Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135378 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
“Favorite time of year?” Sophie murmurs, eyeing the twisted garland of faux pine tree with lights and a sprinkling of pinecones and red berries twisted around the staircase railing.
I nod. “My mom’s favorite holiday.”
“Not yours?”
“Mine’s Halloween,” I tell her.
She nods. “So you didn’t just throw the party to see a bunch of girls in skimpy costumes.”
I crack a smile. “I don’t need to throw a party for that. If I want a bunch of girls at my house in skimpy costumes, I can just tell them to show up that way, and they will.”
I can’t help the faintest swell of pleasure when her nose wrinkles up as if she finds the idea of my having a bunch of scantily clad girls over distasteful.
“What about you?” I ask. “What’s your favorite holiday?”
Her gaze drifts to the pine tree garland hanging over the arch we’re about to walk under. “I like Christmas. I’d say Thanksgiving is my favorite, though.”
I cock a brow. “Thanksgiving? Really?”
She nods.
“I wouldn’t think you’d like that one. Big family gathering, lots of people. You must really like turkey.”
She cracks a smile. “That’s not how we do Thanksgiving at my house. We don’t have a big gathering at all. When my mom’s dating someone, she might invite him and any kids he might have over, but usually it’s just the guy. One time, one of her boyfriends brought his twelve-year-old son—I was around the same age—and he was cool. He didn’t like to talk. He liked to sketch. We snuck out back while our parents were being gross together, went for a nice walk, and sketched the pretty fall trees.”
“That sounds pretty chill.”
She nods. “Thanksgiving is usually a pretty chill holiday for us. We make pumpkin pie and homemade applesauce. We make a big batch and freeze a bunch beforehand. It was my grandma’s recipe. Then on Thanksgiving Day, we make a turkey with all the typical holiday foods. We make a big batch of yummy dinner rolls and snack on them all night while we watch Christmas movies. We watch the Thanksgiving Day Parade in the morning and do some online shopping for Christmas presents in the afternoon, and then, after a nice relaxing day, we drag the tree box out of the attic and put up our Christmas tree.”
“Not a real tree person?”
She shakes her head. “I’d like to be. I know buying real Christmas trees is actually better for the environment—especially when you recycle them after the holiday—but, unfortunately, buying a tree from a tree farm every year isn’t in the budget right now. We’ve been using the same artificial tree since my mom got it on clearance in July when I was ten years old. We have a container of those scent sticks to hang in it, so we still get the pine smell.”
“Nah, that’s an artificial smell. Gotta have the real thing. My mom loves Christmas trees. She practically butchers half a forest for all the trees she puts up at Christmas. None of them are up yet, but as soon as she can get away with it, she’ll have trees up and decked out with different monochromatic decor. Red, silver, gold, blue; every tree gets a different color scheme.”
Sophie smiles faintly. “How many trees does a person need?”
“To be fair, we have a lot of rooms.”
“Well, I hope you recycle them after you take all the tinsel and stuff off. Christmas trees have lots of uses once we’re done using them for the holiday season. They can help fisheries, be used to rebuild sand dunes and riverbanks, or they can just be chopped up and used as mulch.”
To be honest, I have no idea what happens to our trees after Christmas. “You’d have to ask the housekeeper,” I tell her.
She shoots me a look to let me know she is not impressed. “I will,” she says primly. “If you’re going to kidnap me, then I’m going to make sure you’re disposing of your Christmas trees responsibly.”
I smirk. “That seems like a fair trade-off.”
“Sure, for you,” she murmurs, but her voice lowers as we enter a room where we aren’t the only occupants.
In the main living area, we find the lights dimmed and my mom and dad on the couch in front of the fire.
Mom is curled up next to Dad with his hand on her waist. She pops up when she realizes I’m home, then straightens a little more when she sees I brought a guest.
“Richard, honey, Silvan has a friend with him,” she says, trying to peel his hand off her waist.
Dad’s hand doesn’t budge. He’s enjoying a nice cognac and cuddling with his wife, and I’m damn sure not going to interrupt it. At her behest, he glances over at us. “So I see.”
“Mom, Dad, this is Sophie. She’ll be organizing our Christmas tree disposal this year.”