“Always.”
The wrinkles around Sophie’s kind eyes crinkle in approval. “That’s my girl. Give ’em hell, kid.”
“I will,” I say with a nod. “Oh, I will.”
2
Lawrence
It is a truth, universally acknowledged that when a man with a Christmas tree farm closes shop for the season, he will be in need of a drink.
Luckily, I live in Sonoma County, California, which produces some of the best wine and craft beer in the world. And I have connections—talented connections—that provide me with a steady supply of the best of the best.
Dylan’s beers are always top-notch, but he’s outdone himself this time.
“Incredible,” I announce, setting my freshly cracked bottle of Over the Holiday Hump IPA back on the kitchen table between us.
“Yeah?” He narrows his eyes. “Really? You’re not blowing smoke up my ass? The clove aftertaste isn’t too much?”
“The clove is brilliant. And speaking of asses, when are you going to get off yours and open your own taproom? You’d have people lining up for every seasonal release.”
Dylan drags a hand through his sandy brown hair with a sigh. “I don’t know if it’s going to happen, man. At least not anytime soon. I have to get Dad sorted first. He wants to get back into making wine, and he wants grapes close enough to see out his bedroom window. But I did the math, and I can’t afford to pull out any of the hops on our land.”
“And Ms. Haverford still isn’t prepared to sell an acre or two?”
“Not yet,” he says, his eyes darkening. “But she will be. She’s going to get tired of playing farmer and go back to the city within a year. I’d bet my hands on it.”
I make a noncommittal sound and take another drink. I don’t know Emma Haverford well, but from what I’ve seen of the cheery blonde, she seems far too upbeat and determined to be scared away by the hard work of running her own vineyard.
Or by her cranky neighbor across the trail.
Speaking of cranky neighbors…
I glance out the window where Lucy Billings’s barn is silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky and wonder for the hundredth time when she’s going to forgive me my trespasses from last holiday season.
Probably never. I really mucked up royally with her.
In my defense, she’d just ended things with a man she’d been dating for eight years and had called me Bill—twice—while we were tearing each other’s clothes off. The combo had made me certain faking a blackout the next morning was the best call for the both of us—at least until she indicated her interest in something more than a New Year’s Eve fling.
That, however, was the wrong call. And then some.
The image of her face, pale and sad beneath her freckles, haunts me to this day. But no matter how kind or solicitous I’ve tried to be to make up for my error in judgment, Lucy still hates me like paper cuts plunged into a vat of lemon juice.
“But whatever.” Dylan takes a hearty swallow of his beer. “I can wait. I’m a patient man.” He tips his bottle my way. “What about you? Any word from Reed about those ten acres?”
“Yes. Today, actually. He gave me until the second to make an offer before it goes on the market. A special courtesy since our land abuts on one side.” I exhale, my gaze drifting to Lucy’s barn again, a sign of weakness that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“You can’t pass on this because of Lucy,” Dylan says gently. “I mean, I like her a lot, and her grandparents were great people. But there’s plenty of room for two tree farms in town, and it makes sense for you to expand.”
I grunt. “Ms. Billings would disagree with you, I believe.”
“Well, she’s wrong. Half of Sonoma County heads up here before the holidays. You’ve seen how crowded it is, and it’s getting worse every year.”
“Or better,” I counter, “if you happen to be a tree farmer.”
Dylan nods, acknowledging my point. “Right. There are more than enough festive, tree-hunting people around to sustain both businesses and support the expansion of your operation.” He shrugs. “And Victoria Trees has a totally different vibe than Gramp’s Farm. You’re high-class, and Lucy’s down-home. You’re catering to different customers, so you’ll both be fine.”
“I think you’re right.” I spin my bottle in a slow circle and watch the light from my kitchen fireplace play across the dark glass. “Perhaps if I discussed it with Lucy before putting in an offer, she’d see things our way and give her blessing?”
Dylan laughs. “Um, yeah. Good luck with that. I’m pretty sure she hates your guts, friend.” He lifts a hand, fingers spread. “I mean, maybe I was misreading the way she rolled her eyes at you at the Halloween carnival, but…”
“No, you weren’t misreading,” I say dryly. “She loathes my smug, slimy English face. Her words.”