Lovelight Farms: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Read online

  I nod, and his hand squeezes mine again on the cup. My arm is starting to tingle from keeping it outstretched. He opens his mouth to say something else, his hand pulling, the front half of my body beginning to lean towards him, but the door to my office swings open, a very grumpy Beckett standing there with his hands full of smashed pumpkin.

  “We have a problem.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the pumpkin field, staring at the carcasses of hundreds of smashed pumpkins. It looks like a battlefield, but with more - orange. So much for my raccoon peace offering of a single pumpkin back at the office. They can have an all-you-can-eat buffet out here.

  I make a mental note to google if raccoons can eat pumpkin.

  “Well,” I stretch my neck back and forth. This is fine. This is - it’s absolutely fine. Next to me, Luka hands over his hazelnut latte without a word. “Halloween is in two days. We were going to harvest these anyway for Layla. Maybe we could - I don’t know. Turn this into a haunted field?”

  Beckett makes some sort of grumbling noise under his breath. He’s probably nervous I’ll make him wear a zombie costume. “I’m going to kill those McAllister shits.”

  He sounds like an 80-year-old man standing on his front lawn. It feels a bit like I manifested this.

  I look around at the sheer range of damage. Every single pumpkin left on the vine has been caved in. It seems excessive for two teenage boys. It’s too organized, too methodical. “We don’t know it was them.”

  I guess I’ll have to install cameras.

  Luka and Beckett give me matching looks of disbelief, though Beck manages to infuse a layer of hostile frustration into his. It’s difficult to take Luka seriously when he’s wearing that poof ball hat.

  “Alright, well - “ I channel my inner optimist. “It’s time we switch over to Christmas anyway. We’ll leave the big decorations for next week, but we can start putting Halloween away. I’ll ask Layla to make extra goodies for the bakehouse, and if anyone shows up for pumpkins, we can sell what we’ve already pulled off the vine at a discount.”

  “What are we going to do about whoever did this?” Beckett sounds like he has a few ideas.

  I shrug. “I really don’t know. What can we do?” I briefly consider using what I’ve learned in marathon viewings of Law & Order SVU, looking for shoe imprints in the dirt and clothing fibers on tree limbs. What I wouldn’t do for Detective Stabler right about now. “I’ll have some cameras installed at the major spots, but we can’t cover the whole farm.”

  I can’t afford to cover the whole farm.

  The three of us lapse into silence. It’s a good thing this happened at the tail end of the fall season. I can’t shake the feeling that this, the fertilizer, the trees - it’s all connected. No one is this unlucky, right?

  “You think this has anything to do with your supply issues?”

  I frown at Luka and press my fingers into the back of my neck. He’s heard me complain about missing shipments and random incidents since I bought this place. My shoulders tense from yet another thing landing on top of them. “I don’t know. Probably,” I drop my hands by my sides and look around. “Maybe.”

  Whatever is happening, we need to figure it out. Preferably before the farm is featured before millions of people.

  Five

  Beckett trails us on our way back to the office, the hazelnut coffee somehow ending up in his hands. I don’t know why. It’s not like he ever has any issues ordering from Ms. Beatrice.

  “What are you doing down here?” he asks Luka. It’s something I’ve wondered about too, but I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet. Luka’s sudden appearance is unusual. I usually know the weekends he’s coming to hang out with his mom. New York is only a few hours from us, and he’s been known to make spur-of-the-moment visits, but I usually get a text when he’s decided to come home for the weekend. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be home until Thanksgiving.”

  “Decided to come down early,” Luka shoots me a look I have no idea how to interpret. “Hang out with Stella.”

  I frown at him, confused. Oh, does he want to ... practice? Work on our story? It’s probably a good idea. I clear my throat.

  “Yes, we are dating now,” my voice is overloud in the quiet of the farm, a nearby tree of birds taking flight. I bring it down a level. “We are - ah, people who date. He came to spend time with me, his - um, his girlfriend.”

  Beckett stops walking and looks at me, both eyebrows high on his forehead. I fidget under his gaze, belatedly reaching for Luka’s hand. Luka laughs but tries to cover it with a cough. I squeeze his fingers hard enough to break.

  “Yeah,” Beckett turns on his heel and heads over to the barn, the hazelnut latte going with him. “That’s going to need some workshopping.”

  I drop Luka’s hand.

  “We are people who date,” Luka’s gaze is fixed on the tree line, a small smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners. He turns and peers down at me. “You know, I think that’s how we should introduce ourselves when Ms. Instagram gets here.”

  I narrow my eyes and decide not to reply. I turn and continue walking to my office. He lets out a loud laugh and jogs to catch up, running a bit ahead of me just so he can walk backward and needle me some more. His coat opens in the breeze, a stupid sweatshirt with the Inglewild High mascot. He probably got it at the last fundraiser, eager to support his mom who is a teacher and head of the PTA.

  I never knew a man could look so good with a badger plastered across his chest.

  “It does bring up a good point, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If we are now people who date, does that assume we were once people who did not?”

  I ignore him, and pointedly don’t remind him about the ancient maple tree he’s about to smack into. But because the universe hates me, Luka smoothly sidesteps it without missing a beat. I tuck my hands deeper in my pockets and burrow my face into my scarf.

  “I don’t know. I was being stupid. Obviously.”

  “But it is something we should talk about. Stella, hold on a second.” Strong hands cup my shoulders, bringing me to a stop. His face is still lined in amusement, but there’s a seriousness there too. Like the time he said he wanted to learn all the words to Queen’s A Night at the Opera and he was kind of joking but also mostly serious.

  “She thinks we’re dating, right? This influencer?”

  I nod.

  “And she thinks we bought this place together?”

  I nod again.

  “Okay, well,” he shakes me slightly. “She’s also presumably staying here, in Inglewild. And that’s going to be news to a town full of busybodies.”

  My stomach plummets somewhere down to my toes. I hadn’t thought about that. In a town as small as ours, Luka and I suddenly proclaiming that we’re dating and have been for years is borderline front-page news. The one time Beckett took off his shirt while plowing the backfields in the dry summer heat while Becky Gardener was driving by in her minivan, he had right column real estate in the Inglewild Gazette for three weeks running.

  “I didn’t think about that,” I manage. I swallow awkwardly, a tiny, almost comical gulp between us. “She’s staying at the bed and breakfast.”

  Luka squeezes down my arms. The familiar one-two-three. “I’ve got a plan.”

  An hour later, I’m standing at the stone fountain that marks the entrance of our downtown district. I’m not sure you can consider a small collection of buildings consisting of a bakery, a pizza shop, and a bookstore a district, but that’s what it’s been referred to as long as I’ve lived here. Luka likes to laugh about it when we’re together in New York - talk about how he misses the bright lights of downtown Inglewild as we stroll along the bustling streets crowded with men and their briefcases, traveling food carts, and laughing couples spilling out of bars.

  It’s worth noting that the last time Luka Peters told me he had a plan, I ended up blindingly drunk off tequila, wearing a hula skirt, and singing 90’s pop karaoke in a 24-hour diner. Luka grins at the memory when I remind him of this, his hand finding mine and curling our fingers together.

  “But you had fun, right?”

  Sure. I also had a hangover for close to five days after. I had to lay down in a cornfield the next day, just to keep the horizon from tilting.

  “Think of this as a practice run,” he swings our hands back and forth, our footsteps in sync as we head towards Main Street. “We’ll pop into a couple of stores. Say hello, and go from there.”

  I fight the urge to wrestle my hand out of his grip and go running back to the farm. This feels sudden. And stupid.

  “Shouldn’t we have prepared for this or something?”

  He mutters something I can’t understand under his breath and releases my hand to throw his arm over my shoulder instead. I grumble but nestle easily into his side. We’ve always been affectionate with one another. This physical intimacy between us is nothing new. The result, I think, of two people who rely heavily on touch as a method of comfort and communication.

  But with the story we’re trying to sell, it feels different. A zip of awareness lights up my spine and settles where his arm rests heavily across my back. Tingles where his fingers play idly with the hair peeking out of my hat.

  “What would you have done?”

  I hum, distracted. I’m busy returning the steady stare of Mr. Hewett, the town librarian. He’s stopped halfway down the steps of the library, broom in hand as he sweeps up the leaves that crowd the stone walkway. But he’s staring at us like we’re doing something indecent. I wave and we keep walking.

  “For preparation,” Luka continues, not noticing the strange interaction. “How would you have prepared for this?”

  “I don’t k
now. Probably get our story straight, for one.” I glance over my shoulder, my nose pressing into Luka’s arm. Mr. Hewett is still watching us wander down the street, his tortoiseshell glasses practically fogging up.

  “We have a story already.”

  “Oh yeah?” I stop worrying about the old librarian’s googly eyes and look up at Luka instead. His jaw is set. Oh boy, I’ve seen this level of determination before.

  2009. The summer carnival. Over $75 in game tickets to liberate as many goldfish as possible.

  2016. Rio Summer Olympics. When he became convinced he could run a four-minute mile.

  2018. The tiny studio apartment I had above the oil change garage. His sudden need to put locks on every single window and two on the door.

  “Yeah,” he says. We turn left down Main. “Boy meets girl. It’s a pretty simple story.”

  I’m suspicious. “Alright.”

  “You see, Boy’s mom decides she wants to move to a tiny town on the east coast. She wants something different, something new, and keeps talking about Little Florence. Boy doesn’t really get it, but he goes with her. Helps her get settled. When they’re moving her in, Boy meets a Girl. Runs right into her really. And she is - “ he coughs, his arm tightening over my shoulder.

  “She’s incredible. Smart, funny, beautiful as all hell. But she’s sad too. So he buys her a beer and a grilled cheese and after that - well, after that he keeps bumping into her. Buys her some more grilled cheese. And that’s that.”

  That’s that. I swallow hard. It’s our story, but ... different. He did buy me a grilled cheese and a beer. He told me it was an apology for practically mowing me down. It had felt like swimming underwater, all those months, and then Luka was there and my head bobbed above the surf.

  I look up at him, stuck on one particular part of that story.

  “You think I’m beautiful?”

  He frowns down at me as we continue walking.

  “Of course I do. I’ve told you that before.”

  I shake my head, a little bit dazed. I think back and try to remember that day and what came after. Falling into friendship with Luka had been effortless. Half the time I don’t remember what it was like before him. It feels like he’s always been a part of my life. And no wonder, after almost a decade.

  And while we are comfortable with one another as all best friends are, I don’t think he’s ever called me beautiful. Luka has always seemed - oblivious isn’t the right word. I guess I just thought he didn’t think about me in that way. Friends don’t think about friends like that.

  You sure do notice his collarbones, though, my brain helpfully supplies. Never miss a glance at those biceps.

  “You have not.”

  “Oh.” His frown deepens. “You’re beautiful, La La.”

  He says it almost like he’s mad about it. And paired with that frown, well. It’s probably the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received.

  Though, there was that one time a man told me I have nice teeth. And the lady at the supermarket two towns over who told me I have strong calves.

  “But if you want some harrowing story of how I saved you from a rumbling trashcan coming at you in the middle of the street while your boot was stuck in a storm drain - by all means.”

  “That sounds familiar,” I mumble.

  He grins, but I barely notice. My brain is still stuck on beautiful.

  Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I’m ruminating as we continue walking, so I don’t notice as he steers us into the greenhouse that sits prettily right on the corner of the street. It’s huge, the curved walls covered in glass, an ornate dome painted in color at the top. The silhouettes of hanging baskets and wide leaves brush at the windows, the fog from the heaters obscuring the details of anything specific. When I was a kid, the high school boys used to sneak in here and draw penises on the windows.

  I follow Luka blindly, ducking into one of the thick glass doors. Two things happen immediately. The thick humidity of the greenhouse welcomes me by instantly puffing up my hair, and Mabel Brewster screams at the top of her lungs.

  Luka and I both jolt.

  “Oh my god,” I groan. “You thought starting here was a good idea?”

  Mabel is weaving through the shelves of succulents at the back with an almost manic look in her eyes. Her long black hair is in braids, tied neatly back with a scarf around the crown of her head, the orange and red a striking contrast to her dark skin. While I can feel sweat starting to gather at the small of my back and the hollow of my throat, her skin is unfairly glowing in the humidity of the greenhouse, a light shine on her high cheekbones. She looks like a greenhouse barbie, and I tell her so every time she visits the farm with fresh herbs.

  But right now, she looks like a determined little stick of dynamite.

  I groan again, just for good measure. Luka shifts on his feet, seemingly beginning to regret his decision when she knocks over two potted palms and doesn’t slow down.

  “Why does she look like that?”

  I know exactly what he means, I just want to hear him say it. “Like what?”

  He curls me closer to his body like he can protect me from her, frankly terrifying, single-mindedness. I’ve known Mabel since high school. The last time I saw her look like this was when she caught Billy Walters drawing the penises on her dad’s greenhouse windows. “Like she wants to chop our bodies into tiny pieces, but also kind of make out with our faces.”

  I snort a laugh. Mabel is all of five feet, probably 125 pounds soaking wet. But what she lacks in stature, she more than makes up for in energy. She marches right up to us, staring pointedly at where Luka’s hand is curled around my arm. He pulls me a touch closer and exhales a shaky breath against the back of my head. I want to cackle in delight, but I’m a little bit afraid of what Mabel might do.

  “You two look cozy.”

  We remain silent. She narrows her eyes.

  “Haven’t seen you around in a bit, Luka.”

  “You saw me two weeks ago, Mabel. At the grocery store.”

  She hums but doesn’t acknowledge his statement. “And you. Ms. Fancy Farmer. Have something you want to share with the class?” She practically burns a hole where my hand is clutching at Luka’s jacket.

  “Not much,” I play dumb. “Oh, actually,” I say and she perks up. “I’ll have some fresh trimmings for you starting the third week of November. For wreath making, if you’d like.”

  She looks like she’d like to wring my neck.

  “Wreath making.”

  “Yes.”

  “Alright.”

  There’s a beat of silence as we all consider each other. I’m fighting a smile, and I can feel the rumble of a laugh trapped in Luka’s chest. He tugs me around so I’m standing fully in front of him and folds both arms over my shoulders, pulling me flush against him. It’s a perfect fit, the scratch of his stubble catching in the chaotic mess that is my hair in this heat. Mabel’s eyes light up, and a smile starts to unfurl across her lips.

  “We were hoping you’d make us a wreath for our front door,” Luka offers, chin resting at the very top of my head.

  Clever man. He could have come right out and told her. Instead, he’s made it seem like it’s something she should already know. A foregone conclusion. He’s tapped right into the heart of this town’s gossip mill.

  Mabel threads her fingers together, clasping her hands over her heart. She grins as she rocks back on her heels.

  “It’s happening,” she sing-songs.

  And just like that, our ruse begins.

  Apparently, there is an Inglewild phone tree.

  We find that out as soon as we leave Mabel’s and cross the driveway that spills out from the firehouse onto the main road. The truck bay doors are rolled up, and Clint and Montogomery are kicked back in the faded lawn chairs they use when the weather is nice. They both start applauding as soon as we’re within earshot, a hearty whistle coming from somewhere deep inside. Gus, no doubt. He’s probably stuck halfway beneath the paramedic van, tinkering away.