Page 12 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
Alex tilts her head. “Really? Who’s going to take the photos then?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter, grabbing a bundle of fake leaves and tossing them into the cart.
She follows me a few steps, “I have the camera, I’ll be there this weekend anyhow.”
I stare down at her, trying to summon a reason to say no.
“Fine,” I bite out. “But stay out of the way.”
A smile spreads across her annoyingly beautiful face. “Deal.”
She turns toward the shelf of overcrowded decorations and tosses a couple of signs into my cart without asking.
She looks up at me, smug and radiant. “See you Saturday,” she says, her voice light, before flashing a quick smile and walking away.
I watch her go, my eyes following the sway of her hips, the graceful line of her shoulders. Her movements are so elegant, so lithe. Not fit for a farm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ALEX
The little bell above the door chimes as I step out and lock the door to the market. I tug my knit sweater around me, the cool air nipping at my skin. It smells like fall out here—woodsmoke, leaves and the nearby orchards.
On the drive home, I give in and stop at the little restaurant off the main road. I claim a corner table and order French onion soup and a hot apple cider.
Halfway through my soup, I dig my phone out of my bag. Finley’s name stares back at me from my list of messages. For a moment, my thumb hovers over his name. Then I type:
What time should I be there on Saturday? Do you wantme to bring anything?
I finish the last bit of soup and my sweet warm cider. Just as I’m gathering my things, my phone buzzes on the table.
Event starts at 11am. Surely you read that on the flyer. And this time don’t be late.
I slip my phone into my bag and mutter under my breath, “Why is he so fucking mean?”
The thought sticks with me the whole drive home. Is he like this with everyone, or does he just hateme? The streetlights blur past as I think of all the possibilities.
I search my brain for anything that might explain why Finley seems to despise me so much. He’s years older than me but wedidgo to the same school. I don’t remember ever wronging him.
I don’t remember much about him at all. He was always quiet and kept to himself. The kind of boy who tried to go unnoticed.
I shake it off, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. Just get through the event this weekend, that’s all. Then, I can focus on the Thanksgiving festival—onwinningthe Thanksgiving festival.
By the time I’m home, I’m determined to stop overthinking the grumpy farmer. I set my camera bag on the couch and pull out everything I’ll need for Saturday—camera, diffusers, tripod, reflectors. Batteries go straight into the charger; there’s no telling the last time they were used, let alone charged.
I feed my sourdough starter and leave it to bubble on the counter.
With that done, I flop onto the floor in front of the coffee table, notepad open, pen in hand.
Pumpkin cheesecake.
Apple fritter loaf.
Smoked gouda and red pepper sourdough.
I tap the pen against the pad, thinking. “Sliders,” I mutter to myself. “People love sliders.”
But what kind? Hot honey turkey. Maybe on the smoked gouda and red pepper sourdough. I could make mini rolls instead of loaves. Sweet, spicy, warm, hand-held. Perfect.
