Grabbing my coat from the hook, I shrug it on, then pull open the door. Jordan’s standing there, the wind ruffling his dark hair, and that easy smile has a dangerous effect on my resolve.
“Hi,” I say, already smiling.
“Hi, G.”
“Hey, Jordan,” Pops calls out, his focus remaining on the TV.
“How’s it going?” Jordan shouts back, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I’m still breathing.”
Jordan chuckles. “Glad to hear it.”
I gesture toward the outside. “We should get going.” He nods. I glance back at Pops. “We’re heading out. Call if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. You two have fun.”
I pat my coat pockets. Gloves? Check. Hat? Check.
“You might want a scarf,” Jordan suggests, eyeing my neckline.
“Good call.” I snatch one from a hook, looping it around my neck as we step out into the chill. I pause long enough to tug the door shut and make sure the knob is locked. Then we start toward his truck, boots crunching over the thin layer of snow. He reaches it first and opens the passenger door for me like a gentleman, which doesn’t help the situation any.
I climb in, trying not to overthink what a jumbled mess my feelings are as I settle into my seat. He closes me in and circles around the front bumper. I use the moment to adjust my scarf and remind myself to breathe. It’s just two friends taking a ride to pick out a Christmas tree.
He climbs in and shuts the door, rubbing his hands together before he starts the engine. Warm air begins to hum through the vents.
“You good?” he asks, glancing my way.
“Yeah. I’m toasty enough.”
He gives a slight nod, shifts into reverse, and backs out of the driveway with practiced ease. Snowflakes drift lazily past the windshield as we roll onto the main road. The truck cab fills with the low purr of the heater and the occasional creak of the leather seats.
After a minute or so, he asks, “How’s your week been?”
“Chaotic,” I admit. “I fell behind on inventory, got into more than one debate with Pops over real versus fake trees, and I may have scorched a batch of muffins at the shop. So now it smells like burnt gingerbread, and it’s a constant reminder of my failure.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Sounds like you're nailing peak holiday spirit.”
I smile and nod. “Maybe. What about you?”
“I’ve spent most of the week checking out new suppliers.” His eyes briefly flick to me. “By the way, none of them offer pumpkinbar edibles or any seasonal flavors, so we have the local market cornered.”
“Sweet,” I say.
“Open the glove compartment. There’s something in there for you.”
I do as he says and find a white envelope with my name on it. “What’s this?” I ask, picking it up.
“It’s your portion of the edible sales. Once again, they sold out in record time.”
“That’s awesome, but I told you, I don’t need to be paid. This is your money.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. It’s yours. We’re fifty-fifty on this.” His firm tone leaves no room for arguing.
“Okay.” I tuck the envelope inside one of my pockets. “I’m glad your customers are liking our edibles. It’s weird for me to be making something people are purchasing without tasting it myself.”
He smirks. “You might have to sample one.”
