Page 30 of Tinsel & Timber
This is bad. Really bad.
Never in my thirty-nine years have I felt like this. Not even when I was engaged to my high schoolsweetheart. Samantha was a great girl and I cared about her a lot. But nothing like this. Hell, I wasn’t even mad when she called off our engagement while I was at bootcamp. I felt relieved.
It’s clear to me that Mara is different.
I didn’t think I believed in soul mates or love at first sight, but I was starting to realize that maybe it really is possible to justknowwhen you found your person.
I try again to focus on the work in front of me, but it’s useless.
I shove back my chair and grab my coat. “Fresh air,” I tell myself. “That’s all you need.”
Which is how I end up at Winterberry Farm looking at Christmas trees for Mara’s house.
Jemma and Jeremy Price now own their family farm that is famous for its sleigh ridesandthe best Christmas trees around.
One of their farm hands is helping me load up while Jeremy is running around mumbling something about, “Fucking goats.”
“When did Winterberry Farm get goats?” I ask the guy who just helped me tie the tree down in the back of my truck.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “We didn’t. They belong to the guy who owns the place next door. We’re just borrowing them, according to Jemma.”
“Sounds like fun,” I laugh.
“I don’t know the whole story, I’m just filling in for a few days because of the holiday rush. But seeing them run around the place has been pretty entertaining.”
“Thanks for your help.” I hand the guy a tip and shake his hand.
“I hope she likes it.”
“I’m sure she will,” I grin like a fool.
No home is complete without a tree.
Next stop, The Mistletoe Bay General Store for lights. Then Mistletoe Mercantile for a few ornaments that we can hang on the tree together.
I drive through town with the tree in the back, grinning like an idiot.
It’s ridiculous how good it feels to do something simple for her.
To imagine her face when she sees it.
The store is half-empty when I walk in. The old bell over the door jingles, and the college kid behind the counter puts down her phone, eyeing me like she’s already decided my presence here is gossip-worthy.
“Morning, Mr. Whitlock,” she says. “Bit late for tree shopping, isn’t it?”
Instead I reply with, “Never too late. Need lights.Maybe some garland. Got any left?”
She arches an eyebrow. “For your place?”
“Maybe.” No way I’m telling her the whole truth.
The pause that follows is telling. I can practically feel her curiosity buzzing. And the way her hand is twitching to reach for her phone? She’ll tell half the town before dinner.
I should probably care more than I do.
It doesn’t take long before I’ve got the cart full. White lights, two rolls of ribbon, a few strands of garland, and two boxes of glass ornaments.
The girl behind the counter rings me up with a smirk and I carry my things to the car before walking down the street to Mistletoe Mercantile.
