Chapter 5 #2
And yes, it takes a lot to set my pride to the side and admit that, but it’s true.
Who did I really think I was last night, traipsing around with a crowbar, sniffing out new territory?
I might have felt like Tom Cruise at the time, but man, oh man, I was more like a wet bandit looking for trouble.
And I know this because Cole gave me a lecture last night about it as he drove me back home.
And he lectured me this morning as well when I was complaining about my hand hurting.
So, yes, embarrassment and humiliation have set in.
“Ran into a pole?” Felix asks, not believing it. “Then how did you hurt your hand?”
“Nail,” I answer. “Nail in the pole.”
“Uh-huh, and what pole was this?”
“One by the tree shack,” I say as I put down my sharpening tool and examine the axe blade. The sharper the blade, the less whacks I’ll need to take, therefore saving my hand.
“And what made you run into the pole?” Felix continues.
“Spider,” I answer. “Huge one. On my leg. I let out a scream only dogs could hear, ran without looking, and then smack. Pole.”
I thought about this.
I thought about it long and hard this morning while drinking my protein shake at the kitchen island.
There would be questions about my wounds.
And I wasn’t about to tell them the truth.
Therefore, I came up with a different story, one that is just self-deprecating enough that it’s believable but far away enough from the truth that nothing could be linked.
“Were you knocked unconscious?”
“Yup,” I say and then rest my axe against my shoulder. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some—”
“You were in jail last night?” Ansel announces, walking into the barn, sporting a shit-eating grin. “Dude, why didn’t you call us to bail you out?”
And this is what sucks about living in a small town. Nothing is kept a secret. Absolutely nothing. News traveled quicker than I expected.
“Wait, you were in jail?” Felix asks, turning toward me with that big-brother look of disapproval pinching his brows.
“Yeah, for trespassing,” Ansel says. “Cole was telling me all about it.”
Cole?
Cole told him?
That motherfucker.
When has he ever engaged in gossip?
The betrayal! Almost hurts worse than my hand and eye put together.
“Where the hell were you trespassing?” Felix asks me. “And is that how you actually hurt your eye and hand?”
“Yup,” Ansel answers for me. “The owner of the house he was trespassing nailed him in the head with a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. Knocked him out. And the hand was from the crowbar he was carrying around.”
“Why the hell did you have a crowbar?” Felix asks.
Head held high, I say, “In case I crossed paths with a murderer.”
“Little help that did for you, since you were taken out by a Pepsi,” Felix says.
The heaviest Pepsi known to man. I can still feel the way it crashed into my head.
“My question is, was it regular Pepsi or diet?” Ansel asks.
“Great question.” God, I hate them. Although if I were to guess by the heft, it was regular.
Both my brothers fold their arms at their chests, waiting for me to answer.
But I refuse to delight in their obvious ribbing. I have things to do. Trees to chop. People to avoid—ahem, Cole.
“Also, was it an unopened bottle?” Ansel continues.
“From the look of the cut, I’d say so,” Felix answers.
“Confirmation would be great though.” They both look to me for answers again, but like I said, I have things to do, so I head toward the barn door.
“As much fun as this is for the both of you, your tour should be done soon with their shopping. I suggest you get back to them while I get back to my job.”
“Your actual job? Or your new job of trespassing? Also care to explain why you were trespassing?” Ansel asks.
“Fuck off,” I call out, flipping them my middle finger and then heading over to the tree shack. As if I would tell them. It’s best to keep them in the dark if for no other reason than the interrogation I was just put through.
The farm is buzzing today with even more visitors since all the vendors are having their beginning-of-the-season sales. The demand for real trees and artificial—yes, we sell those as well, in the tree shack of course—is booming, and the joy of the season is just starting.
When I reach the shack, which is more of a general store for everything related to Christmas trees, including ornaments, garland, and tree toppers, I spot Kate behind the register wearing an elf hat. When she sees me, she winces in an uncomfortable way.
Yup, word has gotten around.
“Do you know?” I ask her as I walk past an older couple checking out the personalized ornament section.
“I think everyone does.”
“Great,” I huff out as I take a seat on the chair behind the register and lean my head against the wall. “For the record, I wasn’t trespassing in a creepy way. Just, you know, trying to gather information.”
“Didn’t think you were being creepy.” She tries to hold back her smile, but I can see right through her. “For what it’s worth, it looks like you went through hell to trespass.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want people thinking, that I went through hell to trespass.” I groan. “Please, tell me something other than what happened to me last night. Anything good? Anything of interest?”
“Uh . . .” She leans against the counter. “The fake flocked trees from Larry Balzak and Company that you said would be a bestseller this season, well, we sold three already today. You were right.”
“I’m usually right about trees,” I say, attempting to pat myself on the back. I need the ego boost after last night’s disaster.
“Oh, and the string popcorn kits you thought were a good idea, I sold a few of those as well.”
“That’s good news.”
“I thought so. Oh, and that girl I was telling you about the other day, the one with the blue eyes and bright blond hair . . .”
“Vendor girl?” I ask.
Kate nods. “Yup, well, she was back today, but she was asking about something else.”
“She was?” I ask, perking up. “What was she looking for?”
“Asking about our suppliers and who we use.”
“Seriously?” I ask, sitting even taller.
“Yes. She seemed genuinely interested, especially when it came to our decor suppliers. And I remembered her, because . . . those eyes of hers, seriously, so blue.”
“Did you give her the information?” I ask.
“I mean . . . yeah.” Kate winces.
“What? Why? Kate, she could be a mole.”
“I don’t know. She asked nicely, and I’m sorry, she’s just . . . she’s hot, and I thought why not?”
“Kate,” I groan, sliding my wrapped hand over my face. “You can’t be giving away information like that. Don’t you see what she’s doing? She’s trying to steal all our information. First it was the vendors, now our suppliers. What’s next? Our year-end statements?”
“Well, if she did ask for them, I wouldn’t know where to find them, so at least you’re safe with that.”
I stand from the chair. “Is she still here?”
“I think so. I saw her walk off toward the gingerbread house.”
“What is she wearing?”
“Uh . . . a long camel-colored wool jacket.”
“Got it,” I say as I move toward the door.
“Wait, Max, what are you going to do?”
I look over my shoulder and answer, “Protect my farm,” then head out the door.
Betty
It smells delicious in here.
Like actual heaven.
And it’s cute, like being in an actual gingerbread house. Brown walls, brown flooring, brown furniture, all outlined with thick loopy white paint. Seriously, it’s one of the cutest shops I’ve ever seen.
And from the smell of it, the gingerbread is not imported but baked fresh daily.
There’s a sign outside stating this, but then again, I’ve seen my fair share of liars in business. Not the Evergreen Farm owners. They seem to be running a very upstanding establishment.
I walk over to the shop portion of the gingerbread house and examine the gingerbread house kits, the extra fixings and candy for decoration, as well as frosting.
It would be cute if they did a make-your-own kit.
Like a candy shop with bags and scoops for candy, but instead of buying candy for yourself, you’re buying it to decorate your house.
A pay-by-the-pound situation. People can pick out their structure, icing, and then candy.
Loving the idea, I write it down in my notes app, just as I feel someone step up right behind me.
“Can I help you?” a deep voice says, startling me.
I turn around, my eyes slowly scanning upward until a very tall and handsome man comes into view. Dark hair that curls at the ends, dark eyes, square jaw peppered in scruff, and a bandage above his eye . . .
Wait . . .
I know him. “Harpoon stealer?”
He leans back in surprise. “Vigilante?” His eyes scan me for recognition. When his gaze meets mine, I see the moment he connects the dots. “You’re . . . you’re the girl with the eyes?”
“What?” I ask as I back up, my attention focusing on the cut above his eye. Was that cut there before?
And why does he look familiar in a way that doesn’t register happy, joking memories on the sidewalk?
Why does he . . .?
His height, his width, the deepness of his voice.
Oh.
My.
God.
“You . . . you’re him . . . You’re . . . you’re following me.”
“What?” the man asks.
I clutch at my jacket and back up. “Stay . . . stay away.” I reach for the closest thing to me and pick up a tube of icing. “I’m warning you, I’m not afraid to hit you in the head again.”
“Hit me in the head again . . .” He pauses, and then his eyes narrow. “Are you the lady who pummeled me in the head with a Pepsi bottle last night?”
“Yeah, and I have no problem blacking out your other eye.” I take another step back. “So s-stay away before I get a restraining order.”
“Listen.” He takes a step forward. “I’m not here to cause—”
“Back up.” I wiggle the tube at him. “I’m not kidding. Not another step closer.”
Hands up, he looks around the shop and then leans in closer, too close for me.
Before he can whisper whatever is on the tip of his tongue, I scream, “Restraining order,” then chuck the icing tube at his head, nailing him right between the eyes before I bolt past him and out the door as I hear him groan behind me.
Outside, I make my way down the stairs, only for him to bust out the door as well, looking around while holding his head. When he spots me, he charges in my direction.
“Stay away,” I call out and start to jog just as I look over my shoulder and spot him stumbling down the three stairs on his back.
A loud groan fills the cheery farm, and he grips his back as he looks in my direction. Determination sets in his features as he stands and starts limping forward.
Yelping, I hurry toward the parking lot, making sure to be careful, because even though they do a good job of clearing all the snow and ice, there are still some spots that are slightly slippery.
I reach the Evergreen Farm arch, and I’m about to turn right, toward my property, when my arm is grabbed, and I’m pulled up against a pole.
“Help! Help!” I call out just as the man’s bandaged hand is placed over my mouth. There’s a mark on his forehead from the sharp corner of the icing tube and visible pain in his features as he breathes heavily.
“I’m not . . . going to . . . hurt you,” he says, labor in his breath. “Fuck.” He winces and leans forward, dropping his hand from my mouth and gripping his back again. “Shit, my back.”
“Let me go.”
“I’m not, ouch, fuck.” He grips his back again, arching ever so slightly.
I attempt to slide away, but he keeps his hand on my arm, pinning me in place.
“Just give me a second. I need to . . . oh motherfucker. It’s seizing. I’m seizing.” And then before my eyes, he falls to the ground, rolls to his back, and stares up at the sky, a husky, painful groan falling past his lips. “Get . . . Cole.”
“Huh?” I ask, staring down at the giant of a man. Honestly, I think his quad is the size of my head.
“Cole. I need Cole.”
“Coal?” I ask, confused. “Like coal from Santa?”
“No, Cole my best friend.” He groans and winces. “He’s in the reindeer barn. Please . . . get him.”
Sheesh, he really looks like he’s in pain.
Set on a mission, I’m about to head back to the farm when I pause, because if I’ve learned anything in my twenty-five years of life, it’s that I need to be aware of stranger-danger situations. And this very well might be one of them.
Because this guy who tried to pry open my window last night is telling me to go find a man named Cole in the reindeer barn? A barn . . .
Barns are the perfect place for corruption and murder.
Uh, not falling for that trick. It’s probably where they snatch innocent ladies like me and take them to their murderous dwelling, where they string them up and dance naked in front of them just for jollies.
Well, I will not partake.
I won’t be tricked.
So instead of helping him and going to find this coal, I step over his twitching body and say, “Get your own coal.”
Then I take off, head held high and safe from what I can only imagine would have been an abduction.
Nice try . . . Maxheimer—harpoon stealer.
Nice try.