one
. . .
STELLA
Winterberry Farm’sbig holiday event was in full swing around me. The tree farm stretched out in neat rows, families wandering through, carrying thermoses and arguing about Fraser Fir versus Balsam.
Speakers tucked near the Price farmhouse rang out with Bing Crosby and Mariah Carey. A hundred or so feet away, a gaggle of kids shrieked over Harrison Prescott’s goats. A bell rang every time someone bought a wreath from Holly Bascombe of Flowers By Holly.
I had spent all week prepping, including hand-labeling the batch of beer I’d named Wicked Bite, a rich, malty ale with orange peel, cardamom, and just enough cinnamon and nutmeg to feel festive without tasting like a Yankee Candle.
Crisp December air nipped at my cheeks as I poured a ribbon of amber ale into a glass. The beer caught the pale winter sun and glowed molten copper against the white folding table.
“Don’t spill anything, and don’t you dare throttle anyone,” I murmured under my breath.
Reasonable goals for someone who’d spent her entire life being judged for her clothes, her size, her tattoos. My absolute refusal to apologize for taking up space.
I’d learned early on that people mistook self-protection for bitchiness, and frankly, I’d stopped caring about the difference.
Today, at least, I’d try not to prove them right.
Across the way, Harrison stood behind the Mistletoe Creamery table, dressed in a navy peacoat, his blond hair tucked under a hand knit beanie, surrounded by artfully arranged boards of cheese, candied nuts, dried fruits, and crackers. He caught my eye and lifted a wedge of goat brie in a toast.
I snorted and tipped my glass in reply.
It still did something warm and stupid to my chest seeing Jeremy and Harrison so happy together. Jeremy—who was just as prickly and guarded as I was, who’d also learned that armor was easier than vulnerability. When he’d told me the other day he was imagining a future with the dashing goat daddy, I almost couldn’t believe it.
But seeing them together, watching the way grumpy Jeremy’s eyes lit up every time his boyfriend looked his way? Well, it almost made me believe in love and happily-ever-afters.
Almost, but not quite.
To my left, Holly fussed with a bouquet, adding one more sprig of eucalyptus. The beautiful florist’s station was a riot of color in the gray afternoon—wreaths, bouquets of winter greenery, and bundles of mistletoe tied with red velvet ribbon. She also had glitter dusted across her cheekbone that she didn’t seem to notice.
“You’re sure my sign looks okay?” Holly called out, stepping back to stare at the chalkboard leaning against a crate of wreaths. “‘Holiday in Bloom’? Not too cutesy?”
“You’re fine.”
I didn’t know Holly well—our paths had only crossed a few times in the women’s entrepreneur group in town—but I knew enough aboutpeopleto recognize when someone was forcing a cheerful facade.
I knew because I’d been doing it since high school, when being the fat goth girl with the weird clothes made me an easy target. Smile, deflect, never let them see how their words landed. I’d gotten so good at it that most people assumed I was just naturally prickly, never realizing my thorns were there to protect the soft parts underneath.
“Okay,” she murmured, smoothing her hands briskly over her apron. “Good. Great.” A beat later, her brightness clicked back on. “By the way, your lipstick looks amazing. Very festive.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, touching my bottom lip on reflex. It was a new matte burgundy I was trying out that claimed to last up to twenty-four hours. So far, so good.
Holly looked like she had another compliment locked and loaded, but a couple approached my table before she could fire. I pivoted into my business-owner persona, the one that gamely tolerated crowds and holiday nonsense without snarling.
“Hi there,” I said. “Want to try Wicked Bite? It’s got orange peel, cardamom, cinnamon, and just enough alcohol to get you through cutting down a tree with your family.”
They laughed, accepted the samples, and I answered questions about the beer’s ABV and whether it was available in cans yet (soon, if I could get the packaging line to cooperate).
Business. I could do business. Even with the wind sneaking down the collar of my coat, even with Christmas music threatening to lodge in my brain and not leave until March, this part was easy. Talk to interested folks about my beer. My passion. More importantly,sellit.
I handed off another glass, rinsed the empties out, and poured again. Over the next couple of hours, I lost track of how many times I repeated the phrases “hint of citrus” and “perfect with your holiday meal.”
The traffic was almost enough to make me stop looking for a certain hot as fuck lobsterman who took up way too much of my mental space.
“You absolutely do not care if he shows up,” I told myself under my breath as I wiped a small spill off the table.
