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7
Target or The North Pole
April
Iwas supposed to be confirming the other houses on the tour, making sure all the administrative details were buttoned up and locked down. And instead, I was decorating a tree named Christopher with the two cutest tiny girls I’d ever met and a former soccer star who had eyes capable of dropping a thousand pairs of panties in a single glance. I tried to tell myself I was just doing my job, warming Callan up so he'd say yes to having the show filmed inside his house. There was nothing more to it.
But when his gaze slid to mine, his strong hands on the wheel as he drove and something playful in the depths of those deep eyes, I had to suppress a shudder. If I let it, my body could convince my brain to do things—assuming Callan wanted to do things too—and that was exactly what had led me to this last stop on the road before career ruin.
It wouldn't happen again. No matter how soft his voice was when he spoke to his nieces. No matter how strong and sexy he looked when he hoisted Maddie to his shoulders and let her ride up there through the parking lot, her little hands steering him by the ears as he tried to hide his limp.
"This is my favorite store," Taylor said, her voice full of awe as we stepped inside Target. We’d been relieved to find that Singletree, though a small town, had a whole stretch of big box stores just outside the town proper—including a Target.
"It looks like an elf exploded in here," I said under my breath. Avoiding these types of stores around the holidays was a long-observed part of my anti-holiday efforts. They were always a complete immersion into holiday hell. You couldn't swing a dead reindeer without hitting something sparkly, glowing, or painted with cheerful sayings. I shuddered.
"Ex-pwo-dered?" Maddie asked, her eyes like saucers as she took in the enormous tree set up at the front of the store.
"Exploded," Taylor corrected. "But if an elf exploded, it'd be a pretty small mess. And there'd be guts." She looked up at me for acknowledgment of her logic.
I stifled another shudder that had nothing to do with elf guts or Callan and my misplaced attraction to him, and everything to do with the memories that came slamming back whenever I was forced into an over-decorated holiday location.
Callan was watching me with one side of his mouth quirked up. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Fine. Why?"
"You look like you might throw up," he said.
I shook out my shoulders and forced myself to take a couple deep breaths. I hadn't been around this much holiday crap in years. I had a sudden vision of the last time my own home had been decked out in stockings and garlands, and found that I did actually feel a little sick. "I'll be okay," I said. I swallowed hard and focused on the girls, on their glowing faces and the way they were bouncing on their feet and clenching their little hands as they looked around. "What do we need?" I asked.
Callan crossed his arms, coming to a stop in the ornament section at the back of the store. "More tree stuff, right?"
"Yes, yes!" the girls cried, clapping.
"And stuff for the house?"
"Yes!"
"I don't think I can get lights up on the outside of the house," he said thoughtfully, his dark eyes scanning the shelves of lights. "It's just too high. I'm not exactly in shape to be climbing on ladders." His eyes slid to me, and I noticed him glance away when my eyes met his, his cheeks reddening.
He was embarrassed, I realized, and I wanted to say something that would make him feel better. "No one would get up on a ladder at that house," I said. "You can hire that done, though."
Our eyes met, and words were exchanged between us without anything spoken. He knew I was trying to downplay his injury.
"Yeah. I'll do that, I guess. Or maybe we don't need lights outside—"
"Of course you do!" Taylor said sternly. "That's how Santa finds your house."
Callan nodded, his face softening again as he looked at his niece. "Right. Then I'll just hire someone."
"Good," Taylor said, looking relieved.
A moment later, Callan and I stood alone as the little girls ran down the aisle, making appreciative squeals as they explored all the decorating possibilities.
An hour and several hundred dollars later, we were back in the car, decorations stuffed into every available spare inch of space around us. I sat up front, a huge stuffed snowman on my lap. I was forced to put my arms around it to keep it from sliding over to the driver's side on turns. If Lynn could see this—April Hall hugging a snowman—she'd never believe it. Lynn had been tolerant of my anti-holiday stance. Luckily, Lynn was Jewish, and I had nothing at all against Hanukkah. Lynn's simple menorah and few blue decorations were always a welcome relief from the madness, which seemed to begin in early September these days.
"I think you're going the wrong way, Uncle Callan," Taylor said as Callan turned off the two-lane thoroughfare and toward the town square.
"I'll do the driving, thank you very much," Callan said, his voice carrying a jovial note. Then he turned to me and whispered, "did I make a wrong turn? I haven't gotten out and about much yet."
