Lovelight Farms: A Holiday Romantic Comedy Read online

“Fuckin’ finally!” calls Clint, lifting his energy drink in a toast. Monty slaps him and gestures at the completely abandoned playground across the street like his curse words might linger and influence the currently non-existent kids to start talking like sailors. Clint waves him off. “Mabel called with the good news!”

  “We were there like twelve seconds ago,” I mutter.

  “Busybodies. I told you.” Luka tilts his chin up at Clint. “Cathy know you’re drinking those?”

  Clint glances down at the drink in his hand and then shoots Luka a cheeky grin. “Of course she knows I am drinking this fine, electrolyte-enhanced hydration beverage.” He tilts his chin down and looks at us both over the rim of his glasses, a thin edge of warning in his smiling eyes. His wife Cathy would whup him up and down the block if she knew he was still drinking those after his last heart scare. “And it’ll stay that way.”

  Alex at the bookstore gives us a tiny salute with his mug of chamomile as we pass by the large paneled windows of his store. Ms. Beatrice, contrarian that she is, only offers a frown when Luka pops his head in, my hand clasped in his, asking for a latte to go. And Bailey McGivens and her wife Sandra almost start to cry when Luka and I run into them on the sidewalk.

  “We’re so happy for you both,” she manages, clutching onto Sandra’s arm. “We’ve been hoping this might happen.”

  I don’t know if she’s talking to me or Luka, but I blush and stammer and do my best not to completely fold in on myself. I had no idea everyone was so invested. I sneak a look at Luka out of the corner of my eye to read for any awkwardness, but he’s just smiling gently, taking all the congratulations in stride, not a hint of anxiety on his handsome face. Me? I’m a tightly wound ball of apprehension.

  “You good?”

  He nuzzles the question into my ear, fingers finding my belt loop at my waist. I almost jump out of my skin.

  “I’m fine!”

  It’s much the same as we wander through town. People I’ve known forever and people I don’t know at all clapping us on shoulders, waving and cheering. It feels a bit like we’re in a parade of two, and I’m infinitely glad Luka suggested we do this now and not when Evelyn is in town. Everyone is acting like we’re the chosen ones and our union determines the fate of the world.

  By the time we make it to the Sheriff's station that bookends Main Street, I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ve talked to this many people since the last time Ms. Beatrice offered a buy one, get one free special on her Nutella swirl mochaccinos and the entire town showed up at open to wait in line.

  Luka rubs my back before sifting his fingers through my hair, digging with his thumb at the base of my neck. I experience what can only be described as a full-body shiver, an absolutely obscene sound leaving my mouth. Luka makes an interested hum in response.

  “Pizza when we get back?”

  I nod, still focused on the one square inch of skin where his thumb is pressing little circles. Half of me wants to collapse face-first into the pavement, the other half wants to strip off all my clothes.

  Luka arches a single eyebrow, brown eyes flashing a shade darker. His thumb presses again with intent, testing, and my shoulders roll back with a tiny shiver. I feel that press low in my belly, in the dip of my spine.

  I’ve always been attracted to Luka. He’s handsome in all the ways I like best; tall, perpetually messy hair, strong jaw, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. But it’s always been easy enough to ignore it. Convince myself I don’t see him like that.

  I’m noticing it now.

  A devious grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, interest clear in the lines of his face. “I didn’t - '' He clears the husk away from his voice, fingers inching across my skin until he has the nape of my neck cupped fully in his palm. His hand is big, warm. He squeezes once as his gaze searches my face. “I didn’t realize - “

  I don’t know what he didn’t realize, because we’re interrupted by the very clear click and release of a shotgun being loaded.

  Six

  Luka uses the hand on my neck to tug me backward, positioning his body half in front of me. I peek over his shoulder to see Sheriff Jones sitting on the front porch of the old police station, a shotgun resting casually over his knees.

  “Those are good instincts, son,” he tips his hat at Luka but keeps one hand firmly on his gun. “That’ll be a point in your favor.”

  Luka laughs, his shoulders relaxing with a heavy exhale. His hand slips from my neck, relieved. “Oh, is this an evaluation?”

  Sheriff Jones does not laugh. “It sure is.”

  Dane Jones, town Sheriff, was the first person my mom and I met when we moved into Inglewild. He saw us unpacking our overcrowded hatchback and offered to help, shouldering one of my mom’s mismatched duffle bags over his broad shoulder and balancing a box of my books in his other arm. He ordered us two pizzas, gave my mom his card, and told her to call if she ever needed anything.

  I press a smile into the wool of Luka’s coat and then press up on my tiptoes, waving at the good Sheriff.

  “What’s going on, Dane?”

  Dane blinks away from his stare down at Luka to smile at me. It’s hardly a smile by the standard definition, but after nearly twenty years, I know what that tilt of his lips means.

  “Heard you two were dating.”

  “Oh?”

  “Thought I’d congratulate you both.” Luka makes a muffled sound of protest, no doubt curious as to how the shotgun translates into best wishes. Dane’s eyes slide back to him and hold. “And give the boy here a warning.”

  Ah, okay.

  My smile widens, a warmth settling in my chest. Strangely enough, I feel Luka relax in front of me.

  “That’s all you’ve got?” He nods at the gun. “An unloaded gun and an ambiguous warning?”

  “There’s nothing ambiguous about me telling you I will break every bone in your finely structured body if I see even the hint of a tear on that girl’s face. And I will take great pleasure in grinding you down physically, mentally, and emotionally.” He rocks back on his chair and kicks up his feet on the railing. He pats the gun. “And who is to say this gun isn’t loaded?”

  “Ah,” Luka swallows. “Noted.”

  There’s silence as the three of us consider one another. I look at Dane. Dane looks at Luka. Luka, for his credit, doesn’t break his stare with Dane.

  “You know,” I offer, voice carefully even. “I dated Wyatt and you never once showed up with a shotgun.”

  Dane’s eyes trip lazily back to me and he gives me a look. “I think we both knew that was going nowhere, Cinnamon Stick.”

  I roll my eyes at the nickname he gave me when I was thirteen years old, tearfully confessing my great crime of forgetting to pay for a cinnamon stick sucker at the Stop and Save on Third and Monroe. I sat myself down in front of his desk and cried myself silly, holding up my wrists for the cuffs I was so sure he would be forced to use.

  Shockingly, he did not feel the need to put me into custody.

  “Are you going to your dad’s next weekend?”

  I grimace. I had almost forgotten. “Yeah, the usual.”

  Luka turns and frowns down at me. “He’s still doing that? The early Thanksgiving thing?”

  Yes, my father is still making me come to an early Thanksgiving at his house to avoid the horror of entertaining his illegitimate child on an actual holiday. And yes, my father is still the worst combination of self-centered and egotistical, his false humility a sour cherry on top.

  But he’s the only family I have left. And that should count for something.

  Even if he doesn’t want it to.

  “Yes,” I say simply. “I’m bringing the pie.”

  I can feel the dead-eyed stares of both men on me. Luka looks like he has some thoughts on the matter. I think I’ve seen him frown more in the last two days than I have in the entire duration of our relationship. Dane has gone back to running his fingers over his shotgun, looking contemplative.

  “Let him know I say hello,” he offers. “And that I still think he’s not fit to lick the tar off Satan’s ass.”

  I bust out laughing. I’d love to see the look on Brian Milford’s face if I delivered that message. I’ll have to text it to Charlie later.

  “Alright,” I hook my arm through Luka’s and begin towing us back towards town. If we’re lucky, Matty might still have some deep-dish pepperoni left and we can get a pie to go. “Always a pleasure, Sheriff.”

  “Right back at you, Cinnamon Stick. I’m watching you, Peters.”

  I half expect him to point at his eyes and then point at Luka before dragging his finger across his throat. But apparently, that is a step too far for the man currently sitting in front of the police station with a gun in his lap.

  Luka is quiet as we walk back. I glance up at him, noticing his frown hasn’t budged an inch. I clear my throat. What I wouldn’t give to go back to the levity of his fingers twisted through my belt loop.

  “Did it bother you?”

  “Hm?”

  “The Sheriff? I think he was mainly joking. You know he’s protective.”

  Luka goes to run his fingers through his hair, but remembers at the last second he’s still wearing his hat with the poof ball. He coasts his hand over it instead, nudging the cap up until a thick riot of hair pokes free in the front. With his rosy cheeks and dark, messy hair, he looks like something that should be in a snowglobe. I sigh.

  “No, that was fine,” he says. A grin cracks through, some of his melancholy fading. “Actually, that was fantastic. I like that you have people looking out for you.”

  “He checks in on the farm every couple of weeks. I think he even has some of the deputies do roadside clean-up on the stretch of road that leads d
own to us.”

  And he always buys three trees. Every year. He grabs enough pumpkins to place on every banister of his front porch. He makes sure to grab a hot chocolate from Layla and fresh produce from Beckett. He’s a good man.

  “Why are you still going to your dad’s house though, La La? You’re always so - “ He considers his words carefully, assessing me from the corner of his eye. “You’re closed off after. It makes you sad.”

  I shrug and focus on the way our feet march out the same beat on the pavement. Luka’s legs are so much longer, but he slows to meet my pace, two sets of boots in perfect harmony.

  “I’m not sad, I’m just - tired, I think. It’s always exhausting.”

  “Then why do you still go?”

  “I like to see Charlie. And Elle is nice.”

  “So? You can see either of them whenever you want. You don’t have to entertain this weird non-holiday your dad insists on doing year after year.”

  I’m not so sure it’s my dad’s idea. I think he plays along with it, of course. And it is certainly more convenient for him if I attend this version of Thanksgiving and not the large bash he throws on the actual holiday for the board of directors that oversee his hedge fund management firm. But in the beginning, the invitation had come directly from Elle.

  I sigh and decide to opt for honesty. “It’s nice to have somewhere to be,” I say quietly. “It’s nice to have a family to visit.”

  Even if the entire dinner is an awkward ninety minutes of small talk, it’s a tradition in its own right.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me - ” I’m surprised to hear that Luka sounds angry. Furious, even. “Stella. I have invited you to every single Thanksgiving.”

  I know that. And I’ve declined every time. Instead, I spend my day at a shelter on the outskirts of Baltimore, serving mashed potatoes and turkey sandwiches until it feels like my arms might fall off. And on the way home, I stop at Sheetz and eat my bodyweight in tater tots and fried mac and cheese.

  And that’s okay. Perfect, even. It’s exactly how I want to spend my holiday. My mom used to piece together a similar feast for us every Thanksgiving. We could never afford the turkey and sweet potatoes and green bean casseroles, so she improvised. We got tv dinners and set the table with our fanciest plastic ware and laughed ourselves silly toasting each other with Dr. Pepper.

  It’s my own little tradition.

  “I see you the day after,” I hedge. “You know I don’t like to miss the bookstore Black Friday sale.”

  He stops walking and curls both of his hands over my shoulders. I look up at him and catch sight of that poof ball again. It really is infuriating. I frown back at him.

  “Why haven’t you been spending Thanksgiving with me and my mom?”

  Because Luka’s mom still pinches his cheeks when he walks in the door. Because his grandma and all his aunts make dinner while yelling over one another in Italian, slapping wrists with wooden spoons when you get too close to the pot. Because it’s warm, and loud, and chaotic, and perfect. Because it feels too much like all the things I’m missing out on.

  I shrug. He mutters under his breath.

  “Well if I can’t stop you from willingly spending your day with that asshole, I’m not going to let you do it alone,” he stares down at me, and I can see that he means business. He looks like he should be delivering this proclamation from atop a hill before a wide, green field. A sword or something in hand. Maybe a kilt. “I’m coming with you.”

  I struggle to shake the mental image of Luka in a kilt out of my mind. “What?”

  “I’m coming with you to forced, fake Thanksgiving.”

  “Uh, no you’re not.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re not invited, for one.”

  “Alright, well. Charlie loves me. I’ll just text Charlie.”

  It’s true. Charlie does love him. Charlie would invite him in a nanosecond.

  “What’s for two?”

  “What?” I startle and stare longingly at the neon pizza sign two blocks away. If they’ve run out of deep-dish pizza in the time we’ve been having this discussion, I might never forgive Luka.

  “You said for one. What’s for two?”

  “For two,” I search for an appropriate response. “For two …”

  “See,” he’s smug. I roll my eyes and begin speed-walking down to the pizza place. I’ll get a deep dish for myself, and Luka will be left with only the gluten-free, thin-crust, vegetable special. “There is no two.”

  “There is a two,” I snap. I don’t want him to hear the way my dad talks to me. How sometimes he doesn’t even acknowledge my existence at all. Like I’m an inconvenient shadow at the table. I don’t want Luka to see what my Thanksgiving looks like when his is so wonderful. “I don’t want you to come.”

  That gives Luka pause, and I feel his steps falter next to mine. I fight the immediate instinct to take it back.

  “That’s not true,” he says quietly, and my chest pulls tight when I hear the hurt in his voice. “You don’t mean that, Stella.”

  Shit. I stop on the sidewalk with one last, longing glance at Matty’s Pizza and then turn to face Luka, gripping my hands just above his elbows like he often does to me. I shake him once.

  “Luka.” His face is almost comically sad. I have no idea how his mother ever managed to discipline him as a child. “Luka, you are already doing so much for me. I do not want you to come to -” I search for what he called it. “I don’t want you to come to forced, fake Thanksgiving.”

  He perks up a bit. “Is that why? Because you think I’m already doing so much?”

  I nod, hesitant. He blows out a puff of air and rocks back on his heels. “Okay, well, that’s easy.”

  “That’s easy?”

  “Yeah, I’m coming with you. We’ve been friends for almost ten years, La La. Stop keeping score.”

  Luckily for Luka, there is still deep dish pepperoni pizza when we finally arrive at Matty’s. As per usual, Luka waits at the curb while I run in and grab our food. Matty gives me a wink and a smile from the back kitchen and lets me know it’s on the house for the lovebirds. He even arranges the pepperonis in a heart. It goes a long way to soothe my Luka-related frustrations.

  He says not to keep score, but I can’t help it. I’ve always had trouble accepting help and that seems like all I’ve been asking for lately. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay him for all of this.

  We’re quiet on the way back to the farm, the murmur of the radio filling the silence between us. Every so often, there’s the creak of the cardboard box as I sneak my hand in for a pepperoni or two. I try to be stealthy about it, but by my third one, Luka reaches over and curls his hand around my wrist, guiding one perfect, greasy pepperoni to his mouth.

  The edges of his teeth bite against my fingers, his bottom lip catching and dragging on the pad of my thumb. There’s a hint of tongue, and my stomach drops down to my toes.

  He makes an exaggerated groaning sound as he chews, and I have to roll down the window half an inch.

  I keep the pizza box shut after that.

  As we turn onto the narrow road that leads down to the farm, I see Beckett waving us down, elbows resting on the fence post that circles the land we use for produce. Luka slows the car to a stop, and I roll down the window. I snap a quick picture with my phone to upload to the farm Instagram, and Beckett grimaces. It’s his own stupid fault for standing like that. Luka snickers somewhere behind me.

  “Why have I gotten four calls about you two?”

  “Four calls?”

  “My sisters, and then the phone tree.”

  My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “You’re on the phone tree?”

  Beckett frowns. “Everyone is on the phone tree.”

  “I’m not,” Luka supplies from over my shoulder. “Neither is La La.”

  “Oh, well,” Beckett shrugs, wholly unconcerned. Honestly, I didn’t even know the man owns a cell phone. When I need him, I just step outside my office and bellow his name into the fields. “You got the word out if that’s what you were looking to do.”

  I frown, something about that twisting in the back of my mind. In all the excitement, I feel like we’ve forgotten something important. Beckett waves us off and goes back to doing whatever it is he does when alone with the potatoes, and Luka guides us down the back roads.