Chapter Text
"Michaela, PAY attention."
I lean back in my chair and start rummaging, rather clumsily, through the stack of papers in the file cabinet right behind me. I let out a quiet curse when my fingers hit the edge of one of the corners and the sheets cascade like a white waterfall onto the floor.
"Pay attention, I need you to stop talking about pizza for just a second."
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
"But I was getting to the best part."
What she means is that she was about to start rambling on about homemade cheese. I feel like I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to listen to her describe types of mozzarella in such detail right now. As a data analyst, Michaela is bizarrely meticulous about everything. Especially food. I start massaging the pain point right between my eyebrows.
“I know that, sorry, but I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Everything okay?” I hear the sound of a horn in the background, a muffled curse from Michaela, and the repetitive beep of her turn signal as she changes lanes.
“Everything… okay.” I look at the budget spreadsheets scattered across the floor and grimace. “I mean… Everything’s fine. It’s just that…”
The little confidence I’d mustered for this conversation vanishes instantly, and I slump into my chair. Every time I’ve called Michaela this week—or she’s called me—I’ve ended up giving up in the end. I don’t think today will be any different.
“I have to hang up. One of the suppliers is calling me.”
I frown, staring at my own reflection on the computer screen. I have deep dark circles under my eyes, my lower lip is swollen from biting it out of sheer nervousness, and my hair is pulled back into a bun so messy that I look like a Victorian doll who just stepped out of a horror movie.
I look just as exhausted as those budget papers on the floor.
“I know no vendors are calling, but I’ll pretend to believe you.” Michaela’s tone sounds amused. “Call me when you’re done with work, okay? We’ll talk about whatever it is you’ve been trying to tell me all week.”
My reflection on the screen frowns even more.
“Maybe.”
She lets out a short laugh.
“See you later.”
I turn off my phone and feel an overwhelming urge to throw it away. Michaela can read me completely, and that’s the last thing I want right now. To be honest, I never want that. I’m afraid of what she’ll find when she starts analyzing my data.
My phone vibrates in my hand with a new message. I flip it face down and bury it under a pile of bills. It vibrates again. I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the exhaustion weigh me down.
The way my finances are, my options are disappearing way too fast. I thought… I think I really believed that owning a Christmas tree farm would be something romantic and magical.
I had dreams of perfect holidays. Kids running among the pine trees. Parents sipping hot chocolate and exchanging stolen kisses. All the things you see in Christmas songs. Couples realizing they’re standing under the mistletoe. Colorful lights, gingerbread cookies, and candy canes.
At first, it was great. The grand opening was a dream.
But after that, it was all downhill.
I’m drowning in debt to a fertilizer supplier who “forgets” to deliver my shipment every other month. I have a plot of land full of trees that look like they’ve come straight out of a horror movie, and a family of raccoons that decided to move into Santa’s barn with a very hostile attitude. In short: it’s not a winter wonderland. It’s a freezing, hellish place I can’t escape from, decorated with a red ribbon bow.
I feel cheated. Not just by the sappy movies I’ve seen, but by the former owner. That Hank guy forgot to mention that he’d stopped paying the bills months earlier and that I, as the new owner, would inherit the hole he dug. At the time, I thought it was the deal of a lifetime. The price was great, and I had amazing marketing plans. I thought that, with a little love, the farm would take off.
Now, I just feel stupid. I feel like I ignored all the warning signs because I wanted so badly to create something special.
I was totally fooled by the pine trees.
But I’ve found a solution. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to face the email sitting at the top of my inbox. To be honest, at this point, selling my organs seems like a less scary idea.
“Francesca.”
I jump when Beckett suddenly walks into the office. My arm knocks over the coffee, a nearly dead fern, and a stack of pine air fresheners. Everything falls to the floor, right on top of that mess of papers I call a filing system. I frown at my head farmer as I survey the damage.
“Beckett,” I whisper, feeling that headache behind my eyes start to spread to the base of my skull.
Beckett is physically incapable of entering a room in a normal, discreet manner. His knees are covered in mud. He must have come from the south field.
“What is it now?”
He steps on the pile of plants, paper, and coffee and plops himself into the armchair across from my desk—a hideous little leather thing that’s way too small, which I found on the street. My plan was to reupholster it in green velvet, but then the raccoons showed up. And the fence near the road fell down on its own. Twice.
So the armchair is still there. The brown leather is falling apart and letting the stuffing spill out. It strikes me as a perfect metaphor for my life.
Beckett looks at the faded cardboard decorations on the floor. One of his eyebrows rises.
“Can you explain to me why you have seventy-five gas station air fresheners in your office?”
Typical of Beckett to ignore the mess he made and meddle in my life. My cell phone vibrates again. Three times in a row. It must be Michaela lecturing me about the pizza crust or some vendor asking about payment.
Beckett’s eyebrows rise even higher.
“Or maybe you should check what’s behind door number two. Can you explain to me why you’re ignoring Michaela?”
I hate it when he acts all smart. He’s way more cunning than he looks with that small-town farmer vibe. I bend down, grab one of the air fresheners, and toss it into the bottom drawer of the desk. It’s a tangle of wires, moldy pine cones, and unrequited feelings.
There’s a pine cone in there for every time Michaela’s been over here since we were twenty-one. I always end up finding one hidden after she leaves. Under the keyboard or stuck in my coffee filter.
“No and no,” I mutter, giving a firm “no” to both of his questions. “Can you explain to me what you found out on the property today?”
Beckett takes off his hat and runs his hand through his blond hair, smearing mud across his forehead. He has sun-kissed skin and the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up. All the women in town are crazy about him—and that’s why he avoids going there.
And that’s why he hated it when I suggested creating a “hot farmers” calendar to save our finances. I swear we wouldn’t be in debt anymore if he’d let me go through with that idea.
“I don’t get it,” he mutters, running his finger along his jaw. If the women in town saw him now, they’d swoon. “Those trees should be the easiest to take care of.”
I look at him, and my look of discouragement mirrors his. Two sad clowns.
“I can’t think of a reason why the trees on the south lot look…”
I think of those crooked trees, with their brittle bark and falling needles.
“Like a nightmare version of that skinny Charlie Brown Christmas tree?” I venture.
“Yeah, kind of like that.”
Some people even seek out weird trees, but those are beyond saving. The other day I saw one falling apart just from looking at it.
“Will we be okay without them?” Beckett asks.
He looks worried, and he has reason to be. It’s yet another financial blow we can’t handle. I should tell him the truth: that we’re hanging by a thread. But the words won’t come out. He quit a stable job to come work with me and trusts in my success.
I’ve been keeping everything afloat with my savings and eating instant noodles every night just so I don’t have to cut anyone’s pay. But the money is running out. Something has to work out.
I look at the email on the computer.
“Well,” I say, biting my lip. It’s now or never. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”
I’d laugh at his face if I weren’t desperate. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.
"Francesca." He gulps, seeming to struggle for the right words. "This is… I don’t… I don’t see you that way. You’re like my…"
It’s been ages since I’ve seen this man stutter.
"Relax." I nudge an air freshener with the tip of my boot, trying to sound calmer than I really am. "I’m not talking about a real relationship."
I don’t notice the exact moment when Beckett goes completely stiff. I just notice his leg shaking nonstop, in a frantic rhythm. When I look up, he looks like he has a gun pointed at his head. It’s the same discomfort plastered on his face every time he has to go downtown.
“Francesca.” He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Are you asking me to…?”
"What? Oh my God, Beck…" I can’t stop the shiver running through my whole body. I love Beckett, but for God’s sake. "No! Oh my God, is that what you think of me?!"
"What do I think?! What do you think?" His voice rises to a pitch I’ve never heard before. He gestures nonstop, clearly not knowing what to do with his hands. "This is all so weird, Francesca!"
"I meant like a fake relationship!" I yell, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. As if it were normal to ask that of platonic friends. As if my vivid imagination and half a bottle of wine hadn’t gotten me into this mess. I click to open the email and stare at the screen sadly, ignoring the digital confetti exploding on the monitor. I watch the animation three times in a row and pretend that Beckett’s eyes aren’t burning a hole in the side of my head. “I did a thing,” I say, without adding anything else.
“A thing,” he repeats.
I make a random sound in response.
“Do you want to tell me what that thing is?”
No.
“I…”
As if summoned by my thoughts, Layla tiptoes into the office. A tray appears before her at the door, and the scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and cranberries fills the air.
Zucchini bread.
Like an angel, she brought zucchini bread. The one thing that always distracts Beckett.
He makes an almost obscene noise, and for a second, I think that recording Beckett eating zucchini would make a great video to make a few bucks online. I laugh to myself. He tries to grab the tray, but Layla taps his fingers with a wooden spoon she pulled out of nowhere. She balances the tray on the edge of my table. I almost cry. There are also chocolate chip cookies.
“I made a little something for you, boss.”
She pushes the tray forward and rests her chin in her hand, looking cute.
While Beckett is grumpy and closed off, Layla Dupree lights up any room with her sweet hospitality. She’s beautiful, with honey-colored eyes and short black hair. She’s so kind it hurts, and she makes the best hot chocolate in the area. I brought her on to handle the food at the farm as soon as I tasted one of her treats. She’s the third member of our group, and if she’s bringing me food, it’s because she wants something.
Something I probably can’t afford.
I shove a piece of bread into my mouth before she asks, determined to savor the taste before I have to say no.
My phone vibrates cheerfully on the table. Layla blinks, looks at Beckett, and then at me.
"Why are you ignoring Michaela?"
"I'm not…" A shower of crumbs accompanies my words. "I'm not ignoring Michaela."
It sounds more like an incomprehensible mumble. Layla lets out a doubtful sound and shifts in her seat.
"Well, I was thinking," she says.
Here it comes.
"If we put another stove in the kitchen, we could double production. We could even sell ready-made baskets for people to take out to the fields."
Beckett crosses his arms while I keep chewing. I ignore Layla for a second and stare at him.
“It’s still warm,” I say.
He grumbles. Layla gives up, rolls her eyes, and hands him a piece.
“If people start leaving trash on the property, I’m going to have problems,” Beckett complains. He shoves the whole piece into his mouth and leans back in his chair, making the leather creak.
“I love the idea, but maybe we need to wait a bit before making another big purchase.” I think about the dismal numbers in my savings account. I barely managed to pay last month’s bills.
Layla makes a sympathetic face and touches my hand. It’s a kindness I don’t deserve, since I haven’t told them we’re in a desperate situation.
“Are we doing okay?”
“We’re…” I search for a word to cover up the disaster “doing.”
Beckett swallows his bread and kicks the air.
“We were just talking about that. Francesca wants me to be her little toy.”
“Oh, really? Interesting. But I don’t see what that has to do with the farm.”
“Me neither. But that’s what she said when I asked.”
“Am I going to get an offer like that too?” Layla jokes.
I roll my eyes and don’t answer. Instead, I turn the computer screen toward them so they can see the confetti. Beckett doesn’t even blink, but Layla lets out a shriek that makes me cringe.
“Is this for real?” She grabs the computer and gets her nose almost right up against the screen. “You’re a finalist in that Evelyn St. James contest?”
Beckett stares at the zucchini bread with a blank look on his face.
“Eventim what?”
Layla slaps his hand again, without looking up.
“She’s an influencer.”
Beckett looks like he hasn’t a clue.
“Is this some kind of political thing?”
“What century do you live in? She’s a huge hit online. She partners with companies all over the world. It’s like a travel channel.”
I feel a little proud. Evelyn is the go-to source for anyone who wants to visit new places. Landing this partnership is like winning a fortune in free advertising. It would turn the farm into a famous destination. And the $100,000 prize would keep us running for another year.
Too bad I lied on the application.
“And what does that have to do with him being your little toy?”
"I didn't… I didn't suggest that to Beckett." I turn my laptop back toward me and minimize the email. I tap my fingers against my lips and remember the night that got me into this mess. I was on a video call with Michaela, a little tipsy from the white wine and the way the corners of her eyes crinkled. Michaela was making a silly joke about ham sandwiches and couldn’t stop laughing long enough to finish telling it. I still don’t know the punchline to this day.
“I said on the form that I own the farm with my boyfriend,” I mumble. My cheeks flush and feel hot. I bet I’m as red as a barn door. “I thought it would be more romantic than a sad, lonely woman who hasn’t had a date in seventeen months.”
“I hope you’re having casual sex every now and then.”
“Why do you need a boyfriend to be successful?”
Layla and Beckett speak at the same time, but to be fair, Layla puts in a lot more effort as she leans forward in her chair and shouts about my sex life. She leans back, mouth agape and hand on her chest, all dramatic.
“Geez, it’s no wonder you’re…” She points at me with her spoon, and I do everything I can not to blush even more. I must be almost the color of wine by now. “The way you are.”
I shift in my chair and move on. I don’t need to explain to Layla that dating in a small town has its complications, let alone hooking up without commitment.
“She’s coming here for five days for an interview, and we’re going to be on her social media. The boyfriend thing, I don’t know. I guess I thought having a boyfriend would make this place seem more romantic. She loves that whole romance stuff.”
Beckett snatches another piece of the zucchini bread, taking advantage of the fact that Layla is still in shock over my celibacy.
“Well, that’s ridiculous.”
I look at him.
“Thanks, Beckett. Your opinion was really helpful.”
“But seriously.” He splits the piece of bread in two. “You’ve made this place amazing. You. All by yourself. You should be proud of that. Adding a boyfriend to your story doesn’t make it any more or less important.”
I blink repeatedly, surprised by the wisdom.
“Sometimes I forget you have three sisters.”
He shrugs.
“I just said what I think.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to pretend you find me irresistible for a week?”
Layla shakes her head, finally snapping out of her trance.
“Terrible idea. Have you seen how he acts when he tries to lie to someone? You don’t even want to see it. He turns into a dork who only speaks one word at a time whenever he needs to go into town to shop.”
It’s true. I’ve had to go to the butcher’s more than once to pick up his order. I’m convinced that Beckett became a farmer just to have to deal with people less. He doesn’t like people, especially the way they flirt with him every time he goes into town. Sometimes I feel like Layla and I are the only ones immune to his charm, but that happens when you see a man cursing at the trees half the day, every day.
And when your heart has been longing for the same person for almost ten years.
I grab another slice of bread and start nibbling on it, weighing my options. Options other than Michaela. I could ask Jesse, the owner of the only bar in town. But he’d probably think it’s true, and I don’t have the energy for a fake breakup from a fake relationship. I could look into escort services, maybe? That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? To keep people company?
I press my fingers against my eyes, forgetting that I’m still holding the bread. The answer is obvious. It’s just that she scares me more than death.
“There,” Beckett murmurs, and I have to force myself not to throw the bread in his face. “She just thought of the solution.”
“I don’t know why you’re freaking out. It’s a simple solution. She’d do it in a heartbeat,” says Layla.
I peek at Layla through my fingers. She has a smug little smile on her face. All she needs is a cat on her lap to look like a movie villain. I don’t know why I thought she was such a sweetheart. Layla is mean.
“Ask Michaela.”