Page 15 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
ALEX
I pull up to the farm just as the sun starts to peek over the barn roof. The air smells like hay and barn animals, and for some reason, it’s comforting.
Finley is out by the old truck, tossing hay bales onto the trailer like they weigh nothing. His muscles tense and flex beneath his shirt with every lift.
I take a slow breath, trying to shake off the nerves I have no business feeling. I pop the trunk and start unloading my gear—camera bag, tripod, and a box of props.
I glance up and Finley’s looking right at me from across the field. He doesn’t say anything before turning back to the hay bales.
The smell of hay drifts over every time he moves, I keep my focus on the crates and baskets of apples, but every so often, I can’t help glancing his way.
I spread the large gray plaid blanket across the makeshift bench of hay, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then I stick the scarecrow into the ground on the right side, and tip over a wooden crate onto its side, apples spilling out perfectly.
Taking a few steps back, I study the setup. Cozy, rustic and charming—perfect for family fall photos.
I’m just unfolding the legs of my tripod when the deep rumble of an engine rolls up behind me. I glance over my shoulder and spot the food truck pulling in.
Finley pulls the truck and hay wagon up beside the photo area. He hops out, brushing his palms against his jeans before walking over to the food truck.
The driver—a tall guy with long black hair tied into a bun—steps out, and the two greet each other with a handshake and a laugh. They start talking easily, the kind of banter that happens between old friends.
I watch them for a moment, surprised that Finley is actually able to smile. He walks over to the porch, picks up a crate, and carries it back to the food truck.
Setting it down on the hood, he pulls out probably the biggest cucumber I’ve ever seen. The other man’s brows shoot up, and Finley laughs, still gripping the generously sized cucumber.
My cheeks heat, and I have to look away to keep the memory of my unhinged cucumber dream at bay.
A white van pulls up next, rumbling to a stop beside Finley’s truck. A woman steps out, her long, black braid swinging down to her thighs. Her beautiful, tawny skin shimmers in the morning light.
She’s wearing a cream-colored blouse with sheer, flowing sleeves and a dark green overall dress that ends just above a pair of brown leather boots.
She opens the back doors of the van and starts unloading a few folding tables. I walk over and offer a hand.
“Need some help?”
Before the woman can answer, a chorus of laughter erupts as three children tumble out of the van, racing toward Finley. He bends down to greet them, ruffling their hair, his face softening in a way I never knew it could.
The woman glances over at him and her smile widens, reaching all the way to her warm brown eyes. She turns back to me, still smiling.
“I’m Annalise,” she says. “My husband works on the farm.” She nods her head toward the man filling water troughs across the field.
“Alex,” I tell her, adjusting the camera bag on my shoulder.
She passes me a heavy box filled with jars of jams and apple butter. I turn to follow her and my arms ache after a few steps. She quickly unfolds a table and drapes a red plaid cloth over it. I carefully set the box down on the table and head back to the van.
“Did you make all this stuff?” I ask, taking the box of jarred honey from her hands.
She nods. “Yeah, I’ve been making canned goods from the farm since my husband started here—about six years ago now,” she says. “We sell them online and at the flea market on most weekends.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, honestly impressed. The pride in her voice pulls a genuine smile from me.
We reach the table again, and she starts setting up neat rows of jars, opening a few to put out samples. The sweet smell of apples and pumpkin fills the air, making my mouth water.
I hadn’t eaten anything in fear of being late once again and pissing Finley off. My stomach rumbles in response to the pile of biscuits Annalise just pulled from a basket.
She smiles and offers me one, “here, try any you’d like.”
I don’t hesitate. I take one bite of the biscuit I covered in pumpkin butter. My eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh—this is amazing!”
