Santa’s Tree Workshop is gigantic, far larger than any of the corner lot tree stands we have in LA. There’s a small outpost called Santa Land where kids line up to sit with a jolly-looking Santa. There are booths where you can buy festive knit hats, toy trains, even a small fenced area where you can pet a reindeer. This is more than tree shopping; this is a holiday emporium of everything tinsel-laced and candy-cane coated.
I pull Tate over to the reindeer. The majestic creature stands behind the fence, munching a pile of hay, and I lean against the fence and gently extend my fingers to feel his woolly coat. He blows hot air across my hand and licks me with his long tongue.
“Hey,” Tate says beside me, stroking the reindeer’s mane. “This girl’s taken.”
I smile and pull my hand away. The reindeer drops his head back to the hay.
“He’s cute.” I lean against Tate, pressing my forehead into his chest. Breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat rise beneath his coat, makes my body flood with a warmth that the cold cannot reach. Tate seems so different here—he’s not worried about the paparazzi trailing him wherever he goes, and so far, no fans have recognized him. Maybe because no one expects Tate Collins to be strolling through a Christmas fantasyland in Telluride, Colorado. But it also feels like more than that. Like there are burdens that weigh on him in LA, but he’s managed to leave them behind.
“Shall we start our search for the perfect tree?” Tate asks into my hair.
I nod and pull away. But he keeps his hand laced in mine.
“This contest is rigged, you know,” Tate murmurs, still not looking at me. Some of the hurt and vulnerability from yesterday returns to his face. “My father thinks he knows what’s best—no exceptions.”
“Then let’s just have fun,” I suggest, and duck around the side of the reindeer’s pen, our bodies hidden by the wood siding of a shed.
“I can work with that.” Tate surprises me by pinning me tightly against the wooden wall. His body against mine, his hands around my wrists, his breath hot against my neck make me feel bold. I smile up at him, silently daring him to kiss me.
His gaze drops to my lips and lingers there, just before he places his mouth on mine. I kiss him back fiercely, my wrists bound by his fingers, his body caging me in.
I want more.
He breaks away to kiss along my jaw, my neck. His mouth is hot, his teeth nibbling on my skin. When he lifts his head to look at me, I see the dark need in his gaze. Our eyes remain locked as he kisses me. A simple kiss, a mere brush of lips on lips. Again.
And again.
Until our eyes close at the same time and our tongues meet, his hand gripping my hips. I reach for the zipper on his coat and undo it. He moans against my lips and a thrill goes through me.
In this terrifying, wondrous, overwhelming moment, I would let him do anything.
Anything at all.
He moans again, then breaks the kiss. “What are you doing to me?” he asks, sounding tortured. His face is stark and serious, his lips swollen and damp from our kisses.
“I think you’ve got it backward,” I whisper, breathing deeply. I can’t believe the way Tate makes me feel—like I’m being drawn to him by some invisible thread. I’ve always pictured myself trudging up a steep hill, forcing myself forward under the weight of school and work and my own impossible expectations. With Tate, I feel light. I feel free.
He doesn’t say anything more, just shakes his head, then pulls me deep into the rows of trees, an endless sea of choices. We drag out several, examining them more closely.
“Why did you ever leave Colorado?” I ask, finally breaking the silence as he wedges himself back between a cluster of trees, certain he sees the perfect one tucked in the back.
“I always knew I would. I wanted to be a musician since I was young.”
“But you left without your parents?”
“Sort of. I won a singing competition in Denver when I was fifteen. They flew me out to LA so I could perform in front of a record exec. He signed me on the spot.”
“And?” I prompt.
“And...everything changed. I went on tour, I made two records that both went platinum within a year. It happened so fast I didn’t really have time to think about what was happening.”
“And your parents didn’t move with you to LA?”
“They did at first. Traveling back and forth between here and there. But as things got crazy, as I got more...well-known, they started trying to tell me how to live my life. Maybe they were right, but I didn’t want to listen.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Tate steps out from the crush of tree limbs, bringing with him the thick scent of fresh pine needles. “I did things I wish I could take back,” he says more seriously now. “But I’m not that person anymore, Charlotte. I want you to know that.”