“I guess we’ll have to wait and see, but I’m definitely intrigued.”
I park near the hand-carved welcome sign that reads “Welcome to Frostbloom Tree Farm”in large, red block letters.
She gets out first, boots crunching in the snow-packed gravel. I shove a black beanie on my head before I round the front of the truck. She looks around, taking in the winding paths and the golden glow cast by the lamp posts. The air is sharp and cold against my face as I breathe in the scent of pine and woodsmoke. I hear soft bells jingling from somewhere nearby. We haven’t even stepped through the entrance yet, and we’re already being enveloped by Christmas spirit.
Ginger pauses. “Time for my hat and gloves.” She tugs the items from her pockets and puts each on.
“Let’s get you bundled up.” I grab each end of her scarf, carefully winding the knitted length around her neck. “There you go.” Before I release my hold, I fight the overwhelming urge to tug her closer and finally taste her lips.
She smiles up at me softly. “Thank you.”
“Can’t have you freezing out here.”
We head toward the check-in kiosk, which looks like a small gingerbread house. The woman inside greets us warmly and gives each of us a cup of mulled cider.
Instead of one large field of trees, Frostbloom Farm is broken into winding paths that meander through the forest like a winter maze. Each path is lit by solar lanterns, and helpful signs point in various directions:
FIRST TIME BUYERS
SYMMETRY SEEKERS
TALL, DARK, AND PINESOME
KID-SIZED
BLIND DATE WITH A TREE
IMPERFECTLY PERFECT
SO UGLY ONLY JESUS COULD LOVE THEM
A large chalkboard has instructions for us to follow:
Pick a trail.
Follow the signs.
Find your tree and ring the bell.
We’ll take care of the rest.
Ginger glances at me with wide eyes. “This is like a tree farm version of a corn maze.”
