We shuffle forward in line at the hot chocolate hut, where a college kid in a knit hat and Dansby’s “Tree Crew” sweatshirt mans the pump-top thermoses. He perks up the second he sees Jack.
“Wait. You’re Jack Lourd, right?” He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, thumb already hovering over the camera app. “So, uh—does that mean Amanda Willis or Felix Jones are coming, too?”
Jack’s mouth flattens in a way I’ve started to recognize as his polite Hollywood no. “Not today.”
The kid’s shoulders slump. “Dang.” He slides his phone back into his pocket with a dejected sigh, like Jack just told him Santa wasn’t real. “Hot chocolate then?”
“Yes,” I answer for both of us, stepping in before Jack can reach for his wallet.
The kid fills the thermoses I brought from home, still craning his neck one way and then the other as if Jack was lying and a celebrity might suddenly appear out of the snow-dusted evergreens. I hand Jack one, my gloved fingers brushing his.
“Thanks.” He takes a sip, eyes on me, the whipped cream hitting his upper lip.
I stare a beat too long before jolting forward, waving toward the row of picnic tables set up between the hot chocolate stand and the barn glowing with white Christmas lights. “Come on. First, lunch. Then, spruce.”
Jack
The picnic baskethas been raided down to crumbs and empty Tupperware.
Audrey fusses with the lids and napkins like she’s running quality control for NASA, while I lean back againstthe splintered picnic bench—full and content and watching the farm move around us.
A sleigh rattles past, pulled by two heavy horses draped in bells, the sound carrying across the field like someone pressed play on a Christmas soundtrack. The white clapboard barn nearly blends in with the snowscape if not for the Christmas light trim blinking against the winter gray sky.
It’s a scene straight out of Bing Crosby movie, and I like it. And yet—sarcasm comes easier than sincerity.
“I should tell Amanda about this place.” I sip the last of my cocoa. “Pine & Dandy would make a killer set for her holiday film. Though honestly…” I gesture toward the barn, the sleigh, the kid now crying because the reindeer ignored him. “It’s not like the world needs one more Christmas tree farmer romance. Women flocking to the guy in flannel like he invented chopping wood? Bit overdone at this point, right?”
Instead of a shared laugh, I’m met with flashing eyes. “I forgot—your idea of romance is a prenup and a nondisclosure agreement.” Her eye roll looks aspirin-worthy. “God forbid anyone wants something simple, or”—she jabs a mittened finger toward the rows of evergreens, their branches glittering with snow—“something real.”
The jab lands square in my chest, sharper than I expected. I open my mouth, then close it again. For once, I’ve got nothing.
She notices. And instantly her shoulders drop, a guilty sigh slipping out. “Sorry. That was… uncalled for.”
The wind whistles through the rows of trees, carryingthe faint scent of pine and woodsmoke. She reaches into the basket for the last cookie, fiddling with the wrapper.
“I might be atad bitsensitive to the whole Christmas tree farmer trope.” She grimaces before dropping her eyes to her hands. “And I may not have beenone hundredpercent honest about why I moved to Hideaway.”
Fully invested, I lean forward, elbows braced on the picnic table. “Go on.”
She huffs a laugh at the exaggerated attention. “There might have been a week after Christmas when I was recovering from a busy holiday season at the Ritz, and I binge-watched a bunch of holiday romance re-runs.”
“And were there Christmas tree farmers involved?” I can’t help but tease.
Another eye roll, this one far less aggressive. “In about half of them.” She shrugs. “What can I say, it turns out I’m a sucker for a man in plaid wielding a saw and driving a vintage pick-up truck.”
Oddly, that bit of information stings. Because even in the new shapeless-yet-warm shearling lined coat I bought to replace my cashmere trench, I’m nothing like she’s describing.
Her cheeks flush pink, the kind of color I know isn’t from the cold. She sneaks a glance at me, embarrassed. “And I guess somewhere between the snowball fights and the inevitable barn dances, it hit me that a Christmas tree farmer was exactly what I wanted.”
I nod. “But why the big secret? As you’ve said, you’re not the only person intrigued by Christmas tree farmers—if the sheer number of movies featuring them is any indication.”
“Well…” She hands me the cookie. “I didn’t think my mom would understand.” Her lips twist to the side. “She’s kind of like you.”
Frowning, I tip my head. “Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”
Audrey shakes her head, laughing. “I respect my mom enormously for raising me on her own, but I think because of that—and my father leaving—she doesn’t put a lot of stock in the whole husband-two kids-dog-PTA-meetings lifestyle.”
I take a bite of cookie, my suddenly dry mouth making it hard to swallow.
