Free Sway by Amy Matayo Page A

the briefest second, he looks sad. I’ve seen that kind of regret before, and all at once I know there’s a story behind this guy’s mega-cool demeanor. I want to know what it is.
    He recovers quickly. “No.” He draws out the word. “Just because I want a tree doesn’t mean—”
    “Then what’s the point of a stocking? It seems like a waste to buy one that will sit empty on Christmas morning, since no one’s there to fill it for you.”
    When he clutches his chest and takes a halting step backward, I can’t help the way my mouth involuntarily lifts at the corners. He is so darn cute when he acts wounded. “Oh Kate, Kate, Kate. You of little faith. You’re killing me—first with your no Christmas and then with your blatant disbelief in Santa Claus. Next you’ll be telling me the Easter Bunny isn’t real.”
    When I raise an eyebrow, his eyes go wide in mock horror. Wanting an excuse to touch him, I slap his arm. “Stop being so dramatic. Do you want me to help pick out a tree, or not?”
    “Yes, and hurry up about it. We don’t have all night.”
    “It’s noon.”
    “Exactly. Daylight’s burning, Princess. Now choose a tree before they sell out of all of them.”
    I smile to myself at the nickname he’s assigned to me. Something tells me it’s permanent. Something tells me I’m glad about it. Something also tells me he’s ridiculous—there are stacks of trees in cardboard boxes all around us. The only way they’ll sell out now is if a fairy godmother waves her magic wand and makes them disappear.
    Fairy Godmothers. Something else I never believed in.
    Fifteen minutes later I’ve abandoned my apprehension, and the tree is being carted to the front of the store. I can’t deny that I’m a tiny bit proud of myself. Buying a Christmas tree isn’t as easy as it sounds, what with the height, the color, the shape of the branches, and the lights. And even though Caleb told me to pick one out for him, the guy is incredibly picky. He wanted a green, pre-lit eight-footer sporting thin branches. He put his foot down when I gravitated toward the tree covered in fake snow, saying nothing kills the spirit of Christmas more than dried paint trying to pass itself off as the cold white stuff.
    I refrained from pointing out that fake trees with fake snow didn’t seem much different than a fake guy in a red suit shimmying down a chimney. Somehow the timing didn’t seem right.
    Regardless, I’m now foraging through stockings, up to my elbows in all kinds of tacky fabrics while Caleb calls out instructions.
    “Only red ones.”
    “Or maybe green.”
    “But nothing with sparkles.”
    “And definitely nothing with glitter.”
    “I’m not buying that. Put it back now.”
    Funny how in such a short time, his cool-factor has worn off. Now, I find him as annoying as a greasy-haired kid in kindergarten who insists on poking me in the side and showing me his latest scab. I drag myself to a standing position and glare up at him. I’m pretty sure a loose price tag is stuck in my hair, but I don’t stop to remove it.
    “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a pain in the butt?”
    “Only every day.” At the first sign of a grin, I realize he’s been doing this on purpose. It doesn’t make it any less maddening. If he thinks I’ll find it adorable, he’s wrong.
    “Well, they’re right. Christmas shopping with you is now on my list of things I never want to do again. My first time doing it, and you’ve managed to ruin the whole thing.”
    If I thought he might be hurt, I thought wrong. His grin only widens. It looks…adorable. “What did you expect for an intervention? For me to go easy on you?”
    I don’t say that, yes, that’s exactly what I expected. Stupid me. Before I have time to reflect on my idiocy, he reaches toward my ear and plucks off the offending tag. My breath catches when he brushes it against my cheek. “Huh.” He frowns, glancing at the tag. “You seem worth more than nine dollars