“It’s fine,” he said.
“Kent, seriously, you could get hurt, and we don’t have insurance to cover you, and if something happens you could probably sue us for everything we have, which admittedly isn’t much, but?—”
He lifted the Fraser fir upright with what appeared to be minimal effort and burst out laughing. “Sue you? The fuck am I going to sue you for?” He brushed pine needles off his borrowed jacket and grinned at me. “I’m a Bancroft. We don’t sue small-town farmers. We sue oil tycoons and corrupt business advisors and actual adversaries worth going after.”
I wasn’t entirely sure how to take that comment. Was it reassuring or vaguely insulting? I ignored it and decided to just accept the help gratefully and figure out the implications later.
“Thank you,” I said simply, and meant it.
“I saw the trees go down,” he said. “Quite the show.”
“Oops,” Ozzo said with a laugh as he picked up another tree.
We worked together to right the fallen trees. I found myself stealing glances at Kent when I thought he wasn’t looking. For someone who claimed to be a city boy, he was surprisinglystrong. He handled the heavy trees like they weighed nothing, using his legs and shoulders efficiently instead of just trying to muscle them up with his back like most people would.
There was something almost hypnotic about watching him work. Brom’s jacket was a little too small and showcased just how broad-shouldered the man was. He was wearing a pair of work gloves, something else borrowed from Brom. His thick thighs flexed in the designer jeans he wore every time he squatted to lift a tree. The fact that he never once complained about the cold or the pine needles or the fact that he was definitely going to need a shower after this was changing my mind about him.
“You’re staring again,” Ozzo said quietly beside me, elbowing me in the ribs just like he had the day before.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “I am not staring.”
“Uh-huh.” Ozzo was grinning now, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “You look at him like Buddy the Elf looks at maple syrup.”
“Shut up, Ozzo,” I said, giving him a shove. Of course, my shove was the equivalent of a butterfly attacking him. “Focus on the trees.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but he was still chuckling as he moved to help Kent with one of the larger Fraser firs.
When I spotted the first customers of the day pulling into the parking area, I quickly assigned Ozzo to finish up the last ten trees while I hurried over to greet the arriving families. The familiar rhythm of customer service immediately soothed my frayed nerves. I felt myself falling back into the cheerful, enthusiastic persona that had become second nature after years of working the farm.
The day had gotten off on the wrong foot, but it couldn’t stay there. I could salvage it. Iwouldsalvage it.
“Good morning!” I called out to the first family climbing out of their minivan. “Welcome to Northwood Christmas Tree Farm! Are you here to find your perfect tree?”
The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of happy chaos. I loved this part of the job, helping families find their perfect tree, hearing about their holiday traditions, and getting to be a part of the process that would create Christmas memories for years to come.
Mrs. Hodges from town brought me a container of her famous snickerdoodles, just like she did every year. Patrick, the guy that ran the grocery store, handed over a thermos of hot cocoa that he made especially for me. He’d been bringing me a thermos of hot chocolate for ten years. Ever since I polished off the container at the holiday party he threw ten years ago. It was kind of a running joke.
This was what I loved most about our community. I loved the way people took care of each other, especially during the holidays. These weren’t just customers. They were neighbors, friends, people who had been coming to our farm for decades and who brought their own children now to continue the tradition.
I helped a family find an eight-foot Noble fir for their living room. I always asked about their traditions. It was part of the process and people loved to share. The Bishop family was looking for something smaller for their apartment. They told me about their tradition of letting their four-year-old twins “help” decorate, which mostly meant the bottom third of the tree would be completely overcrowded with ornaments while the top remained bare.
It reminded me of my childhood. My mom had a tree just for me and Brom and then theprettyone that stood in front of the living room window.
During all of these interactions, I was acutely aware that Kent was still hanging around the property. He was watching me work with an intensity that should have made me uncomfortable but somehow didn’t. He truly seemed interested, like he was watching a show rather than observing my dailydulllife. He had struck up a conversation with Santa when Wesley arrived for his shift. I could hear their low voices and occasional laughter from across the lot.
When Emmy emerged from Santa’s cabin to remind Wesley that children would be arriving soon for their visits and he needed to be in position by the fireplace with his hot cocoa, Kent chatted with her too. He was acting like they were all best buds.
There was something different about him today. Less skeptical, more engaged, maybe? Like he was actually interested in understanding how this place worked instead of just tolerating it. It was weird in the best way.
When the initial rush of customers had been served and Ozzo had the tree loading well in hand, I found myself walking over to where Kent was standing near the payment booth, still watching everything with that thoughtful expression.
“Tell me something, Kent Bancroft,” I said, looking up at him with what I hoped was a teasing smile instead of the slightly breathless expression I was afraid might be showing on my face. “Why are you really out here?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His confident demeanor wavered for just a moment. I caught a glimpse of something more vulnerable underneath.
“What do you mean?” he asked, but I could tell he knew exactly what I meant.
“Yesterday you said you needed to speak with the owner about business,” I pressed, sensing an opportunity to finally get some real answers. “So what kind of business? If the Bancroftsare such a big deal, what do you want with us little old Northwoods?”
