"What the heck is that?"

"My surprise," Bridge exclaims, excitement bubbling, contagious.

I grin, suddenly recognizing where I've seen that box before. "You brought that thing all the way to New York?"

She nods gleefully.

"What?" Ollie asks.

But it's too late, Bridge and I are both reaching for the lid, ripping it off, revealing the bright white artificial pine underneath. An uncontrollable smile widens my lips and I realize I'm giggling as I dig through the contents, pulling out tinsel and garlands and strands upon strands of lights.

"What in god's name is that?" Ollie asks from over my shoulder, disgust heavy.

"Our Christmas tree!" Bridge chirps.

Ollie just shakes his head. "Christmas trees should be green. And real. No pine smell, no Christmas tree."

"Lighten up," Bridge says, rolling her eyes. "Skye and I got this two years ago. The theater kids were going to throw everything away since the university decided to cut any shows that weren't secular, so we grabbed all the Christmas gear they had."

"Yeah, Bridge was working as a set designer, so they let her take everything. And then we threw an amazing holiday party—the white tree was a hit. Everyone said we were so vintage."

"More like cheap," Ollie mutters.

Bridge and I both shake our heads, smiling to each other. And for a second, life seems to go back to normal. Three amigos just like Bridge is always saying.

"Okay, Ollie put the tree together. Skye, start unraveling the lights. I'll supply the tunes."

"Why do I have to put this atrocity together?" Ollie asks, crossing his arms. But even he can't hide the little smile pulling at his lips.

Bridge hands him the base of the tree. "Because you're a pain in my ass. Just do it."

He crouches down, separating the many individual branches by size, unfurling the wires, and shaking his head. "How old is this thing? Don't they have fold out ones now? You know, pull a crank and voila—Christmas tree."

I nudge his shoulder with my hip. "What's the fun in that?"

He meets my gaze and winks. I try to ignore the sparkler bursting to life in my chest, sending a wave of thrills down my arms.

Concentrating on the lights proves to be a welcome distraction, and I lose myself in weaving through knots, pulling wires through loops, undoing the web. Christmas music fills the apartment and soon enough the smell of sugar cookies drifts to my nose. Bridge has a weakness for cookie decorating. I shake my head as the sweet scent grows stronger—how in the world did she sneak all of this stuff in here without my realizing?

"Almost ready with the lights?" Ollie asks, catching me off guard.

I flinch, eyes lifting from my lap to find the tree perfectly constructed and ready to be decorated. It takes up about a third of our living room, but I don't care. Holiday cheer has wiggled its way into my heart, and it sort of makes everything seem okay. "Sure."

I walk over, handing Ollie the strand of lights I just neatly looped around my arm—which really, this is the first time my cast has come in handy. But that thought vanishes as our fingers graze. My heart flips, stilling my breath, as he takes the strand from my hold.

"Do you want to help?" he murmurs.

I nod.

We stand on opposite sides of the tree, and for the next few minutes, only the soft strain of caroling fills the room. Ollie and I pass the lights back and forth, fingers touching, igniting sparks along my skin each time. We finish one strand, add another. And then we move to the rest of the room, using clear tape to line the walls, finding one of those icicle strands for the space above the television.

"So, how was your Thanksgiving?" he finally asks, breaking the silence.

I shrug. "Good." But my mouth has suddenly run dry. "We ate at your house. It was really nice to see your parents. They missed you." Did I miss him too?

I push the question away.

Ollie lifts the corner of his lip somewhat sadly. "Yeah, the one downside to being a chef. Holidays are sort of the busiest time of the year for work."

"Do you think you'll be able to go home for Christmas?"

He nods. "Yeah, I hope so."

"What'd you do here? All by yourself?" And then I wince, because I didn’t mean to make that sound so pitiful, but it sort of does.

"Honestly? Sleep." He releases a soft laugh. "And think. I did a lot of thinking."

"No Aubrey?" I ask, not really sure why.

"Uh, no," he murmurs. "No, I ended things with her. There just wasn't that spark, you know?"

I don't reply.

Because of course, I know. And that's the whole problem.

I place tape over the last inch of the lights, trying to ignore the questions springing to life in the back of my thoughts. Ollie presses his fingers over mine, helping to push the tape down. The warmth from his skin radiates. Familiar. On fire.

A spark.

And I can't help it. I glance up. Maybe it's the Christmas colors blinking all around us, but his eyes have never seemed so green before, so rich.

He licks his lips.

Neither of us moves.

And I can't help but notice that the song playing in the background has shifted to Mariah Carey's Christmas classic, "All I Want For Christmas Is You". And if I wasn't entranced by the white lights flickering in Ollie's eyes, I might just roll my own with an exasperated sigh. I mean, the world is totally against me.

"You almost done in there? Cookies are about to go in the oven," Bridge calls from the kitchen.

I step back, snatching my fingers from beneath his. "Yeah!"

Bridge pokes her head through the doorway, grinning as she scans the room. "A winter wonderland!"

I try to copy her attitude, but my heart is pounding and I don't know where to look, where to go, what to do. In the end, I kneel over the box of decorations, pulling ornaments to hang on the tree, silent once more. Ollie helps. But the tension that surrounded us before Thanksgiving has returned, and I'm even more acutely aware of his every move than I was before. We're dancing around each other, afraid to get too close—two magnets working on opposite charges, with a certain amount of space constantly between us. While I'm standing by the tree, Ollie waits with the box of ornaments. When I'm done, we switch, maneuvering around the small space with self-conscious chuckles, little sighs that do nothing but hang in the air around us, making it thicker.

And then Ollie breaks the pattern.

"What's this?" he asks, walking to the tree, standing beside me. I look at his hand. My heart skips a beat.

"Mistletoe," I whisper. Because of course, he would find the mistletoe—the one single strand in a huge box of other Christmas decorations. Just my freaking luck. Then to fill the lingering silence, I add, "Bridge and I hung it over the doorway when we had that party."

He nods, runs a hand through his hair, fussing it up perfectly. And then he walks over to our door, hanging the strand above the frame. "Well?"

"Wh-what?" I stumble over the words.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes a clear turquoise once more. Piercing. "Tape?"

"Oh, right." I flinch, remembering the tape dispenser in my pocket. I rip off a piece and walk over, handing it to him.

But Ollie doesn’t take it.

He waits. Watches.

I reach up, careful to avoid touching him as I secure the mistletoe to the door, just barely able to reach the height. And then even though I know I shouldn't, I shift my eyes, gliding ever so slightly from the uncomplicated view of the door to the very complicated view of Ollie's burning expression.