Lovelight Farms: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Read online

  “Well, funny story,” he draws. “I’m actually in town visiting my mom. I can be at your place in twenty?”

  Crap.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say faintly, panicking. Leave it to Luka. I remind myself that he is my best friend, and I have done far more embarrassing things in our long relationship than ask him to be my fake boyfriend. Like the time I threw up on his welcome mat after betting someone I could consume an entire jug of mystery wine. Or the time I cut my bangs and I wore a bucket hat everywhere we went together for eighteen weeks. I swallow the nerves.

  “That sounds good.”

  Three

  Even though my cottage is within walking distance of my office, it still takes me forty-five minutes to extricate myself from emails, gather my things, and begin my walk home. I make a note to follow up with Hank and see if he noticed any troubles with the trees in the south pasture. Or if he noticed the family of raccoons tearing the barn apart. Or if he had trouble with the fertilizer distributor.

  And if he did, why didn’t he say anything to me?

  Because he knew this place was a money pit and he wanted to move to Costa Rica with his wife. My mind helpfully recalls the posters I had to peel off the office walls. Bright green jungles and lush waterfalls, practically bleached white from how long they had been hanging.

  I wasn’t exactly level-headed when I bought this place. Blinded by positivity, probably. Too focused on the cute little cottage that hugs the corner of the property, visions of curling up in front of the stone fireplace with a mug of tea dancing through my head. Imagining the first snow of the year, walking through rows and rows of trees. A place of my own. A place to belong - finally.

  Growing up, my mom and I were always moving, chasing the next opportunity. I had trouble finding my footing when we popped up in a new town for a waitressing job or temporary seasonal help. It wasn’t for lack of trying from my mom. She always did her best to make things special, connected. She kept us in one spot for as long as she could, painstakingly packing up our meager amount of possessions as we shuffled from place to place. Hanging the cross stitch welcome sign in the same place every time, the same dish towels dotted with embroidered lemons and limes. But I was always afraid to plant roots, wondering if it would be for nothing. If the next month I’d have to uproot and start all over again.

  A gust of wind whispers through the trees and lifts my hair, brushing at my cheeks as my boots crunch through the leaves of the mighty maples that line the edge of the property. There’s a footpath that winds its way through a small meadow and the outer edge of the pumpkin patch that links the house to the office. It’s a five-minute walk when the weather is good, but I find myself moving slower tonight, watching the way the sun dances lower in the sky, the light glancing off the leaves. Reds, oranges, and yellows dance in a kaleidoscope of color around me.

  It’s probably not a coincidence that I bought the place in October. There’s a special kind of magic on nights like this, a certain sort of nostalgia when the past intermingles with the present and flirts with the future. I can smell the wood smoke from the fire Beckett has going in his place at the base of the foothills, see the plume of smoke as it lifts from his chimney. The branches rustle above me and a few owls call out, a solemn sound as the sun dips lower. For a single, perfect moment, I feel like I’m in that picture my mom used to tape on the wall of whatever apartment we called home.

  A farm. A single red tractor. A little girl with dirt on her knees and a perfect collection of Christmas trees behind her.

  It’s been a dream since before I even had the courage to make dreams.

  A light in the distance catches my eye, a warm glow cast out over the stone of my driveway. As I move around the last tree that marks the edge of my personal property, my front door swings open and Luka steps out, resting his shoulder against the banister. He looks almost comically large on my tiny front porch in front of my tiny house with my tiny kitchen towel held between his hands. He swings it over his shoulder and crosses his socked feet at the ankles. I smile when I notice he’s wearing the socks I got for him last Christmas, the ones with the tiny sriracha bottles. His mouth hitches up in a small grin, the one that pulls his bottom lip just a bit lower on the left, the October wind tousling his endlessly messy hair. His warm brown eyes reflect the setting sun, making them look almost amber in the fading light.

  “Breaking and entering now?” I pick up my pace, getting a whiff of tomato and basil. If he’s made his grandma’s meatballs, I might never let him leave.

  “It’s not breaking and entering if you have a key,” he calls back. I laugh and his smile tips up into something beautiful. It’s a moment I want to stamp into my soul for the nights when I feel a little bit lonely and a lot bit sad. I take in a deep breath and hold onto the moment. The pinks and purples that cast his face half in shadow, the pull of his sweatshirt across his chest, his socked feet creaking the aged wood of my front porch. The magic is in the details, my mom always used to say. And these details are perfect.

  My feet find the bottom step, and he meets me halfway, two strong arms wrapping around my shoulders in a bear hug. He smells like marinara and the vanilla hand soap I keep next to my kitchen sink, and I suddenly, inexplicably, want to cry.

  “Hey, La La,” he rests his chin on top of my head, arms squeezing tight. “Long time no see.”

  I curl my arms around his back and press my hands into his shoulder blades. I breathe out slowly through my nose and rock us back and forth. “You saw me two weeks ago,” I mutter somewhere into his chest. “We sat on the couch and watched Independence Day two times in a row because you have a Jeff Goldblum fixation.”

  “Something about that flight suit, am I right?” He pulls back, but keeps his hands over my shoulders. His brown eyes search my face. This close, I can see the freckles that bridge over his nose and spread like constellations under his eyes. I bite back a sigh, and he frowns.

  “What’s going on, Stella?”

  The panic is still there. And so I delay. I pat his sides and press up on my tiptoes, trying to see over his shoulder. “Feed me first?”

  He frowns but nods, slipping his hands down my arms in a series of squeezes. He’s done this since that first day when I steamrolled right into him, a one-two-three of his hands moving down my biceps, elbows, hands. Once we’re inside, he retreats back to the kitchen and I kick off my shoes by the door, noting his boots already neatly tucked beneath the entryway table. I toss my keys on top of his in the blue ceramic dish I made as an art class project in high school, and loop my scarf on the hook next to his black denim jacket.

  And isn’t it silly, to love the way someone’s things look like next to yours? Little bits and pieces of a life lived in parallel.

  I stare at his jacket for a minute too long before he shouts from the kitchen, asking after a bottle of red I keep in the hall closet. I’d be impressed at his memory if he wasn’t the one to bring this red and hide it beneath my sweaters a few months ago.

  I shuffle into the kitchen with the wine bottle in hand, another tucked under my arm. This conversation will probably go better if I have a bit of liquid courage. He glances over his shoulder when I place them both down, a lock of his hair dropping in front of his eye, that damn dish towel with the garden gnomes tucked in his back pocket. He looks absolutely ridiculous and deliciously perfect, worn jeans and faded sweatshirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  “One of those nights?”

  “One of those years,” I mutter in response, digging through my drawer for the bottle opener. Luka watches me struggle for approximately twenty-six seconds before he abandons whatever he’s stirring at the stove and crowds my space, his chest pressing into my side as he reaches over our heads. Its sudden, his body against mine, and I tip my head back to watch his face. Like this, I could bite his bicep if I wanted to, the curve of it just an inch from my nose.

  His eyes search my face, a grin curving his lips upward. “What in the world are you thinking about?”

  “Devious things.” A blush climbs my cheeks and I pinch his side. He winces but keeps patting around on top of the cabinets. “What are you doing up there?”

  He holds up a wine opener in response, and I crane my neck to look above my cabinets with a frown. “What else are you hiding up there?”

  “Whatever I don’t want your little hands on.”

  I mentally remind myself to get the step stool out later and investigate. He takes the wine bottle out of my hand, and with a series of smooth movements that honestly shouldn’t look as attractive as they do, uncorks it. He reaches over my shoulder and pours us both a glass, still with me plastered against his front. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders and I can see the jut of his collarbones peeking out from his sweatshirt. I stare at them with laser focus.

  “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” he mutters, his words a warm puff against my skin.

  I blink and reach for my wine, clinging to it like a lifeline. I’ve noticed these things before, of course, but now it feels like everything about Luka is under a magnifying glass. Life in technicolor, I guess.

  “Thank you,” I look around at my kitchen like I’ve never seen it before, dazed and confused. “Do you need help with anything?”

  My voice sounds oddly formal like I should add a good sir to the end of it. Luka gives me another narrow-eyed look and just points to the table in response. I follow his direction without comment and settle in the wobbly mid-century dining chair that absolutely does not match my farmhouse table. I stare and stare at the tabletop and do my best to not freak out, but it’s hard not to when the thing I’m about to ask my best friend might make him laugh in my face, bolt out the door, or both.

  By the time Luka slides a heaping plate of spaghett
i and meatballs in front of me, I’ve drained my wine glass and worked myself into an emotional bottle rocket, ready to explode.

  “Beck says the trees are looking good,” Luka slides across from me, cozying himself in the chair. “Well, besides the pasture by the south gate.”

  I don’t need the reminder. My eyes wander from my full plate of spaghetti to the cuff of his sweatshirt stretched tight around his forearm. I quickly redirect my gaze to the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter and the parmesan cheese sitting next to it. I hope that didn’t come from my fridge.

  I point at it with my fork, leg dancing under the table. “Where is that from?”

  Luka stares at me like I’m insane. “The grocery store.”

  “Cool. Cool cool.”

  “Stella,” Luka places his fork on the edge of his plate and leans forward, reaching halfway out to me like he wants to scoop my hands in his. I’m not sure that would help, honestly. He pulls back, sighs, and rubs his knuckles against his jaw. He picks up his fork. “What is going on with you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “I think you’ve moved this table halfway across the kitchen, for one.”

  “I just - I need to ask you something.”

  “Do you need a kidney?”

  “What? No.” Though an organ transplant sounds preferable right now.

  “You’re acting like you need a kidney.”

  “I need you to date me,” I blurt out. My palms are sweating, my heart is somewhere in my throat, and my stomach has completely removed itself from the conversation. Luka, for his part, doesn’t so much as flinch. He just calmly twirls his fork around and around, collecting the world’s longest spaghetti noodle.

  “Okay.” He pops his fork into his mouth.

  “It’s fake,” I practically yell at him. I don’t know why I’m talking so loud. I make a conscious effort to turn it down. “It wouldn’t - I meant to ask if you would pretend to date me. The pretend part is important.”

  He shrugs. “Sure.”

  Sure. Sure. I’m on the verge of a total mental break, but Luka says sure. I watch another elegantly cut meatball disappear behind his lips. I aggressively stab one of mine and it flies halfway down the table. I ignore it, spear another, and shove the whole thing in my mouth.

  “Cheese s’or grandschmas?”

  Luka calmly takes a sip of his wine, ignoring my deterioration into lunacy. “Pardon?”

  I swallow and gently pat the corners of my mouth with the napkin resting in my lap. I am a lady. “Is this your grandma’s recipe?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you think she’d adopt me?”

  “She’d kick me out and adopt you in a second.” Luka huffs a laugh. “We both know it. Thanks by the way, for bringing her dinner last week. She called me seventy-five times to brag about it and ask what you use in your snickerdoodles.”

  I did not make those snickerdoodles. But over my dead body am I telling that to Luka’s grandmother who makes her pasta from scratch. She once came over, saw a half-used jar of store-bought marinara in my fridge, and looked me dead in the eye as she threw it in the trash.

  I wish he wouldn’t thank me for spending time with his family. It’s not a hardship. Going to visit his grandma and his mom and sometimes his Aunt Gianna who lives two towns over is a nice distraction from the fact that my only family decides to celebrate Thanksgiving an entire three weeks early just so they don’t have to explain my existence.

  Also, his grandma is a badass, so.

  “They were Layla’s snickerdoodles, so you’d have to ask her.”

  “I’m more interested in why you need to fake date me, actually,” he pauses with another dramatic sip of wine. I stare mournfully at my empty glass. “Aren’t you dating Wyatt?”

  I stare at him. Stare and stare and stare. How is it possible for someone to be so intricately woven into my life, and yet not realize I haven’t brought Wyatt around in a short eternity?

  “Luka,” I blink at him. “We broke up over a year ago.”

  Luka is a caricature of the comically shocked. Furrowed brows, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. It would be funny if it wasn’t so shocking. “What?

  “Yeah, after last year’s harvest festival. He texted me.”

  “He - wait, he broke up with you over text?”

  Wyatt had been kind and sweet, if not a little immature. In a lot of ways, it felt like reverting back to my teenage self and dating the cute captain of the soccer team. A lot of heavy petting, a useless label, and zero emotional attachment. He texted me after last year’s festival with a simple You’re super cool, but I think we want different things. Friends? :)

  Super cool.

  The smiley face sealed the deal for me. Anyone that continues to use punctuation to convey emotions is probably somewhere on the serial killer spectrum anyway. I had agreed and that was - well, that.

  “I told you this.”

  He stares at me. “You did not tell me this.”

  I put my fork down and lean to the left, reaching for the bottle of wine. “Luka, how on earth would I have all this time to spend with you if I were dating someone?”

  He blinks, his gaze far away like he’s mentally reliving the last year of his life. His mouth moves soundlessly, and then he picks up his wine glass, draining it in one go.

  “Okay, so not Wyatt.”

  “Not Wyatt. No.”

  “Am I your only option, then?”

  I don’t know why he sounds so upset about that. “If it makes you feel better, I asked Beckett first. He said no.” His frown deepens, that tiny little divot between his eyebrows appearing. “I was going to ask Jesse, but - “

  “You were going to ask Jesse before me? Christ, Stella.” Now it’s his turn to stab a meatball like it’s personally offended him. “You should have asked me first. Now I feel like I’m your last resort.”

  I don’t tell him that he is, in fact, my last resort. Well, besides the escort service.

  “I’m sorry, Luka.” I clasp my hands in front of me on the table, pleased when I sound only slightly sarcastic. “Did you want me to put more of an effort into asking you to be my fake boyfriend?”

  “It wouldn’t have killed you to,” he mumbles. He runs both hands through his hair, back and forth and back again, a tuft on the left side sticking straight out. It’s such a familiar gesture that it sends a pang of wistfulness straight through my chest.

  “Luka, listen,” I swallow twice, hesitant. This feels important, his reaction. If he’s agonizing already, I don’t want -

  I don’t want to ruin what Luka and I have.

  I curl my hands around my cutlery. “This was a stupid idea. If you don’t want to do this -”

  “No, that’s not it. Sorry, I’m just - “ He cuts himself off by biting down on his words, brown eyes fixed on his plate. He picks his fork back up - twirls, twirls, twirls some pasta. “I keep getting off track. Why do you need a fake boyfriend?”

  It’s a redirect, but I allow it in the same way he allowed my procrastination earlier. I explain the social media contest to him, careful to leave out the parts about how much our farm desperately needs the cash prize. I focus instead on the national exposure, the influx of new customers, and hopefully an online presence we can capitalize on. By the end of it, I sound like I’m giving a presentation to the board, and given Luka’s glazed eye look, he probably agrees.

  He’s a data guy. I probably should have just shown him a bunch of numbers.

  He shakes his head slightly when I finish. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard the words ingress and egress come out of your mouth.”

  “Yeah, probably.” I think for a second. “Though I feel like I probably mentioned it when I was complaining about the state fair.

  He laughs at that. He is very familiar with my thoughts on the state fair.

  We’re quiet for a moment, the sound of tree branches scratching at my windows filling the space between us. Wind whistles through the cracks around the door, and I think about starting a fire. Wine in front of the fireplace sounds excellent.

  Luka leans back in his chair and considers me. I’m content to leave him with his thoughts as I work to untangle my own.