Page 3 of Three Days of Holiday

“Right,” I said again, but more forcefully. “Excuse me. I need to get back to my thing.”

Hot dude, who I now knew as Will, watched me go. He still held on to the scruff of his dog, who looked like he wanted to follow me and lick the rest of the cider from my fingers.

“I can’t believe you talked to hot dude.” Holly began badgering me before we even made it back to the table. I tried to give her direction on how to swap the cloths out with the least amount of work, but as usual, she had a hard time focusing on the important things. “Did you get his digits?”

My nose crinkled. Did their generation really say digits for phone number? “No. I’m here to work, not pick up guys.”

Something we’d already discussed. I regretted bringing her along already.

After I proved that Oceanview Orchards could battle against the biggest players in the state, I’d buy myself the pair of boots and then worry about finding a man. Life had a defined order. And kicking ass while making a name for myself was top of the list.

I had to prove myself, not only to my three brothers—including my twin—but my entire family, Pelican Bay, and the state of Maine.

I worked to fix a wrinkle, the last remaining one, inmy perfectly placed table cover as the last judge of the day chose that moment to stop at my display. How did I know he was a judge?

Because they wore the most ridiculous big ass judge sashes. They looked like Miss America contestants at a pageant. Some judges were more into the sashes than others, and it wasn’t hard to spot a sash lover.

At first, I thought the five judges were joking with the way they walked around the room with their noses in the air. I saw one of them even petting her sash as she talked to a table of contestants. How much power did this regional taste competition have? And how did it go to their heads so quickly?

It’s not like they’d brought in Elon Musk or anything. The local weather man was a judge. I didn’t recognize the judge in front of me from any television or commercial, but he wore his sash proudly.

My hands shook as I reached to grab him a cup and pour cider from one of our non-leaking half gallons.

“Wrong side,” Hope whispered. She’d locked her lips into a smile, causing me to fidget and knock over the stack of cups when I jerked my hand in the right direction. Five cups tumbled over the side and scattered on the floor, causing enough noise for half the room to stare at us.

Freaking shit.

The judge stopped less than a foot away from my table, scowling at the cups as if they’d personally offended him. The cups didn’t care. They continued to roll around, coming to slow individual stops wherever it suited them. One hit the judge’s shined shoe.

Not good.

I froze. Indecision clouded my thoughts and made me unable to move. Did I finish pouring his glass or pick up the offensive drink containers?

Hope jetted to the front of the table and kicked the plastic cups underneath the long tablecloth before she backed up with a slight moonwalk, making jazz hands. It was horrible. Tragic.

“Welcome to Oceanview Orchards, judge,” she said like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself. I wish I’d caught it on camera.

It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever witnessed, but it brought me out of my freakout and I quickly poured the judge half a glass of cider and handed it across the table.

“Can I also interest you in an apple cider donut?” I asked, presenting the tower of donuts in the middle of our table. My display lacked jazz fingers, but I still wowed him.

He selected one from the top of the pile and took a bite, his eyes closing for a second in what I hoped was a silent moan.

“Do you make the donuts on site at your orchard?”

My face fell, but only for a moment. “Not at this time,” I answered truthfully. “We have outsourced our production to a local bakery but hope to expand the operation in the near future.”

Slight lie. The bakery had the best cider donuts in all of Maine, and we had no plans to stop purchasing from the owner, but figuring out an explanation of why it never happened was future Holly’s problem.

He nodded twice, but his lips were no longer tippedinto a smile. “I like to see orchards produce their own products.”

I didn’t know why he thought himself the resident donut production expert, but he was the man with the sash, so I smiled and gave him a nod. When dealing with men wearing sashes, it was best to pretend like I gave a shit about their opinions.

“We’re hoping to have it operational by next year,” I lied through my teeth. Now it was not-so-future Holly’s problem.

When I got a moment, I’d sit and make a brief note for my brother about his upcoming business plans.

The judge finished his first donut and then took a second while looking over my informational display board. I’d pasted pictures of the farm and a few of our local events over the years. Hope glued a picture of an ambulance picking up Drake and the woman who shot him at our Easter event, but thankfully I noticed the indiscretion as I set up the display and taped over the offending picture with one of our branded coasters.

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