“Fine. I'll take it.” I pocketed the pitiful sum, then heaved the tree onto the car’s roof and tied it down. Pine needles fluttered to the ground, dusting the snow with green flecks.
Good riddance.One tree down, another acre’s worth to go.
The man smirked and waved his hand through the car window as he peeled out of the lot. “Merry Christmas!”
“Don’t come back next year!” I shouted at his tail lights.
Though, at this rate, there wouldn't be a farm to come to next year. Guilt shredded my insides. If my father could see this place now… I forced away another spear of guilt. He never should have left me the family business. Who knows why he did? It was probably a clerical error or his idea of punishment. It certainly was one of mine.
I grabbed the saw and trudged toward the small inn at the end of the drive. The four guestroom cottage still held its charm, even though it badly needed paint and a few noticeable repairs. From its gabled roof, adorned with white ornate trim, and a layer of glistening snow, to the cozy front porch with detailed wood columns, the house had always been a seasonal treasure. In days past, the front door had boasted a giant wreath and garlands hung in every window.
But all the decorations were still boxed deep in the attic, along with the tangled mess of string lights my father had used to cover every inch of the property. For years, the farm had been bustling with families looking for the perfect tree while guests sipped cocoa outside by the massive stone fire pit.
Until that night…
A shudder shook my frame, and I shoved the dark memory from my mind. This was my lot now. An empty, rundown inn and a pathetic tree farm. No sense in remembering better days. Christmas was for fools and anyone trying to convince me otherwise could go face-plant in a snowbank.
The crunch of ice beneath tires caught my attention, and I steeled myself for another customer. My fingers clenched around the saw, and when I turned, I wasn't prepared for what greeted me.
A young woman stepped out of a taxi, and then promptly slipped on a patch of ice, catching herself on the door of the car. A giant rolling suitcase wasn’t so lucky and tumbled to her feet. With a shake of her head, she dusted the snow off her suitcase, grabbed a potted plant from the back seat, and then waved cheerily at the driver as if she hadn’t almost nosedived into the driveway.
Brown knee-high boots with dangerously narrow heels clung to her legging-covered calves, and an off-white sweater dress peeked beneath a long coat lined with light gray fur. She tossed her dark glossy hair over her shoulder to reveal a pair of dangling candy cane earrings and a matching choker. The woman bent to pull her suitcase, tucked the plant under her arm, and carefully shuffled across the slushy drive toward me.
“You could use a little road salt back there.”
My gaze dropped to her boots. Not only were they ill-suited for ice, but they didn’t look warm. Her feet were probably freezing. The irrational thought soured my mood further. “Or you could wear proper footwear. This isn’t a fashion runway, it’s a farm. You're going to break your neck.”
Seemingly oblivious to my surly tone, she shrugged. “Like I said, nothing a little road salt couldn’t fix, or a bag of sand. It’s good business practice to keep your roads clear of ice. But that answers my next question. This must be the Bradley Inn. I have a reservation.”
Her smile was as blinding as the sun on freshly fallen snow, and I almost shaded my eyes to dim the effect. Lips the color of warm cranberries drew my interest, and the way the cold tinted her cheeks made something stir inside my chest.
I scowled.Nope.This pixie sprite of holiday nonsense and best business practices was NOT staying here.
“Sorry. We're completely booked. You’ll have to try the hotel in town.”
The wind swirled the ends of her hair as she peered at the inn behind me. She gestured toward a wooden sign hanging on a chain. “The sign over there says vacancy, and the woman I spoke to on the phone last night told me I'd have the place to myself. She said I was the first guest in weeks. With no other reservations in sight.”
My eyes narrowed into slits.Grandma Jean strikes again.I was taking her off phone duty.
Between gritted teeth, I said, “My mistake. Welcome to our Inn. I'll let my grandmother know you're here so she can show you to your room.”
Her brow rose as she studied the object gripped tightly in my hand. “Do you always greet your guests wielding a saw? With the tree farm and the gingerbread house backdrop, you’re kind of giving off serial killer Santa vibes.”
“Make sure to leave that in your review,” I deadpanned, pointing the saw blade toward the inn, punctuating her point. “After you.”
“Delia. My name's Delia Frost. It's nice to meet you…” She paused, waiting for me to introduce myself.
“Jack,” I replied gruffly, reaching for her suitcase. “Jack, the Kringle Killer. Let's go. I have trees to slay.”
A musical laugh burst from her throat as she fell into step beside me. She nudged me in the arm. “Santa sleigh pun intended, am I right?”
The corner of my mouth twitched, and I bit down hard on my cheek. What was I doing? The woman barely reached my shoulders like some kind of woodland elf, and she smelled like vanilla icing. She was trouble draped in tinsel, and I was finding her another place to stay as soon as possible.
I'd make up a story. Burst plumbing. A heater on the fritz. If I had to cut the power at the breaker panel, I would. With a flip of a switch, she’d leave, and I wouldn’t have to bother hanging holiday lights around the inn. Dark and alone, just the way I liked it. Win-win.
When we reached the front door, it swung open on a rusty hinge, and my grandmother threw out her arms. We might not have had any recent guests, but this welcome was overkill.
“You made it!” she cheered like they were long-lost friends. “Right on time. Please, call me Grandma Jean, everyone does. I have your room all ready. It’s the best one we have, with a beautiful view of the tree farm.”
