Page 21 of Love Harvested on Thanksgiving
“Looks like we’re probably stuck here for a while,” I say.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, “really?”
I nod heading over to the café area. I pull out a chair and sit, stretching my legs. My fingers fumble for my phone, and I check the weather.
“Maybe a few hours,” I say, glancing up at her. “Your car probably won’t make it out in this. Once the storm calms, I can drive you home.”
She looks at me for a moment, almost in shock, like she can’t believe I’d actually offer to help her.
And damn, does that make me feel like a complete asshole. Man… am I really such an ass to this girl that she doesn’t even think I’d help her?
And for what? All because of some things she did in high school? I rub the back of my neck and shake my head suddenly feeling shame. Embarrassment too, even. For what I’ve said, the way I’ve acted toward her.
She walks over to the table I’m sitting at and grabs the flashlight. Without a word, she starts toward the aisles, basket in hand.
Should I follow her?
No. Of course not. This is her store. She doesn’t need me trailing behind her.
I lean back in the chair, running a hand through my beard and watch her move through the dimly lit aisles. Every step shetakes… damn it, I can’t help but notice the elegant way her hips sway.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALEX
My stomach growls as I walk down the aisles. I haven’t eaten much over the past few days. Hell, I haven’t really slept or done much of anything lately.
I head to the bakery and grab some of the sourdough bread I made earlier. Then a couple of pumpkin cinnamon rolls—I can already hear Finley huffing at my attempt to be friendly.
Butter for the bread. Honey mustard pretzels. A six-pack of pumpkin cider, and a bag of sriracha pistachios.
I stop by the office and grab my book, and the throw blanket that’s sitting on my chair. I then head back to the table where Finley was sitting.
After I sit, I fully expect him to hop over to a different table, or even just act annoyed at my presence.
But he doesn’t. He’s still here. For a moment I just stare at him. His bright blue eyes, strong jaw, the veins in his forearms and hands.
I snap my eyes away, cheeks heating. The man hates me, and I need to get used to it.
I spread the snacks across the table between us—bread, butter, the cinnamon rolls, the bag of pretzels, even the cider. “Help yourself,” I mutter.
Finley reaches for the pretzels, his mouth quirking. “These are my favorite!” He says.
I manage a small smile. And pick up my book, attaching my book light to the cover.
When I glance up, he’s still watching me. There’s something soft in his expression… sympathy? No. No way. Not from Finley the grumpy farmer.
He nods toward the book in my hands. “What’re you reading?”
I glance at the pink cover, then back at him. “Romance,” I say simply.
“Oh.”
The silence stretches. He drums his fingers against the table for a few seconds before pulling out his phone. The screen lights up his face as he starts tapping, probably some kind of game.
I try to focus on my book again, but the sound of his fingers against the screen keeps pulling my attention back to him. Himandhis large, strong hands.
I’m not used to having someone around while I read. The quiet hum of the coolers and the faint tapping of Finley’s fingers on his phone are actually distracting. Or maybe it’s justhimthat’s distracting.
