Wes’s eyes widened with realization. “Oh, I see.”
“I think Barb saw something with this banker?—”
“Jake.”
“Jake,” Pedro reaffirmed. “I think Barb saw something that reminded her of me and Titus roughly thirty years ago.”
“How did you manage...things?”Wes asked, intrigued.
“Trust. Trust your feelings. Trust your gut, as Titus would say. And while we’re on the subject, Titus never wanted to buy you out. He loves this town like no other. If Holiday Pines closed, it would break his heart. And it’s an enormous heart, I assure you. He only suggested a partnership to keep you here.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because he did the same thing with me. Of course, there may have been some ulterior motives, too.” Pedro concluded with a wink.
“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“You’ll figure it out. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, Wes. And for what it’s worth, I think you deserve good things. The farm, yes. But also...everything else.”
Wes didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded.
“Anyway,” Pedro said, shifting gears smoothly, “if you want to talk specifics—suppliers, equipment, that kind of thing—I’m happy to help. No strings. One businessman to another.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“Good. And if Jake needs a local perspective on anything, tell him to call me. Titus and I are happy to help however we can.”
“Thanks, Pedro,” Jake said, then added,“Really.”
They finished their coffee, talked through a few more practical ideas—pumpkin patches, maybe a small petting zoo for kids, and partnering with local schools for field trips. By the time Wes left, he had a notebook full of scribbled ideas and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
He sat in his truck in the parking lot, staring at his notes. Pedro’s words echoed in his head.
Trust your feelings.
Trust your gut.
You deserve good things.
Wes thought about Jake—the way he’d looked at him in the workshop, the tension that crackled between them like electricity, that brief touch.
Trust.
It was such a small word for such a big thing.
Wes started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. He had customers waiting, trees to load, and a farm to run.
But for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe—just maybe—things were going to be okay.
More than okay, even.
Trust.
Six
Thursday Afternoon.
Jake signed the last of the paperwork for the vineyard, shook hands with the owners, Keith and Sarah Whitlock, and climbed into his rental car feeling wrung out.
