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I take a slow step back from him. “I think I’d like to set up the tree.”

His brows climb. “Now?”

I shrug. “We both have tomorrow off.”

“We do.” He blows out a big breath, eyes sliding to the box.

I put some more space between us. “I’m going to make hot chocolate. Do you want a cup?”

Tate runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll take a Coke.”

I nod, heading into the kitchen to flick the switch on the kettle. I dump chocolate powder into my cup and pull a Coke from the fridge. Popping the top, I walk it back out to Tate.

He’s already stripped the tape from the box and is pulling sections of the tree free. I hand him his soda, watching as he lifts it to his lips with those green eyes fixed on me once again. His throat works with a swallow, and my skin heats for literally no reason at all.

My kettle calls me back to the kitchen and I take the escape, scurrying to safety with my chin tucked into my chest and my heart pounding between my ears. I stir water into the sugary powder and add a dash of milk to the mix because it’s not good hot chocolate if it isn’t creamy.

I take a moment to settle my shaky hands around the warm ceramic, pulling breath deep into my lungs before releasing slowly. I repeat the practice until I feel settled enough to face Tate and those deep sea-glass green eyes again.

“We’re ready for bulbs.” Tate stands back, hands on his hips, to appraise the naked tree.

“I think you do the lights first.”

“Oh.” He claps his hands. “Lights. Right.”

I do my best to swallow my laugh. Tate notices and side-eyes me warningly, but there’s warmth in it that warms me from the inside out as I watch him string the lights around the tree. I can’t help but notice the way his back flexes beneath his shirt as he moves. I force my eyes from his back only to lock on his arms. Arms that are corded with muscle and stained with the evidence of hard work.

Something deep inside me tightens.

Am I checking Tate out? Is my face getting hot?

He turns, eyes instantly seeing the red I wish I could hide.

“Now we’re ready for the bulbs.”

I’m pretty sure his voice is thick with—well, I don’t know what. It just sounds thick.

Or maybe that’s just the distorted sound of his timbre through the ringing in my ears.

Sucking in a deep breath, I place my hot chocolate on the coffee table to scurry for the pack of bulbs. Red and green and glittery.

I tear into the package, plucking a few from the top and placing them on the tree. When I’ve gone back not once but twice to refill my hands of bulbs, I ask, “Aren’t you going to help?”

“Woman’s work.”

My mouth drops. “Tatum Wilder!”

Tate laughs, eyes glistening with mirth. “I’m just appreciating the view.”

I raise my brows at him, but there’s no denying the spill of pink that floods my cheeks. I pluck another bulb from the container, sliding it onto the tree. It spins, catching golden light and casting the glow onto the patio door where I see our reflection. I catch Tate looking at me.

My heart flip-flops like a fish out of water.

My throat feels tight.

I don’t dare look at him as I ask quietly, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

There’s a pause, heavy and swollen. I place another four bulbs on the tree before Tate responds.