the pitiful selection and shake my head. These won't do. Not for her.
"Thanks anyway," I say, already turning back to the SUV.
Dmitri's watching me with barely contained amusement as I climb back in. "Strike out?"
"Drive," I tell Alexei.
We continue up the mountain road, and I find myself scanning the forest on either side. Looking for what, I'm not entirely sure, until I see it.
About twenty feet off the road, standing proud among its lesser brothers, is a Douglas fir. Full branches. Symmetrical. Perfect.
"Stop the car."
Alexei pulls over again, and this time both he and Dmitri follow me out. The three of us stand at the edge of the road, looking at my prize.
"Nikolai," Dmitri starts, but I'm already walking to the trunk.
Alexei pops it open without being asked. Inside, among the usual assortment of things we might need, is a carefully organized collection of tools.
"You have a saw?" I ask.
Alexei reaches past the crowbar and the bolt cutters and pulls out a folding saw. "Never know when you might need to carve something up."
I take it from him with a nod of approval.
I shrug off my suit jacket and hand it to Dmitri. He takes it with a raised eyebrow but says nothing.
The snow is deeper here, untouched and pristine. My dress shoes sink into it with each step, but I don't care. I'm focused on the tree. On making my wife happy.
Saw in hand, I kneel in the snow and find the right angle. The first cut bites into the trunk with a satisfying crunch. Then another. And another.
Behind me, I hear Dmitri's low chuckle. "This is insane."
"Probably," I grunt, working the saw back and forth. "But you know what they say, happy wife, happy life."
“Then it better be a magical tree."
I don't answer. Just keep sawing.
Alexei appears at my side, and together we guide it as it starts to tip. It falls with a soft whump into the snow, sending up a cloud of white powder that catches the sunlight like diamonds.
"We'll need the rope," I tell Alexei.
He's already retrieving it from the trunk. Between the three of us, we manage to haul the tree back to the SUV and lash it to the roof rack.
Dmitri hands me my suit jacket and I brush the snow off before shrugging it back on. My hands are freezing, but I barely notice.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Nikolai," he says.
"I always do."
"This is different."
Maybe it is. Maybe I'm losing my edge, letting a woman with big brown eyes and a sharp tongue get under my skin in ways that could prove costly.
But as we climb back into the SUV and Alexei pulls onto the road, the tree secure above us, I find I don't care.
If Holly wants a tree.
She's going to get a goddamn tree.
15
HOLLY
"No, no, dorogaya," Katya says, her flour-dusted hands guiding mine. "You must fold, not stir. See? Like this. Gentle. Gentle.”
I laugh and try again, this time folding the rich, buttery mixture the way she showed me. We're making a cake, and the kitchen smells like heaven. Like warm honey and butter, all mixed together with the lingering scent of the Christmas cookies we baked earlier.
The counter is covered in our creations. Gingerbread stars dusted with powdered sugar. Chocolate crinkle cookies that look like they're covered in snow. Delicate butter cookies shaped like snowflakes. And now, this honey cake that Katya promises will be the crowning glory of our day's work.
"Perfect," Katya says, watching me fold the last bit of flour into the mixture. "You are a natural baker, I think."
"I don't know about that," I say, but I'm smiling.
I haven’t seen Nikolai since last night.
When I came down for breakfast, he was already gone, and Katya said he left early because he had business out of town.
Part of me is relieved he’s gone. But the other part of me, the one that is fired up and pissed at him for what he’s done, wants him here so I can yell at him some more.