LINCOLN
Beau:
Nice. You’re screening my calls too? Wtf?
Lincoln:
Idk what to tell you, man. We’re running a farm and a bar over here.
Keeping your sister satisfied is also basically a full time job. Not that I’m complaining.
Beau:
I’m going to kill you for that.
It was Monday afternoon,our slowest day of the week, and I was working solo. The bar was quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the ceiling fan that had been threatening to die since I was a teenager.
I was wiping down the counter—again—and thinking about the blackberry cardamom jam I’d taste-tested this morning. Or,more accurately, the woman who made that jam and the way she’d looked the other day, pacing our tiny home like the world was crashing down around her.
Willa wasn’t the kind of woman who panicked. She was stubborn and tenacious and smart as hell. But when that email had come in, she’d spiraled. Full-on power walking in circles while muttering doomsday-level shit under her breath.
It had hit me then, like a brick to the face. This grant wasn’t just a shot in the dark for her. This wasit. Her dream. Her future. Everything she’d worked her ass off for hinged on this opportunity.
And the thought of losing that? Even just the possibility of it? Had wrecked her.
It had wreckedme.
I’d been racking my brain for days, trying to figure out how I could help. More than just taking her mind off it, which I excelled at.
And then I’d stumbled on something I hadn’t expected to find.
I’d been in the farm office, searching for an overdue bill, when I’d found a sheet of paper shoved under the stack. At first glance, it looked like garbage—a discarded note scribbled over that she’d forgotten to throw away.
But then I’d looked closer. Saw what was hiding beneath the angry black ink and indentations from a pen pressed too hard.
It was Willa’s dream, right there in black and white. A rough sketch of a logo with what was clearly supposed to be the farm’s name—rebranded to her vision.
I’d folded that mangled paper and tucked it into my pocket. Hadn’t mentioned it to her. But the image had rooted itself in the back of my mind, same way she had.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since—how much she wanted this. How much she deserved it.
How far we could take it, if only she’d let me run with it.
I knew she didn’t believe me…didn’t trust in herself. Luckily, I trusted in her enough for both of us.
And it wasn’t just me believing in her—it was this whole town. The Strawberry Festival proved as much. Our line had been longer than the one for the strawberry funnel cakes, which was serious business in Starlight Cove.
Between selling out before noon, people doubling back to ask if we shipped, and Mabel damn near strong-arming Willa into a wholesale partnership, I’d realized something. Those people weren’t just buying jam or honey. They were buyingher. Willa. Her hard work and her dream, all backed by the farm everyone knew and loved.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much bigger it could be.
The front door to One Night Stan’s creaked open, and in strode Atlas. Brow creased, eyes pinched, mouth set in a firm line. Coach Asshole reporting for duty.
“Just get done with training camp?” I asked, uncapping a bottle of his favorite beer and setting it on the bar.
“What was the giveaway?”
“That Coach Asshole scowl you should trademark.”
