And then the perfect idea hit me.
“You know what you need?” I sat up straighter, my brain firing on all cylinders. “A full-blown, family-friendly experience. Hayrides, haunted barns, spiked cider for the parents. People love taking selfies with scarecrows and buying homemade jams. The key is creating a social media–worthy vibe. If you make it fun, peoplewillcome back.”
My attention returned to Mr. Stafford. The sparkle was back in his eyes, but he shook his head. “Hard to maintain a profit when you’re only taking in money for one season.”
I scoffed, undeterred. “One season? Who said that? You’ve got three other seasons to explore—people need Christmas trees. They already love apples. What about flowers and weddings? Oh!” I clasped my hands together. “A wedding! The top of that dune cliff would make for the most amazing photos.”
The lines deepened on his face. “You really think people would come to something like that? Even after all these years?”
I grinned, knowing I had hooked him. The heady rush of closing a deal zipped through me. “Absolutely. People are obsessed with fall nostalgia these days. Plus, families are looking to get off devices and makerealmemories. You don’t have to make it perfect—just make it fun. I would be happy to help you brainstorm.”
“My Karen would have loved this.” Mr. Stafford slapped the table. “You’ve got the vision, Miss Elodie,I’ll give you that! There was a time I had considered selling the place, but what you’re saying ... well, that sounds like Karen’s dream come true. I think we should do it.”
I grinned but quickly recovered as his words fully registered. “Uh ...we?” I let out a nervous laugh. “I mean, I was just spitballing, Mr. Stafford. Brainstorming. Thinking theoretically.”
He nodded. “Yes, of coursewe. I can’t do anything without a visionary like yourself. I’m just an old man.” He gestured toward himself. “I can’t pull this off without some help. If you’ve got ideas, I’ve got the space—and plenty of money to make it happen.”
He winked and I was utterly charmed. “Um ...” I tried to think on my feet. I needed a way out of this, to gently let the sweet old man down, but I came up blank.
“I mean ... I am kind of in between projects at the moment,” I hedged, suddenly feeling like I had stepped onto a conveyor belt moving at full speed. “But I’m only staying with Selene for a few days. Just a quick pit stop before figuring out my next big move.”
Caught between guilt—Ihadmade it sound amazing—and my childhood fondness for the farm, I was stuck.
“Don’t you worry.” He patted my hand.
Oh, I was very much worried. I had come home for a temporary emotional reset, not to accidentally sign up for a full-scale farm restoration. But somehow Mr. Stafford had me by the metaphorical balls.
And worse? A tiny, traitorous part of me was ...intrigued.
I imagined the farm, picturing it the way it used to be—families wandering the pumpkin patch, the smell of fresh cider doughnuts, bonfires crackling in the cool autumn air. The idea shouldn’t have beenso tempting.
But, damn it, it was.
“I’ve got the perfect place for you,” he continued smoothly, like a man who hadabsolutelyjust hustled me. “And I’ll pay you handsomely. What do you say?” His eyebrows did a little bounce, and he was fully aware he had me backed into a corner.
A spark of excitement zipped through me, fast and electric. The idea shouldn’t have felt this tempting, but there was no denying it—it did.
I wasn’t staying, obviously. This wasn’t my life. But maybe, just maybe, helping out for a little while would be good for me too.
Besides, what harm was a fun little distraction until something more serious came along?
Laughter bubbled up in my chest, bright and unstoppable, as I stuck out my hand. “You, Mr. Stafford, are a dangerous man. But hell—why not? Let’s save a farm.”
FOUR
CALLUM
Losing sucked.
Losing after a god-awful ninth inning where my best teammate let a ground ball roll straight past him? That was downright infuriating.
The guys and I played every Wednesday night for the Remington County men’s twelve-inch, slow pitch softball league. Sure, we were the second-oldest team in the league, and our postgame ritual almost always included icing sore muscles and creaking knees, but we loved it.
Losing was a serious hit to our collective pride.
“I swear, Hayes,” I muttered as I yanked off my baseball cap and dragged a hand through my damp hair before putting it on backward. “Did you not see the ball? Were your eyes closed?”
Hayes Darling, former town golden boy and reigning champion of bad luck, slumped against the dugout bench with a groan. “You think I wanted that to happen? I got caught in the sun.” He held up his glove. “Besides, the stitching tore out of this fucking thing.”
