Jingle Bell Flock (Christmas at Mistletoe Bay #5)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

JEREMY

The temperature had dropped overnight, cold enough that my breath misted in the air and my knees were already aching—a sure sign that snow was coming.

After years of playing minor league hockey, my body had become a better weather predictor than our local meteorologist. The arthritis in my ankles had started acting up the moment I’d rolled out of bed at five-thirty this morning, and by the time I’d hauled my first dozen pre-cut trees from the back lot to the display area, my right knee was complaining, too.

But it was December in New England, and this was what we did.

What I did now, anyway—ever since I’d moved home after Dad died, leaving my older sister, Jemma, and me the farm and a mountain of debt that made every sale, every customer, every dollar matter.

No pressure or anything.

Thank goodness we were already busy despite the early hour and the weather—a mix of families and couples wandering the cut-your-own section that stretched as far as the eye could see, while others were browsing the pre-cut trees I’d spent two hours arranging by size and variety.

Woodsmoke from the fire pit near the hot cocoa stand drifted across the lot, mixing with the sharp scent of fresh-cut pine. My boots squelched in the mud that seemed to be everywhere, no matter how much hay I put down.

I’d just finished positioning another pre-baled tree when I turned and saw it: a cream-colored goat wearing a Christmas wreath around its neck, standing in the middle of my Balsam firs like she owned the damn place.

Behind it, two more goats—one brown, one spotted—were systematically destroying what had taken me hours to set up this morning.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, setting down the pre-cut tree I’d been hauling toward the baler.

I swiped the back of my glove across my forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered despite the cold. My thermal shirt was already damp under my canvas work jacket.

This was the third time this month Harrison Prescott’s goats had escaped.

The third time they’d somehow squeezed through, jumped over, or bulldozed past whatever fixes he’d made to that damn fence between our properties.

The third time that I had to stop what I was doing to deal with his fucking livestock.

I started slowly toward the goats, hands up, voice low. “Hey. Hey, easy now … ”

The cream-colored one—Sugarplum, if I remembered correctly from Harrison’s Instagram posts—fixed me with an unimpressed stare and took a deliberate bite out of one of my trees.

“Oh, come on!”

A child’s delighted squeal made me turn. A family of four was standing near the hot cocoa station, two kids pointing and laughing at the goats. The mom had her phone out, taking pictures.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

“Have you guys added a petting zoo this year?” the dad called out, his voice carrying across the field.

Several other folks turned to look, interest sparking on their faces. Just what I needed—an audience for this disaster.

“No, this is … these aren’t supposed to—” I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to channel the customer service voice Jemma was always saying I needed to work on. “The goats aren’t part of our farm. They’re just … visiting. Unexpectedly.”

“Can the kids pet them?”

Before I could answer, their kids started running toward Sugarplum, who seemed perfectly content to accept their adoration. The brown goat—Kringle, my brain supplied unhelpfully—ambled over to investigate, trailing a string of thick garland from his mouth.

Even more customers noticed the commotion, their phones out. A cluster of women near the wreath display were taking photos, cooing over how cute the goats were.

This was bad. These folks were supposed to be picking out Christmas trees, not getting sidetracked by wayward livestock.

I caught sight of the third goat, the spotted one, methodically eating the bows off the homemade wreaths Jemma had hung out for sale before she left earlier.

The ones she, my nephew Eli, and her fiancé Charlie’s girls, Maggie and Lilah, had spent all night putting together. The ones that sold for $25 a pop.

“No! Stop that!”

I lunged for the wreath, my knee protesting the sudden movement. I ignored it.

Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the goat was faster, prancing away with his prize in his mouth. This sent the kids, and a woman filming with what looked like a professional camera rig, into fresh peals of laughter.

I spun around, looking for something, anything I could use to corral three escaped goats who clearly had no intention of being corralled, and that’s when I saw him.

Even pissed off and exhausted, I couldn’t help but watch the way he moved with that athlete’s grace, like his body hadn’t forgotten years of hockey training.

He’d always been leaner than me—a winger to my defenseman—but at six feet tall with shoulders that filled out his red and black buffalo-checked flannel perfectly, there was nothing slight about Harrison Prescott.

His shirt flew open behind him as he ran, revealing a white t-shirt tight enough that I could see every muscle underneath. The man clearly hit the gym, and it showed.

His jeans were splattered with something white—that cheese he made, the one I pretended not to like but would devour after everyone had gone to bed—and his work boots kicked up snow and mud as he ran.

His blond hair was a mess, sticking up like he’d been running his hands through it, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold and exertion.

He looked panicked. He looked … fuck, he looked good.

Damn it.

Our eyes met, and for a split second, something passed between us—recognition, tension, a pull I’d been fighting for six long months.

Then he skidded to a stop a few feet away from me, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Several of the nearby women who’d been photographing the goats were now definitely photographing him.

He’s not for you, I wanted to tell them, something hot and possessive flaring in my chest.

He’s not for you either, I reminded myself, forcing my face back into its usual scowl.

“Jeremy!” His voice was rough, breathless. “I am so sorry. I was in the kitchen making cheese, and I didn’t realize they’d gotten out until I saw the Instagram post—”

“The what?”

He pulled out his phone and turned it toward me.

Sure enough, there was someone’s Instagram account, where they’d tagged Winterberry Farm with a photo of Sugarplum surrounded by smiling children, the wreath around her neck like she was posing for a holiday card.

The caption read: “Love the new petting zoo at Winterberry Farm” and included a whole bunch of emojis.

My eye started to twitch.

“This is the third time this month, Harrison.” I kept my voice low, aware of all the families watching us with great interest. “Do you have any idea how much damage—is Kringle climbing on top of my truck?!”

Harrison winced, following my gaze to where Kringle had indeed climbed onto the hood of my Chevy, another long swag of garland hanging from his teeth.

“I fixed the fence. I swear!” Harrison declared, rubbing his forehead and looking around like he might somehow figure out how they were getting loose. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Sugarplum was picking the locks—”

“There are no locks!” I said hotly from between clenched teeth. “It’s a goddamn fence!"

“Exactly! Which makes it even more impressive that she keeps—”

He cut himself off when I let loose a warning growl of frustration.

“Okay, that’s not the point.” He ran a hand through his beautiful fucking hair, making it stick up in about five different directions. “The point is, I’m sorry. Let me just get them rounded up, and I’ll get out of your way.”

He started toward Sugarplum, making soft clicking noises with his tongue. The goat looked at him, took in the children currently surrounding her, and decided the kids were more interesting.

“Sugarplum, come on. Don’t be difficult. Come to Daddy.”

I might have found it funny—watching Harrison Prescott try to negotiate with a goat while calling himself ‘Daddy’ (that man was no more a daddy than I was a twink)—if I wasn’t so busy being furious.

And if I wasn’t acutely, painfully aware of exactly how his jeans clung to his ass as he bent down to try and grab Sugarplum’s collar. Damn it, but he still had that same hockey bubble butt that used to distract me when we were teenagers.

Stop it, I told myself. Don’t look at his ass. Don’t look at any of him.

I’d been telling myself that for months, but I still hadn’t gotten it through my thick skull.

“I’ll get Comet,” I said, because standing here watching Harrison wrestle a goat was doing nothing for my blood pressure or my ability to stay angry at him.

The goat, sensing my approach, took off at a trot toward the tree lots with a loud bleating noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“Comet! Get back here!”

I was a grown man chasing a goat through rows of Christmas trees while families laughed and took videos. It was going to be all over social media. I’d never live this down.

I finally cornered Comet near a pile of trimmings that Jemma and I would weave into more garland when we got a free minute, lunging for his collar just as Harrison appeared on the other side, both of us reaching toward the animal at the same time.

Our hands collided. Comet bleated indignantly and tried to bolt. In the chaos of the moment, I stumbled over a branch and went down hard, Harrison crashing into me as we both tried to keep hold of the goat.