“Last time I was in Vermont, things seemed a little tense.”
“He’s like fucking burdock in the pasture,” I mutter.
I go back to the empty containers I carried in, scraping off every tiny bit of food before placing them in the recycling bin. Anything to avoid meeting Mik’s gaze, to avoid acknowledging the complicated tangle of emotions that comes with thoughts of Taylen Howard and the way his hostility burns like ice whenever our paths cross.
“I don’t know what that means.” Mik laughs. “I’d love to find out, but I have a sexy man in my bed upstairs and I’ve already left him alone too long. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sure thing.” I drop the last of the containers into the trash and then wash my hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll make my way home with the knowledge that I’m definitely there to stay. But right now, Vermont feels both too close and too far away, and Taylen… Taylen feels like a storm I’m not ready to weather.
2
TAYLEN
“The usual?”Joe asks from behind the bar, already reaching for the tap. His flannel shirt has more holes than fabric these days, but nobody would dare suggest he replace it. Some things in Winterberry are sacred.
“Make it the winter ale. Might as well embrace the season.”
Joe slides the glass across the bar. “How’s that new rotation working out? Heard you’re trying something different with the east field.”
Old Jim Turner’s head turns at that, his weathered face creasing with interest. “That sustainable stuff you were talking about at the co-op meeting?”
I take a slow sip of ale, letting the hoppy notes linger on my tongue before answering. “Early days yet, but the soil samples are promising. Thinking of expanding it next season if the numbers hold.”
“Always pushing boundaries, aren’t you?” Joe wipes down the bar, his movements as familiar as the creek that runs through my orchard. “Your brother would’ve?—”
“Been proud,” I finish for him, the words automatic now after all these years. The ale suddenly tastes bitter, but I force another swallow. “Yeah, I know.”
A wave of greetings ripples through the tavern as Finn breezes in with that perpetually harried expression of someone juggling too many plates at once.
“You’re late,” I say as he slides onto the stool next to me. “Let me guess. Emergency tinsel shortage? Santa’s elves unionizing?”
Finn ignores my ribbing, which is annoying because it’s the best part of our Friday drinks. “You try coordinating three different church choirs for the tree lighting ceremony. Sister Margaret’s convinced the Methodists are trying to upstage her sopranos. And it’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”
“Ah, yes, the great Christmas Carol Conspiracy of 2023.” I signal Joe for another round. “Truly the crisis of our time.”
“Mock all you want,” Finn says as Joe delivers our drinks. “But someone has to make sure this town doesn’t descend into holiday chaos. Did you know the craft fair committee is threatening to withdraw from the Christmas Festival? Apparently, the quilting circle felt underrepresented in the marketing materials for last year's festival.”
I lean back as we both stand, spotting an empty booth near the window. “And naturally, Vermont’s most eligible event coordinator is the only one who can prevent this catastrophe,” I say as we slide onto the worn leather seats across from each other.
“Damn straight.” Finn takes a long pull from his beer, then immediately grimaces at whatever notification just lit up his phone. “Oh god, now the elementary school principal wants to know if we can get live reindeer for the pageant.”
“Can’t you just stick antlers on some of the Petersons’ goats? Or maybe not. Those things will eat anything, including the set pieces, probably.”
That finally gets a genuine laugh out of him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You know, sometimes I miss when this town’s biggest event was the annual pie contest.”
“Truer words, my friend.”
“Speaking of drama, how’s the new irrigation system working out?”
I recognize the careful shift in his tone, the way he’s testing the waters. Finn never asks about farm operations. Event planning is his calling, not agriculture, and he’s always been grateful to have found his own path away from the family farm. “It’s fine,” I say slowly. “Why?”
“Just curious. You know, since you mentioned at the last agricultural committee meeting that you were looking to expand the sustainable practices program.” He takes another sip of beer, too casual. “Might be good to have some fresh perspectives on that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Fresh perspectives?”
“You know, other farmers who’ve implemented similar systems. People with experience in both traditional and modern methods.” His phone lights up again, casting a shadow across his neutral expression. “Just thinking aloud.”
