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“You know the difference?”

Steve’s grin widened. “I do now.”

Micah chuckled. “How long did that take you to learn which was which?”

“A couple of months.”

“You really own a Christmas tree farm.”

“I do.”

“In a town called Wishing Tree.”

Steve looked at him. “You seem a little slow on the uptake. Should I worry about you?”

“Just trying to take it all in. Hearing you say you bought one and seeing it are two different things. So, what’s the plan?”

“The Christmas tree lot in town opens the Saturday after Thanksgiving. The one out here opens the same day. People can drive out and pick a cut tree, or they can go choose their own and chop it down themselves.”

Micah shook his head. “You’re trusting people with axes?”

“They sign a waiver.”

“That’s the holiday spirit.”

Micah glanced around at the endless rows of trees, the mountains beyond and the bright blue sky overhead. He’d always thought of himself as a city guy, but the past few months had taught him the value of solitude in a beautiful place.

He and Steve walked back to the truck, then drove the short distance to the country store just off Mountain Hemlock Highway, where the owner—a woman who had to be in her eighties—made a surprisingly excellent cup of coffee.

Mrs. Bevins, small and bent, with glasses and curly white hair, smiled when she saw them.

“Back again, boys?”

“We can’t resist you or your coffee,” Steve said easily. “And I wanted to show Micah where the cut tree lot would be.”

“Just out back,” Mrs. Bevins said. “Steve and his guys will set them up Saturday morning. I process the payments here.” She winked at Micah. “You could keep me company, if you wanted. You’re a fine-looking man.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, he’s always had the face.”

Mrs. Bevins poured them each a mug of coffee. “I might have other interests, but his face is nice, too.”

Micah thanked her while keeping his distance. Years of practice made dodging eager fans—or bold old ladies—second nature to him. He had a sixth sense about wandering hands and knew just when to get out of the way.

When he’d first been starting out with the band, he’d welcomed the attention and had taken advantage of the offers. He’d had a failed marriage early on—one that had happened and ended so quickly, neither of them had been affected by its demise. After a few years, he’d learned to be a bit more discerning about who he took to his bed. Then he’d met Adriana, and from that moment on, there hadn’t been any other women.

He’d always been a big believer in love. His ballads were incredibly successful, and he earned nearly as much from other artists covering his hits as he earned from recording them himself. But believing in and writing about love hadn’t prepared him for what it was like to actually feel it for himself. Adriana had rocked his world (no pun intended) and opened his heart in ways he hadn’t imagined.

Sometimes at night, while she was sleeping, he would sit up and watch her, grateful beyond words that she was in his life. When he thought about how unlikely it was to find the one person who made everything right and fall in love and have her love you back, well, it made his head spin. She had been the greatest of highs, and losing her and their unborn child had nearly destroyed him.

He returned his attention to the present and walked outside with Steve. There was a big fenced-in space in the rear, with gates in the front and back.

“We’ve already marked the trees we’re going to cut down for sales here and in town,” Steve told him. “We’ll start cutting Monday so they’re ready in time.”

“I remember when the closest you came to farming was knowing the best pot dealer in every state.”

“Hey,” Steve said, glancing around as if to make sure no one was within hearing distance. “That was a long time ago. Pot’s legal in Washington State now, and I don’t do that anymore.”

Micah laughed. “You’re a little sensitive.”