Page 19 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
It’s been five days since the event. Five days since I’ve seen or heard from Alex Rhodes. Five days of trying not to think about her—and failing.
Winter is closing in fast. Each morning the air cuts a little sharper, the sky darker. Snow’s already showing—tiny flakes swirling in the wind, sticking to my beard. I keep moving, trying to outrun the cold and my thoughts.
There’s still a lot to do before the real snow hits. I haul the last of the crates into the barn, cover the plants with tarps, check the heaters on the water troughs.
No matter how long the task list is, no matter how hard I try to busy my mind, it keeps drifting back to her. And that smile that disappeared.
It’s not because I care.
I don’t.
I just…want to know what that man said to her.
That’s all.
Call it curiosity—hell, call it being nosey.
Anything but me giving a damn about her. I just don’t like not knowing things. Especially things that happen onmyfarm. That’s it.
The image hits me again—the man’s hand clamped around her elbow, the way her face went pale, startled.
Before I even realize it, I’m gripping the hose so tight the water sputters to a stop.
I look down at my hand, knuckles white, the hose bent in half between my fingers.
I exhale through my nose and force my hand to loosen. Damn it.
By the time I finish salting the pathways, the driveway and the steps, the sky’s turned that dull gray that promises harsh weather.
I stomp the snow off my boots before I get inside and flip on the TV. The weather channel starts flashing bright red warnings—blizzard moving in overnight.
“Damn it,” I mutter through my teeth.
I head into the kitchen, scanning the shelves and the fridge. Half a loaf of bread. A few pieces of lunch meat. Not much else. If I’ll be stuck here, I’ll need water, a few things to eat, maybe some extra batteries in case the power goes out.
Looks like I’ll be taking a trip to the market.
By the time I get to Oak & Rye, the snow’s coming down thick—big, heavy flakes that smear across the windshield faster than the wipers can keep up. It’s only six but it looks like midnight out here. I find a spot close to the door and kill the engine.
The wind burns as soon as I step out of the truck. My boots crunch through the layer of snow already icing over. I shove through the glass doors, shaking the snow off my coat.
Alex is behind the counter, counting the till. “Sorry, we’re closing early—” she starts, not even glancing up.
Then she does.
Our eyes meet, and I stop in my tracks.
She looks… rough. There’s no other word for it.
The usual brightness she carries is gone. Her red hair is pulled back messily; dark circles shadow the skin beneath her eyes. She’s dressed casual—sweatshirt, jeans—nothing like the polished version of herself I’m used to seeing.
She looks exhausted. Worn down. Hollow in a way that makes my chest squeeze.
Something is definitely wrong.
“Finley,” she breathes.
Just my name, soft and breathy, it hits me deeper than expected. She’s watching me with tired eyes.
