1
“That’s the last bag,” I sigh, dropping my fourth suitcase onto the ground, using the back of my wrist to wipe sweat from my forehead.
“You should’ve asked one of my neighbors to help,” my sister Chelsey says, her injured foot propped up on the coffee table, wrapped up in medical bandage. “I’d hate for us both to get hurt.”
Tugging my hair up into a ponytail, I wipe sweat off the back of my neck and flop down next to my sister. “That would be a drag but don’t worry, I’m okay.” I nod at her foot, which she injured while shooing away the wild bunnies when she caught them in her garden. “Do you need anything?”
She lifts her carrot cake latte, her Kindle already on her lap, and smiles. “I’m all set.”
I pat her leg. “Okay, I’m going to take my bags to my room, then get to work on the Eggstravaganza. I’m sorry you can’t do it this year, but I promise, I’ll take care of everything.”
My sister moved to Carrot Creek after college, seeking a peaceful life of gardening around her cottage, in a very small town, surrounded by animals and flowers, and smiling townsfolk. Not only did she find all of that here, but she also discovered in her first year of living in Carrot Creek that they gohardfor Easter.
I mean, Easter is to Carrot Creek what Mardi Gras is to New Orleans.
It’s lit.
Chelsey believed she was fated to live here when she discovered the town was in need of someone to run their annual Easter Eggstravaganza. I thought it was more of a coincidence than anything else, since the woman who used to run it choked on a chocolate egg and croaked. Believing the job to be cursed, because Carrot Creek is apparently quite superstitious, no one wanted it until my sister volunteered.
That was six years ago, and she’s been hosting the best Easter party for the town ever since. Except this year. And the town is so superstitious that Chelsey is hiding in her cottage, pretending to be hard at work in preparation for the party. If they find out she’s hurt, they may think Easter is cursed, and that the party isn’t supposed to happen.
I encouraged her to explain to them that she fell in a rabbit hole in her garden, and hurt her foot. But she was too worried, and now I’m running this whole thing on my own, pretending to just help.
I’m happy to do it, though. I love spending time with my sister, and even better, she shares my obsession with romance novels so while I’m here, I’ll sift through the collection we split years ago when she moved here.
Snatching my big roller suitcase by the handle, I toss my duffel on top and wheel down the hall toward the spare room. Jared would have hated it here, with all the trees, pasture, flowers, and sunlight. Even though getting dumped was hard, I remind myself that we weren’t meant to be, and it’s time to move on.
Planning Carrot Creek’s Easter Eggstravaganza is just what I need.
Nudging the door open with my foot, the first glimpse steals my breath. A queen bed centers the room, draped in a floral quilt so soft and inviting it begs to be rolled up in, with pale roses and lavender twining across cream cotton. A vintage dresser sits against the wall, topped with a pink porcelain lamp, its shade edged in delicate lace like something from our grandmother’s hope chest. The air wraps around me, sweet with vanilla and fresh linen, while the thick carpet plushes between my toes like summer grass.
Fresh-cut flowers, what appear to be peonies and snapdragons, spill from a vase on the bedside table, their perfume curling into every inhale. Hand-sewn purple curtains frame the window, tiny yellow daisies stitched along the hem in cheerful, imperfect rows. Chelsey made those when she first moved in, I remember the photo she text messaged me. Seeing them in person makes me smile.
I drop my bags and cross to the window, tugging the curtains wide.
Sunlight pours in from outside, where rolling emerald pastures seem to stretch on forever. Orange carrots poke up from the soil, begging to be plucked. Flower beds burst in pinks, purples, and sunny yellows, while gauzy clouds drift across a heartbreakingly blue sky. To the left of Chelsey’s cottage stands another, smaller one, its backyard an explosive of carrots and color.
“Oh.” My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it.
There, in the neighboring garden, is a man who looks like he was carved from summer itself. Shirt off and tucked into the back pocket of faded jeans, the fabric sways with every powerful thrust of his shovel. Sweat gleams across broad shoulders and impressive pecs, tracing rivulets down his chest dusted with tawny hair that trails lower, disappearing into the low-slung denim. My mouth goes dry and my pulse goes into overdrive.
He pauses, drags the back of his wrist across his forehead, leaving a faint smear of dirt. Then he stacks both palms on the shovel handle and straightens, chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. Those jeans have seen years of honest work, evident by the faintness of the fabric at his knees, his thighs streaked with earth. His brown boots are sun-bleached and mud-caked, planted wide like he owns every inch of ground beneath them.
I should look away. But I don’t.
Heat blooms low in my belly, sudden and shameless. He hasn’t even seen me yet, and already I’m imagining the salt of his skin, the rough callus of those hands, the way that low, steady gaze might feel if it ever landed on me.
Welcome to Carrot Creek, indeed.
I’m not obsessed with Easter the way my sister is, but man, having this hunk next door makes mea lotmore excited.
2
Today I learned that you can get sick of anything if you’re around it too much, even good things, like chocolate. Peeling off my gloves and tossing them in the waste basket, I sink down onto a bag of flour, powder temporarily clouding around me. Tipping my head against the cooler door, I let out a long sigh.
“I don’t know how she does this,” I say aloud, talking to no one because my sister wasn’t kidding when she says she really does all of the prep by herself. She couldn’t be here today, because of an appointment for her foot, so I really fulfilled her role, even though she’s going to try to help as much as she can.
Today I started work on the confections for the Eggstravaganza, specifically, on the chocolate eggs. I have another day left of making eggs before I can move onto petit fours, then dying the real eggs. Then there’s stuffing plastic eggs for Carrot Creek’s kids, who all participate in the hopping contest after the egg hunt. Tables need to be set up, banners need to be made and hung, signs need to be strewn, invites delivered—you name it and it likely needs to be done.
