Bad Ideas (First & Forever 4)

Theo paused, tilting his head back and looking up at the sprawling branches of something that had lost all its leaves for the winter. He murmured, “I have to bring you back here in the springtime. This cherry tree becomes a cloud of pink flowers. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, and you need to see it, too.”

There was wistfulness in his eyes, and a smile played around his lips as he imagined those dead-looking branches bursting with life. My heart felt like it stumbled over itself as I stood there, totally mesmerized by him.

In that moment, I realized I was falling madly, deeply, hopelessly in love with Theodore Koenig.

After a while, he took my hand, and we started walking again. On the surface, everything seemed the same. But I felt different somehow. We felt different—real and solid, a couple, as opposed to two individuals.

He was focused on the task of finding a Christmas tree, so I turned my attention to our surroundings. We assessed a Douglas fir, then an interesting, skinny thing called a Norfolk Island pine, but we rejected them for various reasons. A noble fir, white pine, and scotch pine also failed to pass muster. Then Theo’s eyes lit up, and he murmured, “Oh, Casey, look! It’s so pretty!”

He hurried over to a gorgeous, symmetrical pine tree with a distinctly blue cast to its short needles. The hang tag told me it was an aptly named blue spruce. Theo turned to me and asked, “Is it too big? It is, isn’t it? I can look for a smaller tree.”

Along with its big, round plastic pot, it stood over eight feet high, and getting it into my car was going to be interesting. But if that was the tree he wanted, I fully intended to make it happen. There was no way I’d let him end up disappointed.

“It’s perfect.”

He pulled me to him and kissed me before saying, “You’re so sweet.”

I slid my fingers into his hair and kissed him again, tasting his mouth when he parted his lips for me. This went on for quite a while. When I rested my forehead against his, he whispered, “Please spend the night with me tonight. I know you’re working late as usual, but—please?”

“Of course. I’ll come straight over after my shift.” I kissed him once more and said, “Now, let’s see about getting someone to help us with our tree.”

It took four garden center employees and a small forklift to load the spruce tree into the back of my car. Only the giant plastic pot actually fit inside, while the tree itself stuck out about five feet past the bumper. We left the hatch open, and I drove home slowly on surface streets instead of the highway.

Theo held the rest of the plants he’d picked out in an open cardboard box on his lap. After a while, he chuckled and muttered, “Oops.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Do you remember why I said I wanted to go to the nursery today?”

“Because you’re a raging plant addict and needed a fix?”

He laughed at that, then said, “Actually, I was supposed to buy a bunch of new clay pots, since some of my plants are outgrowing theirs.”

“Oh, right. Well, I guess you have a great excuse to go back soon.”

“True.”

When we pulled into his driveway, Theo hopped out and took the houseplants inside. Then he came back, grabbed the bulging shopping bags from the craft store, and asked, “Want me to help with the tree?”

“Nah, I’ve got it. Maybe just prop open the front door so I have a straight shot into the house.”

While he did as I asked, I circled around the Honda and assessed the situation. The car’s back end was riding significantly lower than usual, but I thought, how much could that tree really weigh?

The pot was maybe two and a half feet across, and about as deep. The people at the nursery had asked us if we were sure we wanted to bring it home this way and seemed surprised when we said yes, but it seemed to have made it here just fine. They’d tied a red ribbon to the top of the tree as an indicator to other drivers, and they’d also wrapped the pot in plastic sheeting to keep any dirt from spilling out, before inserting it into the hatchback on its side with a forklift.

Now all I had to do was lift it about a foot to clear the lip of the trunk, then ease it onto the ground. Since I routinely bench pressed two hundred and fifty pounds, I didn’t anticipate a problem—until I actually tried to lift the pot.

It didn’t budge.

I tried again. This time, I got a better grip on the rim through the plastic, then tried lifting with my legs.

Still nothing.