Page 1 of Three Days of Holiday

1

HOLLY

“Holly, did you see the hottie at your ten o’clock?” Hope asked as she haphazardly tossed a box of half-gallon cider containers into the exposition hall.

I glanced up for less than half a second before my attention returned to table placement. “Yeah, he’s okay.” Normally, I took the time to look at a hot guy, but Oceanview Orchards had too much at stake for me to divert my attention.

My sister Hope was the youngest of five. As my only sister, I brought her along, but she didn’t fully understand the importance of winning today’s event. The entire future of Oceanview Orchards rested on our backs, and she was ogling a hot dude.

“You didn’t even look,” she said, leaning up against the carton of ciders and pushing them off to the side. It resembled the leaning tower of cider.

I placed my palm hard against the other side and pushed back, forcing her to stand up straight. Shemotioned toward the hot guy with her chin and a deep sigh, so I did the obligatory sister glance.

In the middle of a flock of women, making it easy to determine exactly who she was staring at, stood the hottest man I’d ever seen. He was too far away to see the color of his eyes, but he highlighted his perfect jawline when he tipped his head back and laughed and then used his left hand to push back a few strands of his slightly shaggy brown hair behind his ear. Classic Hollywood move.

Focus, Holly. I don’t have time to be infatuated with someone.

We had a family business to save. Well, maybe not save, but bolster.

“See, isn’t he gorgeous?” Hope started again, this time sounding dreamy.

I nodded. If appeasing her got her back to work, I’d do what needed to be done. “Okay, he’s cute. Are you happy?”

She grinned as only a younger sister could. “Yes.”

I rolled my eyes but did so with my back turned so she didn’t see. “Can you please run to the van and get me two more tablecloths?”

One of the last people to stop at our refreshment stand dumped half a glass on my cloth. I’d wiped up the spill, but it left a sticky residue. We didn’t have time for sticky. My nerves rolled with the anxiety getting me through this competition.

With so much riding on this event, I didn’t have time for any mess-ups.

“Fine, but you’re so bossy,” Hope said and then swept her way toward the rear exit.

“Because I am the boss,” I yelled at her retreating backside.

Shit.

Something smelled. Sticky. That was never good.

I was already a nervous wreck and worried my blood pressure was going through the roof. With my nose in the air, I searched for the new culprit. No one was going to ruin this day for me.

“No, you don’t, asshole,” I whispered when I located the traitor.

Cider dribbled through a half-gallon container that looked like the plastic had cracked open at the bottom. Probably the non-careful way my family unloaded the supplies. The spill arched toward the front of my booth and tipped over the side. I needed to get a handle on the situation before the catastrophe worsened.

Aware that with every wasted second more cider leaked onto the floor, I scanned the area, searching for a large trash can. I didn’t pack one because I didn’t want our booth looking trashy. It made sense at the time! Don’t judge.

The closest one, a large fifty-gallon black container, sat out in the hallway to my side. Without giving it another thought, I sped walked with the compromised container in that direction, dribbling cider the entire way.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no.” On the one day I needed everything to be perfect, one of our containers sprung a leak. I planned to blame a brother. I didn’t know which one yet, but this was somehow their fault. With three of them to choose from, I’d easily pin it on Holston, Haden, or Hale.

The cider leaked from the small crack faster, thedivide widening, and my dribbles went from a drop with every step to a thin line. I picked up my pace and, as soon as possible, chucked the cider into the trash bin, hoping no one witnessed my freakout or questioned the line of sticky liquid on the carpet.

The front of my black pants were wet with cider. Little splotches of liquid, no doubt picked up during my Olympic speed walk to the trashcan, deepened the color. My hands were sticky and smelled like cider.

I took a moment by the trashcan to get my wits about me so I didn’t fall to the floor and scream. Or cry. I didn’t have time for an epic meltdown.

It was just one bad container of cider. It didn’t mean we threw away the entire competition.

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