Page 13 of Dad Bod Snow Job

“Stay back,” I warn, my voice rougher than intended. “Shop rule—only certified operators near the saws.”

Mike shoots me a knowing look. He’s worked here for fifteen seasons and knows every chainsaw we own inside out. Knows me too well, apparently, given the way his eyes dart between Holly and me.

I pull off my work gloves, tucking them in my back pocket as I take the saw from Mike. “Get the guys started on loading the Harrison order. I’ll handle this.”

“You sure? I could?—”

“Already down two workers this season. Need you in one piece.” I reach for the toolbox, the familiar weight settling in my hands. “And someone needs to make sure the new girl doesn’t trip over anything while making her videos.”

Holly’s laugh rings out across the yard. “The new girl can hear you.”

I focus on the saw’s engine, refusing to look at her. But my mouth betrays me. “Then maybe you’ll listen when I tell you that area isn’t safe.”

Mike chuckles, heading toward the loading zone. “Yes, boss. Whatever you say, boss.”

I adjust the idle setting, the metal cool against my bare fingers. Holly edges closer, and my muscles tense again. But she stays behind the yellow safety line—the one I painted last week after watching her nearly collide with a stack of pallets while filming.

“You’re good with them,” she says softly. “Your crew.”

My grunt is noncommittal. These men depend on me for their livelihoods. Their families need those paychecks, especially during the holidays. The bank notice burning a hole in my desk upstairs makes that responsibility weigh heavier each day.

“They respect you,” she says, phone lowered now. “Everyone does. That’s why I’ve been filming. People need to see what I see—the care you take, the expertise, the authenticity of this place.”

The saw roars to life, smooth and steady.

“You’ve been filming me without permission.” I grip the chainsaw handle tighter, needing something solid to hold on to. “What are you doing with the videos?”

Her fingers dance across the phone screen. “They’re not for public viewing. Yet.”

I straighten, wiping my hands on a shop rag. “Holly?—”

“I have some ideas. Ways to compete with the box stores that are undercutting your prices.” She sketches pictures in the air as she talks, painting a vision of Bennett’s future. “People love DIY content. How-to videos, behind-the-scenes tutorials. That’s valuable information and has broad appeal.”

I set the chainsaw on its wall mount with more force than necessary. “I run a lumber yard, not a how-to business.”

She lifts her chin, signaling that she’s about to steamroll over my objections. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Please?”

That “please” hits me like a physical blow. Dangerous word when ushered from pretty lips.

“People love stories about real people. And you’re the real deal. A family-owned farm competing against corporate giants.”

She holds up her phone, showing me a clip of the crew prepping trees at sunrise.

The footage captures something I see every morning—the quiet pride in the work, the camaraderie between the men, the mountain backdrop painting everything in gold.

My protest dies in my throat.

“And this one...” She swipes to a video of me demonstrating a tree-cutting technique to Mike’s nephew last week. “See how you take time to teach? That’s what people connect with. That’s what sets you apart from big box stores.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Who would watch this?”

Her laugh rings across the yard, bright and confident. Her smile hints at something else, but she’s already pulling up another video before I can decipher it.

I test the words, tasting their absurdity. “You’re suggesting we sell Christmas trees by turning my crew intosocial media stars?”

I can’t deny the shop runs smoother since she reorganized the inventory system. Sales are up fifteen percent from the updates she made to the window displays.

But the idea of being on social media makes my skin crawl. My family’s legacy is not a reality show.

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