Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
LINCOLN
Beau:
Nice. You’re screening my calls too? Wtf?
Lincoln:
Idk what to tell you, man. We’re running a farm and a bar over here.
Keeping your sister satisfied is also basically a full time job. Not that I’m complaining.
Beau:
I’m going to kill you for that.
It was Monday afternoon, our slowest day of the week, and I was working solo. The bar was quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the ceiling fan that had been threatening to die since I was a teenager.
I was wiping down the counter—again—and thinking about the blackberry cardamom jam I’d taste-tested this morning. Or, more accurately, the woman who made that jam and the way she’d looked the other day, pacing our tiny home like the world was crashing down around her.
Willa wasn’t the kind of woman who panicked. She was stubborn and tenacious and smart as hell. But when that email had come in, she’d spiraled. Full-on power walking in circles while muttering doomsday-level shit under her breath.
It had hit me then, like a brick to the face. This grant wasn’t just a shot in the dark for her. This was it. Her dream. Her future. Everything she’d worked her ass off for hinged on this opportunity.
And the thought of losing that? Even just the possibility of it? Had wrecked her.
It had wrecked me.
I’d been racking my brain for days, trying to figure out how I could help. More than just taking her mind off it, which I excelled at.
And then I’d stumbled on something I hadn’t expected to find.
I’d been in the farm office, searching for an overdue bill, when I’d found a sheet of paper shoved under the stack. At first glance, it looked like garbage—a discarded note scribbled over that she’d forgotten to throw away.
But then I’d looked closer. Saw what was hiding beneath the angry black ink and indentations from a pen pressed too hard.
It was Willa’s dream, right there in black and white. A rough sketch of a logo with what was clearly supposed to be the farm’s name—rebranded to her vision.
I’d folded that mangled paper and tucked it into my pocket. Hadn’t mentioned it to her. But the image had rooted itself in the back of my mind, same way she had.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since—how much she wanted this. How much she deserved it.
How far we could take it, if only she’d let me run with it.
I knew she didn’t believe me…didn’t trust in herself. Luckily, I trusted in her enough for both of us.
And it wasn’t just me believing in her—it was this whole town. The Strawberry Festival proved as much. Our line had been longer than the one for the strawberry funnel cakes, which was serious business in Starlight Cove.
Between selling out before noon, people doubling back to ask if we shipped, and Mabel damn near strong-arming Willa into a wholesale partnership, I’d realized something.
Those people weren’t just buying jam or honey.
They were buying her. Willa. Her hard work and her dream, all backed by the farm everyone knew and loved.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about how much bigger it could be.
The front door to One Night Stan’s creaked open, and in strode Atlas. Brow creased, eyes pinched, mouth set in a firm line. Coach Asshole reporting for duty.
“Just get done with training camp?” I asked, uncapping a bottle of his favorite beer and setting it on the bar.
“What was the giveaway?”
“That Coach Asshole scowl you should trademark.”
“That’s what happens when I have to deal with these feral little fucks in the summer.” He sat down on the stool across from me and took a long pull of his beer. “One asshole asked if I was retired retired or just old.”
I snorted a laugh. “I’m sure Laurel’s never gonna let you live that down. Was that her murder glare I saw on the field this morning?”
He grunted in acknowledgment. “When she’s not working at the farm, I’ve been dragging her with me to help keep the kids from getting too cocky. Five minutes in, she had a whistle around her neck and was assigning suicide sprints.”
“I thought public-facing Laurel was a no-go?”
“Any other instance, I’d say that’s true. But scaring the shit out of mouthy twelve-year-olds is her love language, apparently.”
“Explains why she and Willa get along so well.” I tossed a rag over my shoulder and braced my hands on the bar.
“She’s been a lot of help at the farm. Not that Willa’ll say it, but Laurel’s been good for her.
And me. That little shit isn’t afraid to tell my wife to sit her ass down and shut up so she doesn’t fuck up her back more.
And tattle to me when she doesn’t listen.
Didn’t think I could love that kid any more, and yet… ”
Atlas grunted. “If you could keep her a few late-night evenings to give Sutton and me some time to ourselves, I wouldn’t say no.”
I snorted, crossing my arms over my chest. “Sutton’s mini-me has already shared just how few fucks you give about, well, fucking, no matter who’s home. Something about making you buy her the most expensive noise-canceling headphones she could find?”
“Whatever. They’re worth it.”
“Speaking of…” I reached under the counter and grabbed a jar before setting it in front of Atlas. Willa’s newest recipe I’d gotten to sample this morning.
“You going soft on me?” He stared at the jar, looked up at me, then tried to swipe it off the counter.
I snatched it back and held it out of his reach. “Not quite. How much would you pay for this?”
Atlas didn’t miss a beat. He glanced at Willa’s hand-lettered label for the blackberry cardamom jam, then reached for his wallet and pulled out a wad of hundreds. Without counting, he dropped all of them on the bar.
“Everything I’ve got on me,” he said, making a gimme motion with his hand. “Now hand it over before I do something desperate.”
Raising a brow, I slid the jam to him and began slowly counting the stack. “Well. That’s a good start.”
“Gimme a spoon,” Atlas said, cracking open the jar like a fucking animal.
I passed one over, and he didn’t waste any time, scooping out a spoonful. His eyes rolled back at his first taste, a grunt of appreciation leaving him.
After his fourth bite, he finally asked, “A good start for what?”
I folded my arms on the bar top and leaned toward him, a familiar spark of excitement stirring in my chest. It had been a flicker of a thought at family dinner when Atlas had eaten the last of Chloe’s supply.
Then that flicker had sparked and grown when he’d offered to buy out our supply at the festival five minutes after we’d opened the booth.
But now? Now, I was seeing it all a bit clearer.
Seeing the future and everything it could hold.
Not a fluke or a pipe dream. It was a business.
With my wife’s dream printed on every single jar.
With me in the background, making sure everything ran smoothly and she took breaks and got the help she needed.
Making sure she never again had to choose between breaking her back or keeping her farm.
She built the dream. I just wanted to help her fulfill it.