Page 194 of The Holiday Clause

Wren followed the arctic draft and the path of pine needles to investigate. “Did you get the—oh.” Each brother gripped a different branch of the enormous fir, the tree bound in rope like a captive giant. “I see you went with the Rockefeller Center starter pack.”

Pine needles scattered across the silk Persian rug in a festive massacre as they angled their kill awkwardly in the foyer.

Logan grinned proudly as he looked at her. “You said to get a big tree.”

“I meant big as in normal-sized.”

“Maybe normal-sized in this family is bigger than most.” Soren waggled his brows.

“Oh good, more penis innuendos.” She moved to shut the front doors, but froze at the sight of Soren’s overcompensating—and extremely muddy—luxury SUV. “Car’s a little dirty, Soren.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He shoved the tree with renewed violence, muttering under his breath, “Two fucking pickup trucks and somehow we end up taking my Cadillac.”

“Where are we putting this monster?”

Three sets of eyes turned to Wren. She pointed toward the den where Magnus had his hospital bed arranged. “In there, so your dad can enjoy it.”

Soren snorted. “Yeah, he’s gonna love this.”

They heaved the tree into the den, propping it against the corner with collective grunts.

“What the hell is that?” Magnus barked from his bed, newspaper crumpling in his grip.

“Seriously?” The boys were dirty and in no mood for their father’s unappreciative attitude.

“It’s a tree,” Wren said, rushing into the den. “A Christmas tree.”

“Just what I want—” A wet cough interrupted his tirade, shaking his brittle frame. “A nest of ticks and spiders and God knows whatever else is living in that thing.”

Monica, the housekeeper, materialized with water. “Drink, Mr. Hawthorne. You must have lots of fluids.”

He gulped down several sips before continuing his protest. “How one of the filthiest traditions survived this long is beyond me.”

“He loves it, Wren,” Logan cheered, his cold sarcasm dripping like melted icicles.

Greyson stepped back to assess their handiwork. The tree nearly brushed the ceiling. “How are we standing this sucker up?”

Three expectant faces turned to her and she shrugged. “Don’t you have a stand?”

“We haven’t had a tree in years.”

Greyson’s fingers scratched his jaw as he surveyed the room, memory flickering in his eyes. “It used to go there.” He pointed to the large bow window flanked by the grand fireplace and velvet wingback chairs. “We have to have stuff in the attic.”

“The attic?” Logan whined. “You said we were having a party. This day’s been nothing but work.”

Wren smacked the back of his head. “It’s for your father.”

“Don’t pin this nonsense on my account,” Magnus griped.

“Yeah, he’s thrilled.” Logan rubbed his scalp.

Another gust of cold air cut through the den as the front door opened and Jocelyn’s voice called from the foyer.“Hello?”

Soren stiffened. “What’s she doing here?”

Wren shot Soren a warning glare. “We’re in here, Joce.”

Jocelyn swept in like a winter storm, kicking off stilettos and trailing a cranberry-colored fur coat. “Glaðligr Jól!”