“Paul,” he corrected. “And thank you for waiting for me to get here. It’s a little later than I hoped, but my meeting went long.”
“No problem at all,” I said, shaking his hand. “Let me just get my gun.” I left him there to go into the barn for the shotgun that was older than me. It was the same one my dad used to harvest the mistletoe every year. Sure, I could use a more modern one, but this was part of the tradition.
After checking to make sure the shells were in the chamber, I slung it over my shoulder and grabbed a sack made of netting for the mistletoe once it was out of the tree.
He was waiting in the same place I left him when I came back moments later.
“All set,” I said. “We can take my truck. Driving out there will save daylight,” I noted. The old oak was at the edge of the property—and the only tree on the entire farm to host mistletoe.
“Oh, well, I was hoping we could wait for my son.”
“Brett?” I asked, flashing back to the way he’d leaned so close to Toby while he assisted with Marlowe’s paw.
“Yes. I asked him to meet us here. Thought some fresh air would do him some good.”
Before I could make up an excuse as to why we couldn’t wait, the sound of crunching gravel and the hum of an engine filled the air.
We both turned to the car pulling into the lot reserved for parking.
“That’s not his car,” Paul observed, staring at the dark-green Subaru Outback. He turned to me. “Maybe I’ll give him a call,” he said, pulling a phone out of the pocket of his dress coat.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” I said, watching Brett get out of the passenger side.
“What? Oh,” Paul said, seeing his son and lifting his hand to wave. “Who’s that with him?” he wondered.
Even though the car was parked so the driver’s side faced away, I knew. I knew exactly who was driving that car, and it wasn’t because it was familiar. It was because of the way my heart seemed to skip several beats before settling into an erratic rhythm. The way the tightness of my skin, which had been driving me mad all day, suddenly felt a lot like anticipation.
Please, n?—
Before I could even fully deny the inclination, a head full of dark, wavy hair popped up from behind the roof of the midsize SUV. The wind started playing in it almost instantly, as if Mother Nature couldn’t stop herself from flirting with him.
“Is that George Thomas’s boy?” Paul wondered. “Tobias.”
“Yep. That’s him,” I said, barely reining in the urge to call himToby the Terribleout loud.
“Well, what’s he doing here? Doesn’t he live in Boston?”
“He should have stayed there,” I uttered, earning a swift look from the mayor.
“What?” he asked.
“Uh, I’m not sure.” I amended.
“Dad,” Brett said, jogging over with a wave. “Sorry we’re late.”
I couldn’t help but arch a brow. “We?”
Brett nodded. “I told Toby I was coming out to help harvest the mistletoe, and he asked if he could come with.”
First of all, he wasn’t harvesting anything. He would stand there and watch. Probably cover his ears like his father.Pansy.
Second of all, Tobyaskedto come here? I’d drink an entire carton of spoiled eggnog if that were true.
“He’s an expert at harvesting mistletoe. He said he’d show me how it was done,” Brett told his father.
“You can hardly be an expert at something you haven’t done for over ten years,” I pointed out.
“You must be Mayor Schroder,” Toby said, his voice a lot closer than I anticipated.
