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I end the call, and the warm little world inside this truck shatters in an instant.

"Audrey, I'm sorry. I'll drop you back at the resort first, it's on the—"

"No."

"It's going to be a long night of physical labor in the freezing—"

"Miles." She's already folding her list away, already buckled, already in. "I just listened to that entire call. Your family has a disaster, a deadline, and a damaged inventory. Do you have any idea what I do for a living? Disasters with deadlines are my love language."

"You're wearing those." I point at her boots.

They're cute, small, and built for market strolling. Utterly useless for roaming through a tree field in the dark.

Audrey looks down at them then back up at me.

"What do you suggest? Because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

"Then I hope you packed your boots, Runaway." I put the truck in gear and swing us toward the road out of Chilmore. "Because you're about to meet my family."

Chapter 9

Audrey

The Stratton Christmas Tree Farm appears through the falling snow like the exact kind of thing the Mistletoe Resort spent millions trying to fake.

Rows of fir trees stretch across the hills in perfect dark lines beneath fresh snow. Warm lights outline a rustic timber barn where smoke curls from the chimney. And as we pull in off the road, a little roadside shop glows beside a hand-painted sign that says:

STRATTON FAMILY CHRISTMAS TREES — EST. 1947.

"Miles," I whisper, looking stunned out the window. "Is this your family's farm? It's beautiful."

"This is it. That tiny little shop used to open every day this time of year." He nods at it as we pass slowly in the warmth of his truck. "Now it sits dark half the week because there aren't enough customers to justify staffing it. Everyone buys their stuff online now."

"The barn looks like it's from a children's storybook," I say, still smiling.

Miles follows my eyes. "The tractor beside it doesn't start anymore, though. Those ladders under the shelter are broken, too. And that pile of metal used to be a baler before we stripped it for parts."

I stare at him. "Do you do this at art galleries too?"

"Do what?"

I roll my eyes and laugh as I put on a posh voice to mock him. "Oh look, lovely painting, but the frame's got termites.'"

He chuckles and shakes his head. "I'm just saying pretty doesn't pay the bank. The farm's getting old. That's all."

But then we round the barn and suddenly, pretty stops being the problem.

Because the loading area is absolute carnage.

Crushed Christmas trees lie scattered across the snow like casualties beneath a collapsed metal rack that's sprawled over a trailer. Three enormous men are shouting over each other in the floodlights, their gesturing growing increasingly violent the closer we get.

"Fuck," Miles breathes. "This looks worse than I thought."

He's out of the truck before it fully stops and every Stratton head turns. And then as I climb down, every Stratton head notices me, stepping out of the passenger side wearing Miles's coat.

The shouting and finger pointing dies instantly.

"Holy shit," says the one holding a clipboard. "It's the truck woman. From the Bluetooth call. Miles brought home the truck woman."