After the Christmas Party(136)

“I’ve never met anyone who needs decorations more than you.” His frustration was obvious and rubbed her wrong.

“I think I’m offended by that comment.” She hadn’t asked him to take her shopping, had only agreed to dinner, not a stroll down holiday horror lane.

He raked his fingers through his hair, glanced around the aisle then faced her. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“Because there’s a good way to say someone needs plastic garland, fake glass balls and gaudy red velvet bows?”

“Precisely.” Obviously having whipped his frustration into control, he grinned and held up a box of horrid cheap plastic candy canes for her inspection. “What about these? Awesome, right?”

Hoping he’d take the hint, Trinity didn’t hide her boredom, just yawned. “If I pretended that my blood sugar was bottoming out, could we go and eat? Please?”

His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “Is your sugar dropping?”

She grimaced then shook her head. “No, but I could fake it.”

He touched her chin, tilted her face towards him. “As long as I have breath in my body, I don’t ever want you faking anything. I don’t want you to even have need of faking anything.” His lips twitched. “And I do mean anything.”

His fingers burned her skin, singeing her flesh with the feel of him. She stepped back before she did something stupid. Like say she wanted to buy mistletoe. Bunches and bunches of mistletoe. Barrels of it.

“Okay, deal,” she agreed, hoping he didn’t see how his touch had made her pulse race and her breath catch. “Feed me, so I don’t have to fake interest in shopping.”

He shook his head in obvious displeasure. “If you really want to go, we’ll go, but I’m disappointed that we didn’t find a single thing you wanted.”

She wanted him to touch her again, and in more places than just her chin. Did that count? It should because it was a really big want.

Then she saw it.

At the end of the aisle on a platform. A ten-and-a–half-foot blue spruce fake tree decorated with snowflakes and angels and silver ribbon that twined back and forth between the branches. A toy train set was wound around the base and a few packages assured hidden delights but were probably nothing more than empty promises. No matter. It was what was at the very top of the tree that had caught her eye.

A big shiny star that looked absolutely magical and just like the one she’d seen at her elementary school when she’d been five.

That Christmas she remembered well.

That Christmas she’d gotten caught up in the excitement of her classmates, in the whole spirit of Christmas. Prior to then she hadn’t even been sure if she’d known what Christmas or Santa had even been about. She’d written a rudimentary letter to Santa and even crawled up in his lap when he’d come to her classroom. Packed back in her things she had a Polaroid photo of that moment that she’d kept hidden away over the years for some crazy reason. Probably a reminder of what lay ahead when one got one’s hopes up and believed in things that weren’t real.

With excitement she’d told Santa of what she’d wanted more than anything and he’d told her to be a good girl and come Christmas morning she’d find her surprise under the tree.

She’d been as good as gold. Better than any five-year-old had ever been, surely. She’d gone to bed on Christmas Eve full of hope and had barely been able to sleep because she’d been sure she’d wake up to a pile of goodies but mainly to the pair of new sneakers she’d desperately wanted. Her others had been hand-me-downs and had grown too small. A new pair of stylish pink hightops for school was going to be a breeze with how good she’d been.

Only there had been no surprise. Or even a tree. Her mother had claimed the entire holiday was nothing more than a scam and she wasn’t spending hard-earned money on something as ridiculous as putting a tree inside their tiny apartment.

When her mother had found her crying, she’d complained that Christmas was a rich man’s holiday invented to make poor parents like her look bad and that Trinity should feel ashamed for making her feel bad. Then she’d gone off and drunk until she’d passed out.

The same as she did the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. Only without Trinity having set herself up with false hopes that the day might bring something different.

She had stopped believing. Right then and there at five years old she’d quit believing in Christmas and Santa. Sure, she’d still gone through the motions at school and, after she’d graduated from college, at work. But she’d never believed the holiday to be anything more than commercialized hype meant to build false hopes and to disappoint. How absolutely fitting had it been that Chase had broken her heart at a Christmas party?