It was late, way past when any sensible person should be out shopping for a Christmas tree, but I didn’t care. The kids were with their dad for the weekend, the house was too quiet, and I was restless in a way that had nothing to do with holiday cheer. At thirty-six, single again after a divorce that dragged on far too long, I had spent the last year ignoring the ache between my legs. Tonight, though, the ache was winning.
The tree lot was almost deserted when I pulled in, just strings of colored bulbs flickering over rows of Fraser firs and a single guy still working. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick dark beard and flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, showing off strong forearms dusted with hair. He looked like he belonged on a lumberjack calendar, and the second our eyes me
