Page 11 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
I drag a hand down my face, the steps groaning under my weight as I head inside. “Damn it,” I grit out under my breath.
I reply before tossing my phone on the kitchen table.
Okay. Hope everything’s good.
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I can plow a field, fix a tractor, even wrestle a bull—but I don’t know the first damn thing about setting up a photo backdrop for family photos.
A sigh tears from me, rough and heavy. Just won't have photos. Simple. Families can live without their picture-perfect backdrop. It’s just one less thing to worry about.
I yank open the fridge and grab the left-over sub wrapped in wax paper. Dropping into the chair at the kitchen table, I unwrap it and take a bite.
I lean back in the chair, my eyes land on the frame hanging on the wall. The photo. Me at ten years old, grinning with a gap-toothed smile, my mom’s arm hooked around my shoulder. Her copper hair pulled back, her laugh frozen like she couldn’t hold it in long enough for the camera.
The last photo we took together. At the last fall event she ever hosted.
My throat tightens, and I blink hard.
No.
There will be photos. There has to be. No matter what it takes. I set the sandwich down and press my palms flat against the table, jaw tight. One way or another, I’ll figure it out.
Guess I’ll have to make a trip to the market. I finish the last bite of my sub, wiping my hands on a napkin.
My eyes drift back to the photo, lingering on every detail. Scattered props around us—the pinecones, wooden crates, baskets of apples, fall signs, turkeys made of colored paper.
Then I stand, tossing the napkin in the trash and grab my jacket. Time to run to the market, gather what I can, and make this happen.
The market smells like cinnamon and apple candles. I’ve already got pumpkins, pinecones, and apples back at the farm. What I need now is paint, few decorations, and some crates. Simple enough—though the fall section is already overcrowded with Christmas decorations.
Amidst the aisle full of plastic Santas and glittery ornaments are some scarecrows and plastic turkeys.
I’m comparing two signs when a voice cuts in.
“Hi. Can I help you find something?”
I turn; there she is. Alex Rhodes. Burgundy blouse tucked neatly into a dark grey fitted skirt, black tights, heels clicking against the floor. Her hair spills over her shoulder, catching the light like rose gold. For a moment too long, I catch myself staring.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
Her mouth tips into a smile. “Are you sure? Because you look very out of place.”
I huff, tossing a scarecrow into my cart. “I’m just getting items for the photo setup for the event this weekend.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, Finley, taking photos? No way.”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. “I’m not taking the photos. Michelle is—” The words stall, the realization hitting me. “Oh, shit.”
She tilts her head. “What?”
“My neighbor is a photographer; she takes the photos every year. She won’t make it this year.”
“Well… I took photography in high school. I even have a nice camera. I could do it.”
I blink at her. “I didn’t know you were invited.”
Her brows lift as she holds up the flyer. “I thought the whole town was.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t need your help.”
