Page 99 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

It’s Randy.

“Hey, lady,” he says. “Did my sister scare you off? Mom’s a softy.”

“I’m not easily frightened.”

He drops into a chair on the opposite side of the table. “You’re a real trouper, that’s for sure.” He picks up a roll of ribbon. “Making any headway?”

I realize I have no way of cutting the ribbon. “I was about to embark upon a reconnaissance for scissors.”

“I got you.” He heads for the back counter, and I swiftly mute my phone and play the first video, praying I’ll learn enough to start the project in the scant seconds he’ll be gone.

But Zach’s good, sending me a clip that cuts to the chase, showing how to wrap the ribbon around your fingers and secure it with wire all around the circlet.

“Is there some wire around here?” I ask him, keeping my eyes on the video. “Something low gauge I can use to tie the ribbon on?”

“For sure. It’s in the storage room.” He heads through a back door.

Great. More time. I pick up the end of the ribbon and practice the wrap a few times. The video speeds up as the woman places all the fat loops around the edge and then secures the final one, covering the end of the wire with a bow. I can make a bow.

I shut the phone off and push it aside as Randy comes back into view. He sits again, sliding a pair of scissors and a roll of silver wire across to me. “Is it hard? If you can teach me, we’ll get done faster and I thought I’d take you into town for lunch, if you’d like.”

Finally. “Sounds great. And yes, it’s easy.” And I can assess his finger dexterity. The thought brings a blush to my cheeks, but then it’s not Randy’s hands I picture, but Zachery’s.

Nope, no. Danger zone!

I pull a second spool of ribbon from the bag and roll it to Randy.Focus, Kelsey.

It takes a few tries to show him how to wrap the ribbon around his fingers, press it against the circlet, and secure it with wire, but by the time we’re halfway around, we’re both fairly competent with it.

Rather than teach him the trickier bit with the bow, I set him to making a third while I finish the ribbon off and wire in the greenery.

When I hold it up, I think it looks good.

“Hey!” Randy says. “That’s nice.”

We keep going.

“I’m guessing that since I’m staying in your family’s homestead, your roots go way back in Glass.”

“Over a hundred and fifty years. It used to be a logging operation, but my great-great-grandfather realized pretty quick that we better be responsible about the land or we’d be out of trees.” Randy’s fingers fly around the circle.

“A forward thinker, then.”

“Practical, anyway. Tree farms got popular in the fifties, when people from the city would come out to cut their own in the national forest, then realize it’s nice to have someone fell it for you and tie it to the car.”

“I bet.”

“It’s not easy, picking a good one in the middle of everything, or felling one if it’s surrounded by other trees. A lot of half-felled trees met their tragic end to no good use, and we became the answer.”

“Now you grow them specifically for Christmas trees, I take it.”

“Indeed. We augment from the forest and bring them to the tents, but we thin the right parts to allow all the trees to grow well.”

I set aside the second finished wreath and reach for the one Randy has filled with ribbon. “Does everyone work on the farm, or have some members of your family branched out?”

He laughs, a deep chortle that I feel in my belly. “Branched out.I like it. My dad is an only child, so he took it over from Grandpap. When we moved Grandmama into the cottage, we were able to rent out the homestead for weddings and events, and that helps supplement the income. Gina mainly handles all that.”

I want to ask what happened to make the business falter enough that they need to fundraise this summer, but I know to shut my mouth. It doesn’t matter. Not on the first date.

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