A Very Grumpy Lumberjack Christmas

4. Noel

4

NOEL

W hy is he so damn…grumpy?

It’s not as if I intentionally drove into a ditch in front of his place.

God knows, I would have rather hit a damn tree anywhere than end up stuck where I am now and have to deal with him.

The Mistletoe Grinch has certainly shown his true color today.

Green.

And not the beautiful evergreen I used to get lost in, like the woods surrounding us.

A sickly, putrid one filled with all the things his namesake is known for.

Luke drags the rental car from the embankment, pulling it out into the middle of the road, then tosses the massive truck into park and climbs down from the cab.

And despite not wanting to notice, he looks every bit as sexy as the day I left.

Lies.

He’s even sexier than he was back then and just as crazy when it comes to waltzing around outside in almost nothing during the winter. The lunatic still walks around in an unbuttoned cutoff shirt with snow flying around us as if it isn’t literally freezing outside.

Back then, he always claimed he got so hot working that he didn’t even feel the cold. And it never seemed to bother him. Even after hours outside in this type of weather, he would come in and snuggle up with me—radiating that same scalding heat he had any other time of year while I was freezing even indoors.

Now, the chilliest thing is his attitude and the reception I’ve received.

He isn’t the same twenty-two-year-old man he was when I left—emotionally or physically.

And despite being annoyed with his attitude, I can’t help but notice how fluidly he moves. How confident he is in every step. The way his roped, thick muscles bulge with every movement.

His arms…

His shoulders…

His chest…

That perfect eight-pack of chiseled abs…

They all offer very real evidence of what he does day in and day out up here on the farm.

Even in the off-season, Luke never stopped.

He was always out on the mountain, tending to the trees and property. And not merely for Christmas, but all the types they farm and sell. Planting and moving things, felling trees, and preparing the firewood the Crisps offer year-round as part of their business. Doing anything and everything he can to keep the farm going.

And his body is a temple to that manual labor.

I can’t tear my eyes from him as he bends to detach the hook. The way he moves…the way he works with his rough, calloused hands that I know the feel of against my skin so damn well .

Christ, that’s not going to help the dreams I still have about the man…

That hard work has done him good.

At least physically.

Mentally, this Luke is every bit the grumpy, insufferable grinch everyone says he has become.

From the minute I climbed out of the car, he was looking for a fight. One I didn’t want to have with him. Not when our last still lives in my head, as if it happened only yesterday instead of almost a decade ago.

That look on his face.

His words.

The pain slicing through my chest…

I reach up and rub at it, shivering as the blustery wind whips around me.

Luke allows the cable to roll back up into the winch without another word or glance in my direction. As if I’m not standing right here, wishing he would somehow morph and become the man I knew.

That would be a true Christmas miracle.

While I’m a firm believer in the magic of the season and what it’s capable of, turning Luke Crisp, the Mistletoe Grinch, back into the sweet, kind, Christmas-loving man I once knew, seems out of grasp, even for the most potent woo.

Evidenced by the scowl on his lips as he finishes at the front of the truck, stalks back to the cab, and starts to climb in without even acknowledging me again.

I start to call out to him, to thank him for his help, despite the unpleasantness he’s displayed, but before I can, he stops, standing halfway out of the door.

He finally looks over at me next to the spot where I went into the ditch. His green eyes hold none of the warmth they once did—only bitterness that instantly washes away any lingering pleasant memories of the man I once loved. “Be more careful.”

That ass!

I open my mouth to argue again that I was being careful, and it was that dang rabbit that caused me to slide off the road, but before I can get a word out, Luke slams the truck door and tears off up the driveway toward the farm, leaving me shaking and trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

Apparently, his promise to follow me home was empty.

Like so many of the ones he made me.

Luke Crisp has changed.

It makes the fact that I’ve stayed away from him for so long seem far more justified than it felt before I ended up in that ditch. And now, I need to put as much distance between that man and me as possible.

I march over to the car, checking it for any damage, but thankfully, there wasn’t anything to hit when I spun out.

Damn rabbit…

Damn Luke…

The entire incident has left me rattled, and I climb inside and fire up the engine, letting the warming air blow over me and ease some of the tension in my body created both by the frigid weather and the chilly reception Luke just gave me.

God knows I would’ve rather walked the two miles home and called a tow truck from there than ask for his help.

I don’t want to be indebted to him.

I don’t want to have any reason to think about him ever again.

All I want is to spend Christmas with Mom, to try to find a way to make it through and maybe find some joy even without Dad.

“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” comes on my playlist, and I start to tear up again as I pull away from the farm and head up the mountain on tires not designed for this kind of weather.

This song always gets me right in the feels, but this year, it has a deeper meaning. One that hits at the very reason I needed to come home so badly.

After two agonizingly slow miles up the hill that definitely doesn’t want me to make it to the top, our bright-red gingerbread house-shaped mailbox appears at the crest, and I grin.

At least some things haven’t changed.

Except for the better.

Mom has repainted it since I was home this summer for Dad’s funeral.

The reds look even brighter.

The greens more vibrant and not that grinchy green that seemed to have overtaken Luke’s eyes.

Don’t think about him anymore.

If I let myself dwell on what a twat he was, I won’t be able to enjoy seeing Mom and being home. And I don’t need to bring a sour mood through that door when things already feel so heavy.

I turn down the driveway and make my way up to the old farmhouse that’s been in Dad’s family for one hundred and fifty years. The front door flies open before I can even get the car in park, and Mom barrels out onto the wrap-around porch in her boots, clutching the phone in her hand.

The second I step out of the car, she’s on me with wide, worried blue eyes that match mine. “Where were you? You should have been home an hour ago. I was so worried.”

She throws her arms around me, and I return her hug, finally letting out the sob I’ve been struggling to hold back the closer and closer I got to home.

“I had a little run-in with a rabbit.”

Pulling back, she furrows her brow. “What?”

I motion toward the house. “Let’s get inside where it’s warm. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Maybe leaving a few things out…

Like the fact that I was—possibly—not completely focused on the road in front of me when that rabbit darted out.

Not that it would have necessarily changed things if I hadn’t been scanning the Crisps’ property for something I shouldn’t have been…but still.

Mom doesn’t need all those gritty details.

I grab my single suitcase and parka from the backseat and nudge the door closed. A cold wind blasts biting flakes against my face, and Mom wraps her arm around me as we make our way up to the porch and in through the front door that still creaks the same way it did when I was a kid.

Dad always refused to fix it.

He said it helped him know when I was sneaking out to meet Luke—or coming back in from doing just that.

Of course, he knew I used my window trellis after he revealed his master plan with the front door, but he never said so or made any attempts to remove it from that side of the house.

Mostly because they loved Luke as much as I did back then.

The house still smells the same—like gingerbread and cinnamon and home—but something is missing. That “warm hug” feeling that always greeted me when I stepped inside these walls is somehow incomplete.

Something that can’t be “fixed.”

I drop my bag and inhale deeply, trying to brush away the uneasiness of being home this time of year without Dad. “Smells great in here, Mom.”

She smiles and kicks off her boots, then makes her way down the hallway toward the living room and kitchen. “I just made an apple pie and gingerbread cookies.”

My mouth waters, but before I follow her, I scan the foyer and frown.

Instead of the glittery garland that typically wraps around the banister all the way to the top of the stairs, the wood stands starkly bare.

No bright-red bow on the newel post.

No family Christmas photos on the small table tucked against the staircase.

Nothing Mom and Dad usually do to decorate the space you first walk into.

I toe-off my UGGs and cautiously follow Mom through to the kitchen and attached living room, where our Christmas tree usually dominates the corner.

This year, nothing but a barren space greets me.

Not a single hint of the holiday in the house—save for the scents wafting from behind me.

My heart sinks.

I turn back toward where she stands at the stove. “Mom?”

“What, dear?”

“You didn’t decorate or get a tree?”

Her shoulders stiffen, her entire body tensing as she pauses in moving the cookies off the cooling tray and into the jar that’s always sat on the counter. She clears her throat. “I-I…I just couldn’t do it without him.”

The confession I understand all too well makes tears fill my eyes.

I approach her, grasp her shoulder, and turn her to face me to find wet streaks down her cheeks. “It’s okay. We can do it together. Throw on Mannheim Steamroller like we always used to…”

The thought of having the house like this—so devoid of all the things Dad loved so much—doesn’t feel right. As painful as it might be to have to go on without him, this is still Christmas.

Mistletoe’s holiday.

His holiday.

He wouldn’t want us to spend it depressed and without all the beautiful things that always make the house come alive.

Never.

Christmas is about joy.

Not this stagnant, empty feeling.

I pull out of her hold and squeeze her shoulders. “Where is Dad’s box?”

She knows exactly what I’m asking about, and the corners of her lips twitch. “In his office. Everything else is in the basement.”

But Dad would never put “his” box in the basement with the rest of the holiday décor. Not when it holds his most cherished items—the things he kept like trophies and displayed as such.

“I’ll go get it.”

Mom sighs, probably feeling the same heaviness I do. “If we’re doing this, we’re going to need some eggnog…”

Preferably spiked.

If Dad were here, it would be.

I move to the front of the house off the foyer, where Dad’s office door stands closed, like I left it when I was here for his funeral.

Has Mom even been in here since then?

My hand shakes slightly as I twist the knob and nudge it open. The scent of his aftershave hits me so hard I have to cover my mouth to prevent Mom from hearing my sob. But I refuse to allow her to see me break down again.

He wouldn’t want that.

I keep reminding myself of those words as I approach “ the box” placed carefully in the corner and lift it into my arms.

Growing up, it always felt so big, so heavy. Today, it somehow feels even heavier, like it carries all our Christmas happiness inside one small package.

Mom waits in the living room with two mugs in hand and raises them slightly. “I have the eggnog.”

I raise a brow. “The good kind?”

She grins as I set down the box and take the mug from her. “Is there any other kind acceptable in this house?”

Dad’s famous words each year when we got ready to decorate the house and tree make me grin and release a little of the sorrow that had threatened to drag me under in his office.

I take a sip of the boozy, creamy treat and moan. “That’s delicious.”

Mom nods and does the same. “It really is. He was right about it needing that little extra something, wasn’t he?”

“He was right about most things…” I scan the living room, my gaze landing on the fireplace mantle. “And he would insist that we start the evening by putting out the nutcracker.”

Giggling, Mom sets her mug on the end table. “He absolutely would.” She kneels beside the box and pulls off the lid. “Nutsack was always his top priority.”

I burst out laughing and set down my drink to join her as she moves the tissue paper to reveal the few precious items settled inside. “He did love Nutsack…”

And who wouldn’t?

Affectionately named due to the large, red, Santa-style bag he carries to store your nuts in before breaking them open, the twenty-four-inch, hand-carved nutcracker has been the center of Dad’s holiday decorating—and bad jokes—since Mom bought it for him nearly twenty years ago.

I lift him from the box and release a little sigh-laugh. “God, this thing is ugly.”

Mom playfully slaps my shoulder. “Hey, don’t disparage Nutsack.”

Pushing to my feet, I maneuver the lever on the back to ensure his gaping mouth is still working properly. “I would never do that.” Satisfied he is perfectly intact, I take him to his place of honor in the center of the mantle. “Don’t forget to fill his sack tonight.”

Her laughter draws me back toward where she squats beside the box. “I won’t forget. So, weren’t you going to tell me about a rabbit?”

“Oh…” I roll my eyes. “It darted across the road in front of me. Guess where?”

She raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know. When we talked, you were in town already, so…” she trails off, her eyes widening. “No.”

I nod. “Right in front of the farm, and guess who came to my rescue?”

“Oh, Noel.” She presses her lips together and draws my hands into hers. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

That should be easy to answer.

Just give her the facts.

But the whole thing felt so wrong .

It’s left me more shaken than I want to admit.

“He proved that you were right about how much he’s changed, Mom.” I release a sigh, remembering that look in his eyes. So much disdain and anger there. “The Luke I knew never would’ve been that…”

I can’t land on the right word for how he acted.

“That what?”

“That angry, that dismissive, that damn grinchy .”

Mom sighs. “I did warn you… ”

“You did. I just thought maybe…”—my chest tightens—“maybe he wouldn’t be that way with me.”

She squeezes my hands in hers. “I’m sorry, honey. When people change, it can be—”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” I force a smile, trying to put what happened today to the back of my mind so I can concentrate on filling this house with as much Christmas spirit as it can handle without exploding. “Let’s just get back to it.”

“Okay…” Mom releases my hands and reaches into the box. “What do you want to do with this, then?”

Shit.

Somehow, I forgot that Dad not only put his most cherished Christmas treasures in here but also mine.

I swallow thickly as Mom lifts the green globe with the hand-painted red sleigh, Santa, and reindeer flying over a snowy landscape. The elegant scrawl around the bottom still looks perfect after all these years.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night…

I shouldn’t love it so much—especially after today—but I still do.

My heart thunders against my chest, staring at it, remembering what it felt like when I opened it so many years ago.

All the love that surrounded the gift and the night I received it.

The pure, unadulterated joy that had overtaken me.

Now, my hands shake as I reach to take it from Mom…

But it slips from my trembling fingers and falls to the wood floor, shattering into a hundred pieces.