Chapter 11 #2
“Then how do you know it’s better?”
“I just do.”
I harumphed.
Pursing his lips, he leaned his hip on the counter and faced me, then crossed his arms. “Okay, since you’ve seen both, which one is better?”
“What?” I said, suddenly on the spot.
Also, why did he have to stand like that? It made me feel like a teenager with haywire hormones.
“City or country sunrise?” he pressed.
My lips moved. “They’re both beautiful.” I hedged.
He made a rude noise.
“What?”
“You were so adamant to tell me I was wrong, but look at you, not even wanting to make a choice. At least I’m decisive.”
The words felt like salt water in an open wound. The sting was instant, and the burn lingered. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. Maybe because, once upon a time, I was the decisive one. I was the one brave enough to confess under the mistletoe. And look where it got me.
Still pining away for someone who didn’t want me even after ten long years.
“At least I’ve given both a try,” I said quietly.
“What?”
My shoulders slumped a little. I was tired. Wasn’t he? All this back-and-forth all the time.
“Nothing,” I replied, turning back to the mixer. The bright-white icing was thick and holding stiff peaks. Exactly what the directions said it should be.
I flipped it off instantly and raised the whisk.
“We need plastic wrap,” I announced, avoiding his gaze.
“Toby.”
“This stuff dries out really fast.” I thought I’d seen a roll of it in the pantry, but before I could head off, something firm wrapped around my wrist.
I glanced down, noting Archer’s strong, callused hand keeping me in place. Only durable, capable men had calluses like that.
“Winterbury is home. Hodge Farm is my place,” he said, voice low and rumbly.
“I know that,” I said, stomach squeezing. Why’s he telling me this anyway?
The urge to get away seemed vital, the impulse to run so strong that I tugged my arm to try and free it from his grasp.
He shook his head as though the words came out wrong. Trying once more, he said, “It’s not that I didn’t want to try.”
His words stilled the tempest inside me and quelled the urgency to get away. My arm went slack, and I stood there staring. The push and pull of emotions inside me was so strong that it left me blank inside, as if my mind were tripping and trying to catch up.
Was he saying…?
I shook off the thought. He wasn’t. I was hearing things. Letting the magic of the mistletoe, the fable of this town, convince me of things that just weren’t true.
“It was complicated then.” He went on, and my heart started galloping because no matter how hard I tried not to, I was hearing things I wished for so long to hear.
“What do you mean?” I was breathless and no longer trying to twist away but instead leaning closer with the large bowl between us and the scent of meringue lingering in the air, slightly acidic but also airily sweet.
Just like this conversation. Just like the feel of those callused fingers on the inside of my wrist.
Something clattered across the room, startling us both. Bab appeared and pushed between us to inspect the bowl. “It’s going to dry out.” Turning to me, she said, “Plastic wrap is in the pantry.”
My wrist slid from Archer’s slackened grip, and I went to do her bidding. The roll of plastic was commercial grade and probably weighed at least ten pounds. After dropping it onto the counter, I pulled out a large sheet and tore it free using the row of teeth on the roll.
The second I pulled it back, it folded in on itself, turning into a clingy nightmare. “You’re just like a bad date,” I scolded it, trying to shake it out, but the stuff just wouldn’t budge.
Using both hands, I tried to peel it apart, but somehow it only made it worse.
Archer made a sound of amusement and reached for the roll to tear off his own sheet. Somehow, he managed to keep the thin film straight and slid it over the bowl and sides for a tight fit.
Giving up, I tossed the wadded-up plastic on the counter. “How did you do that?”
He laughed. “Practice. I help mom wrap apple crumble for the store.”
I nodded. “Hodge Podge looks really great by the way. Ever since I got here, everyone’s been saying how much you’ve done to increase tourism and revenue for the town, and I can definitely see why.”
He seemed not to know what to make of the compliment, clearing his throat and averting his gaze. Even though it didn’t need it, he reached out to smooth the edge of the plastic wrap on the bowl. “Just want to make my dad proud.”
My heart squeezed. Laying my hand on his forearm, I stepped close. “He is,” I told him. “Your father is so proud of everything you’ve done. The entire town is.”
Archer looked up, his earnest blue eyes a blast from the past. A glimpse of my old best friend whose heart was so special I couldn’t keep myself from falling in love. “You really think so?”
“I genuinely do.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, emotion flickering over his face. “For so long, I tried to keep everything together, just wanting it to stay the same…”
“The only thing that ever stays the same is change.”
“Yeah.” He seemed regretful. “That’s what I learned.”
My chest was so tight that I needed to breathe deeply to expand the space my heart had to rest. But I didn’t want to move for fear it would interfere with this moment. This moment when I felt like my best friend was here.
“Toby.”
“Archer.”
We both spoke at the same time, our names rushing into the space between us, mingling and mixing like they wanted to be one word.
“You can go first.”
He shook his head. “No, you.”
We stared at each other, the air as thick as the royal icing we’d just made.
“Start assembling,” Bab commanded. “Clock is ticking.”
“She’s a culinary dictator,” I quipped.
“Hell’s Kitchen holiday edition,” Archer shot back.
“I love that show,” I said, the tension around us finally easing.
His teeth flashed. I loved the contrast of the white against his beard. “Me too.”
That surprised me. “Yeah?”
“I’m not on the farm every hour of the day,” he teased.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Please, I hear your mom telling everyone all you do is work.”
“I like my job.” I defended myself.
“You’re good at it.”
I ducked my face, hoping he wouldn’t see just how much that simple praise meant to me.
“I mean it,” he said after a minute. “Marlowe really likes you.”
I glanced up, catching his eye, and smiled. “Thank you.”
We worked in silence for a few minutes, sliding large shapes of gingerbread off the baking sheets, and then I picked up the photo to figure out a starting point.
“It’s like trying to read a map blindfolded,” I uttered.
Archer laughed and leaned in. “Let me see.”
I shifted so he could study the photo too, but the scent of pine robbed my concentration and left me battling the urge to lean back into his arm.
“That looks like that one,” he said, pointing from the photo to the counter. “And then that one.”
His voice was hypnotizing. Deep but calm. And every time he shifted, Christmas trees and coffee swirled beneath my nose. It’s not that I didn’t want to try.
“Toby.”
I knocked into him with the force of my startle. “What? Oh, sorry. What were you saying?” I asked, looking between him and the counter.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Wait. What? I blinked. “Weren’t we talking about gingerbread?”
Archer gazed at me quietly for long moments, his attention a net I got tangled in.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he repeated.
I shook my head. “No.”
“No?”
Why does he seem surprised?
“No.” Why was he asking me that?
His lips pursed, eyes turning a little squinty. “What about Brett?”
“Brett,” I echoed as my brain worked to produce a picture of the man he mentioned. “What about him?”
“You were flirting.”
I felt my eyes bulge. “I was not!”
Archer’s lips thinned. “You were.”
“I was not.”
“I saw you. Making googly eyes at each other under the oak tree.”
“We were looking at the carved initials,” I retorted. Then, “Who even cares? You don’t even like that tree.”
“That’s not true.”
I scoffed and folded my arms in front of me. “You like it?”
“Yeah,” he said, turning away to look at the photo again. “We should do this.”
“You’re the one who brought this up,” I uttered.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“Why did you?”
The muscle in the side of his jaw flexed, and then he turned back to me. “Maybe I was jealous.”
My palm fell onto the counter, and I gasped. Gasped so hard my lungs felt a draft. “Yo-you’re jealous of Brett?” It was inconceivable. Practically a joke.
So why did he appear so earnest?
Why were the tips of his ears burning bright pink?
“Stupid, huh?” he murmured, laughing at himself beneath his breath, then picked up a piping bag and a tray of tips.
“I went there for you,” I rushed out.
The bag fell onto the counter as he turned. “What?”
Despite the churning in my stomach and the warning bells going off in the back of my head, I couldn’t hold back the words. “I didn’t come to the farm the other night because Brett was nervous. I came because I wanted to see you.”
“You wanted to see me?” Hearing him repeat those words made my heart stutter.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I wanted to be with you when you harvested the mistletoe. I didn’t want you to do it alone.”
“Mayor Schroder was there.”
I gave him a look, and we both laughed, but when it faded, our gazes lingered.
“So no boyfriend?” he asked softly.
Butterflies didn’t really go with Christmas, yet here they were, wings gone wild in my stomach.
“No,” I echoed. “What about you?” I asked before the moment faded into the obscure. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No,” he said.
I nodded and turned back to the gingerbread.
“I don’t have a boyfriend either.”
My vision whited out, leaving me momentarily blind. Did he just say what I think he said? Imply that he likes men?
Silence stretched between us until I couldn’t withstand another millisecond.
I turned my head just slightly, enough to see him from the corner of my eye.
The bones in my fingers ached from the pressure I used to grip the countertop.
“I didn’t know you liked… boys.” The words were a pressure release inside me. Almost a wheeze.
“I don’t,” he said, throwing me for yet another loop. “Just one.”
Just one.
One.
I wondered how far my heart would splatter if it exploded right there inside my ribs. And even as I told myself to not get my hopes up, they careened to the highest crest and teetered precariously on the edge.
What a rush it was. Until you fell without a net.
Picking at the edge of the roll of plastic wrap, I stared until my eyes crossed. “Maybe you should tell him that,” I said, not even recognizing the sound of my own voice.
“I tried once,” he divulged, and the hope inside me shattered.
I thought… I’d thought he was talking about me.
When will you ever learn, Toby? Archer Hodge does not love you, and he never will.
“But it was too late.” Archer went on as if he hadn’t just stomped all over what was left of my heart with his size-twelve boots.
I made a sound, something broken and guttural, the only thing I could do to acknowledge his words. In truth, I couldn’t find any empathy for his rejection because the sting of mine was far too brutal.
And so we stood there, both of us grappling with bleeding hearts—mine bleeding for him and his for someone else—until Bab came over like the spatula sergeant she was and shooed us back to work.