Like a petulant child, Travis stomps off to the truck. His shoulders are drawn up tight around his ears, and every step radiates the attitude of someone who thinks he’s too good for the work he’s about to do.
I call Billy over to help, and we fall into our familiar rhythm of loading trees. Our shoulders bump as we haul them into the back of the truck, and the only sounds between us are the rustle of pine branches and the soft scrape of needles against our gloves.
“He doesn’t look too happy,” Billy mutters, trying not to glance at Travis through the windshield.
He’s sitting in the truck like a pouty princess, refusing to lift a finger to help load up. Honestly, I’m past caring. I’d rather have Billy’s steady hands than Travis’s half-hearted effort anyway.
“He’s not,” I say, shrugging. “And this is exactly what he’s getting every damn day until he pulls his head out of his ass and fixes his attitude.”
Billy laughs under his breath. He’s been around long enough to know Travis doesn’t like being told what to do, especially not by me.
“I wouldn’t want to be in your boots tonight. Bet he’ll be crying about it before he even walks through the door.”
“It’ll do him some good. He’s here to help, so that’s what he’s gonna do.”
We run through the orders twice just to be safe, and my pen scratches against the paper as I mark off numbers and names. Every tree needs a tag, every delivery needs a destination, and I’m going overit all again because Travis can’t be trusted to find his ass, let alone keep track of holiday orders.
An hour slips by with the kind of ease that comes from doing the same dance for years. Each wreath gets hung just right, while garlands are stretched into perfect lines. I’m adjusting the last stand when Savannah’s coffee wagon rolls into view, all vintage charm and chipped red paint like it’s been plucked straight out of a small-town Christmas movie.
The tiny blonde hops out of the truck like some winter fairy, all bundled up in a pale-pink knit hat and an oversized scarf, grinning as she flips on the string lights that run along the wagon’s roof. Within minutes, the warm scent of cinnamon and roasted espresso fills the air, blending with the fresh pine. Christmas music blasts from her speaker, and she’s humming along to my brother’s holiday record like she helped write every damn song.
Along with my brothers, she’s watched me stumble through every version of myself. She was there for the skinned knees and stupid dares; she stood by me through the teenage rage and those moments when missing my mom would hit so hard I couldn’t breathe. She watched me make some bad decisions and never made me feel like a complete screwup, even when I probably deserved it. And then, when life threw me the biggest curveball of all and I found out I was going to be someone’s father, she was right there holding me together while I tried to figure out how the hell a guy like me was supposed to raise a kid.
She’s my best friend and the sister I never had.
I work on setting up the cart, getting it ready for when Preston does the sleigh rides later—an old tradition that’s been around since I was a boy. The kids love it, getting hauled around the farm in a wagon lined with hay bales and thick blankets while the horses puff out clouds of steam in the cold. The whole thing is festive as hell, and it should make me happy, but it feels like the joy is happening around me, not inside me.
As much as I love this place, and it’s a huge part of me, I don’t have anyone to share it with. Not really. My son doesn’t give a shit about any of it. He has no interest in the farm, the traditions, or the peoplewho keep this place alive, and that’s why I hold onto the ones who do care. It’s why the people who work here aren’t just employees, they’re family. They’re the ones who put in the work, who share the same love for this land, and make the long days and cold mornings worth it.
They’re the reason this place keeps running, why I keep going, and when Savannah hands me a coffee and the sun breaks through the trees, I remind myself that this right here is what matters.
“Mornin’,” she says, nudging me with her elbow.
“Morning yourself.” I nudge her back, trying to lose myself in the view of frost-tipped trees stretching out before us. But the weight in my chest won’t budge.
“What’s wrong?” When I just shake my head, she presses on. “Don’t even try it. I’ve known you too long. I can see it all over your face.”
I blow out a slow breath. “I’ve done something stupid.”
“Safe space, you know that.”
“I found Piper alone in my kitchen this morning…”
She stills. “Ah.” A pause. “Okay… I’m listening.”
Chapter 8
Piper
Despite wearing five hundred layers,the cold still bites at any exposed skin as I leave the house. My cheeks feel like they’ve been slapped by Jack Frost, and I’m pretty sure my nose is attempting to divorce my face.
I spot Christian standing by a metal trailer, with his back to me, and my heart does that treacherous little skip it’s been doing since he left me as a puddle on the kitchen floor.
We got close to something we shouldn’t have in the early hours of this morning, but I didn’t hate a single second of it.
Whatever loyalty I had left for Travis went up in flames the moment Christian looked at me like he was one second from losing control and still somehow holding the line.
Not that it matters because I know he won’t let it happen again.
