Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
“I’d love to see the business,” Dawson says around a hearty bite of a cookie. “I’m fine to head over there.”
I meet Mom’s eyes, and there’s a twinkle there because she’s enjoying this—me bringing a guy home. We retrieve our coats, and I hand Dawson a pair of waterproof boots to slide into. “We always keep extra pairs.”
He blinks a few times like he’s trying to take it all in. “Thanks.”
Outside the wind has picked up, so I adjust my hat over my ears and turn toward our snowmobiles stored on the side of the house.
“You two go ahead,” Mom says, zipping her coat to her chin. “I feel like a walk.”
“I don’t mind walking either,” Dawson says, throwing me a pointed look.
“Are you sure?” I mouth, and he nods vigorously.
Dawson takes a step back. “Please, lead the way.”
“Will do,” Mom and I say in unison, and I bark out a laugh.
Dawson grins. “My brother and I do that all the time.”
I try to envision the two of them as kids, finishing each other’s sentences or getting on each other’s nerves, but it’s hard.
“Brother?” Mom inquires.
I throw him a quick glance. “Uh, Dawson has a twin named Nathan.”
“How lovely.” She glances at me. “Can you tell them apart?”
“Oh God, definitely,” I blurt, then clear my throat because my response was way too telling.
“I keep my hair a bit longer than my brother’s,” Dawson thankfully interjects. “Our personalities are different too. He’s all corporate whereas I own a small beverage business in town. It’s called Sip and Savor.”
Mom’s cheeks are rosy as she grins. “Is that how you met?”
“Yes,” I reply, “it’s down the street from my office building.” Glad we had this conversation in the car, seeing as it’s coming alive now. “His lattes and smoothies are the best. The wraps too.”
“We’ll have to try them our next visit to Boston.”
“Yes, ma’am…I mean, Donna.”
Blooming Acres is located just beyond a row of tall pines that borders the fields where we grow berries and flowers in the warmer months and harvest trees for the holiday season. Besides the rows of pines for sale, there’s a storefront that sells anything from gardening supplies to seasonal decorations. Space on the gravel driveway is limited, so cars are parked anywhere the customers can find a spot.
“Wow, this place is hopping,” Dawson says as we wind around a line of cars parked in uneven rows.
“Yeah, the week before Christmas is a bit chaotic.”
“But we love it because it keeps us busy—and afloat.” Mom pats his shoulder, then makes a beeline for the store, no doubt to step behind the counter and help our staff.
I point out our pines for sale and explain how we get them ready for transport once the customer decides which they want.
“Do you grow all these trees on your property?”
“Most, yes. For every tree we sell, a new one is planted.”
His eyes grow wide. “That’s amazing.”
Or to use his word, magical? Yeah, maybe it is. Been so long since I thought about it.
“Grab some work gloves, boys,” Dad says from behind us. “Some families need help choosing their trees.”
I wince even though I’m not surprised. Dad can be very business oriented during peak times. “Do you mind?” I ask Dawson. “I can just—”
“I told you, I’d love to help.”
Donning our gloves, we head toward the rows of trees for sale, and Dawson listens as I describe the different options to a family of four. “This one is a Fraser. It’s a bit pricier, but the branches are sturdier, so needles won’t fall off as fast.”
Dawson follows one of the sons to another tree nearby he seems intent on.
“And that one is a balsam, which will give off that strong pine smell people love. The branches are more flexible for hanging ornaments.”
Once they make their decision, I direct them to pull their car up front. Dawson helps me carry the tree to our barn, where we wrap it with netting and twine. “Wow, you’re good at this.”
I grin. “Years of practice.”
We tag the tree with the family’s name, hand it off to one of our seasonal workers herding the line of cars, and head back to help another family. Dawson seems to revel in chatting with the folks, and I suppose that’s true of him in his shop in Boston as well. He’s so personable, he’d likely fit in well anywhere. Except maybe the corporate world.
Turning toward a slew of new customers, I freeze. “Oh shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Dawson asks as he looks in the direction of two men heading our way.
“That’s Mark with his husband.” Mark looks virtually the same with his dark hair and freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. His husband is fair skinned and handsome.
“At least you’re getting it over with early,” Dawson mutters as they approach.
Mark stops in front of us, seeming speechless before forcing out, “Briar, hey.”