Chapter 11
GINGER
Imove over to the pumpkin bars, still feeling the ghost of Jordan’s solid arms around me. I hugged him. Or maybe he hugged me. I can’t remember who moved first. All I know is, for a second, it felt like we weren’t pretending just to be friends anymore.
Grabbing a knife, I start cutting through the dessert. The edges are firm as I carefully slice through them. My hands are steadier than I expected after being in Jordan’s arms.
I’ve known him forever, and have seen him at his best and his worst. I’ve seen him fight with his brothers, flirt with more women than I can remember, split the seat of his pants while sledding when we were teenagers, and the list could go on and on.
But lately, I’m seeing him through a new lens, and some of my favorite moments we’ve shared are like snapshots in my mind. And now this hug has joined them.
Setting the knife down on the counter, I lean forward, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. Why am I blowing this so out of proportion?
It was a hug that lasted a handful of seconds.
Although, I was the one to pull away first. Would anything else have happened if I hadn’t? There’s no way for me to know.
The door creaks behind me, and I straighten up quickly, schooling my features as I turn around.
Nina pokes her head in before she passes the rest of the way through. “Are the bars done?”
“Yep. I just finished cutting them,” I say, grabbing a box from the shelf.
“Have you tried one?” she asks.
“I haven’t. Why? Do you want to?”
She smiles mischievously. “Kind of. But I have some work to finish up tonight, so I’d better not. My brother will be reading my reports, wondering what the hell happened.”
I nod. “Yeah, probably better not to chance it, then.” I box up the bars and then fasten the lid with a sticker. “All done.”
Dammit. Now I have no excuse to remain in here.
Nina steps closer. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
She studies my face. “You seem a little off.”
I carry the knife and pan over to the sink. “It’s been a long day. My weekend crew had a couple of people out sick, so I’ve been here since nine this morning.”
“Well, hopefully you can leave soon. I’ll head back out there and get those three moving,” she says, striding purposefully toward the door.
“Yes, please. That would be great.” And once I’m alone, I can work on unraveling all my twisted-up thoughts and feelings about Jordan.
I return to the front, grab a bag, and place some gingerbread bars inside. Folding over the top edge, I put a sticker to hold it closed and then deliver it to Reed. “These are for you.”
His eyes widen. “Edibles?”
I shake my head. “Sorry. They’re just regular gingerbread bars.”
He takes the bag from me, hugging it to his chest. “There’s nothing regular about anything you bake.”
“Aww, thanks.”
Jordan sidles over and places his hand in the middle of my back. “G, now that you’re out here, tell me if there’s anything else you want us to put out.”
I feel the warmth of his palm burning through my shirt like he’s branding my skin, making it difficult to focus on anything else.
I slowly scan the space, noticing the lights lining the front of each shelf.
There’s a collection of snowmen and mini Christmas trees set atop the blanket of fake snow that lines the wide windowsill, and a thick green garland has been draped around the inside of the front entrance.
My lips curve as I take it all in. “This looks so great. Thank you so much.”
“Jordan did most of the work,” Nina says.
“Hey, don’t discount my snowman and tree placement,” Willow jumps in.
“I’m not gonna lie, I didn’t do a damn thing,” Reed says, grinning.
“Yeah, except what you do best—being a pain in the ass,” Jordan adds.
I laugh half heartedly at their brotherly ribbing, but I’m barely holding it together.
Jordan’s hand hasn’t left my back, and every nerve ending in my body is on high alert.
I should step away—I should’ve already—but I don’t.
I hold still, absorbing everything I’m feeling.
Tonight, when I’m lying in bed, I’ll pull out my mental snapshots of Jordan, and this moment will be amongst them.
“We should get going,” Nina suggests, reaching for her jacket slung over the back of a chair. “I’m sure Ginger wants to get out of here.”
I send her a grateful smile.
Willow fake shivers. “But it’s cold out there.” She picks up her phone, shuts off the music, and tucks it into her back pocket.
“All the more reason to leave sooner rather than later,” Nina says.
Willow shrugs on her puffy vest and pulls a plain black beanie over the top of her head. “Thanks for the coffee and letting us crash your space.”
“Anytime,” I say. “We’ll talk soon.”
Reed holds up his bag of gingerbread bars like a trophy. “Oh, I’ll be back. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Let’s go.” Willow urges him toward the door with two hands pushing on his back, and Nina follows. They call out goodbyes over their shoulders as the cold night air rushes in through the open door.
And then it goes eerily silent, as if a vacuum sucked every sound from the space. I turn toward a table and nod at the last of the decorations and supplies. “I’m gonna get this put away.”
“I’ll help,” he says, already grabbing a stray ornament.
We fall into an easy rhythm, gathering scattered pieces of red velvet, extra lights, unused hooks, and ornaments.
Jordan holds the box open while I carefully situate the things inside.
When everything’s packed, he follows me to the kitchen without a word.
I open the door to a storage closet that’s tucked in the back corner.
“The top shelf?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
He lifts the box effortlessly and slides it into place.
I watch him the whole time, taking in his broad shoulders and muscular arms encased in a black hoodie.
I may not be able to see the details of his musculature, but I know it’s there.
And then there are his hands—those capable hands that can set my body aflame with a casual touch.
Backing away, I spin around and grab the box of pumpkin bars. “All packed up.”
“Oh yeah. I can’t forget these.” One side of his mouth arcs upward. “Thanks, partner.”
I walk him back to the front, and it isn’t until we’re standing by the door that I notice the sprig of mistletoe hanging from a red velvet ribbon—and it’s right above us. I swear it wasn’t there a few minutes ago.
Before I can move or say anything, Jordan looks up and then back at me.
There’s a beat of silence between us before he steps closer.
My breath catches, a thready sound escaping my lips.
Our eyes meet as he leans in, his hand brushing my arm.
And just when I think his kiss is inevitable, his warm lips press gently against my forehead.
“I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs, pulling back. He gives me one last glance, then steps out into the night.
Remaining in place, I lift my fingers to the spot where his lips touched my skin. A forehead kiss under the mistletoe. It wasn’t the kiss I expected, but somehow, it was exactly what I needed. It’s another snapshot burned into my memory—soft, fleeting, and somehow just right.
My gaze flicks to Pops, who’s sunk into his recliner, eyes glued to the television.
“I thought we were leaving,” I say, tugging on my boots and tucking my fleece-lined jeans inside.
“You’re leaving. I’m staying here.”
I straighten. “You said we needed a Christmas tree and suggested going to the farm. I left work early specifically for that reason.”
“Yeah, I remember. But my arthritis is acting up, so I asked Jordan to go with you.”
I freeze. “What?”
“He’s got a truck, which saves you from strapping the tree to the roof of your car.”
“Pops, I don’t need a chaperone.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “But he didn’t mind, and said he’d be happy to help out.”
“He’s probably being polite. He has a business to run and doesn’t need you adding to his list of things to do.”
Pops doesn’t reply. A knock at the door cuts through the room, and my stomach dips like I’ve crested the top of a roller coaster.
Great. I haven’t seen Jordan since the mistletoe moment, and I’m not ready for things to be weird… at least not visibly. Internally? I’m a mess.
Grabbing my coat from the hook, I shrug it on, then pull open the door. Jordan’s standing there, the wind ruffling his dark hair, and that easy smile has a dangerous effect on my resolve.
“Hi,” I say, already smiling.
“Hi, G.”
“Hey, Jordan,” Pops calls out, his focus remaining on the TV.
“How’s it going?” Jordan shouts back, his gaze never leaving mine.
“I’m still breathing.”
Jordan chuckles. “Glad to hear it.”
I gesture toward the outside. “We should get going.” He nods. I glance back at Pops. “We’re heading out. Call if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. You two have fun.”
I pat my coat pockets. Gloves? Check. Hat? Check.
“You might want a scarf,” Jordan suggests, eyeing my neckline.
“Good call.” I snatch one from a hook, looping it around my neck as we step out into the chill.
I pause long enough to tug the door shut and make sure the knob is locked.
Then we start toward his truck, boots crunching over the thin layer of snow.
He reaches it first and opens the passenger door for me like a gentleman, which doesn’t help the situation any.
I climb in, trying not to overthink what a jumbled mess my feelings are as I settle into my seat. He closes me in and circles around the front bumper. I use the moment to adjust my scarf and remind myself to breathe. It’s just two friends taking a ride to pick out a Christmas tree.
He climbs in and shuts the door, rubbing his hands together before he starts the engine. Warm air begins to hum through the vents.
“You good?” he asks, glancing my way.
“Yeah. I’m toasty enough.”
He gives a slight nod, shifts into reverse, and backs out of the driveway with practiced ease. Snowflakes drift lazily past the windshield as we roll onto the main road. The truck cab fills with the low purr of the heater and the occasional creak of the leather seats.
After a minute or so, he asks, “How’s your week been?”
“Chaotic,” I admit. “I fell behind on inventory, got into more than one debate with Pops over real versus fake trees, and I may have scorched a batch of muffins at the shop. So now it smells like burnt gingerbread, and it’s a constant reminder of my failure.”
He lets out a short laugh. “Sounds like you're nailing peak holiday spirit.”
I smile and nod. “Maybe. What about you?”
“I’ve spent most of the week checking out new suppliers.” His eyes briefly flick to me. “By the way, none of them offer pumpkin bar edibles or any seasonal flavors, so we have the local market cornered.”
“Sweet,” I say.
“Open the glove compartment. There’s something in there for you.”
I do as he says and find a white envelope with my name on it. “What’s this?” I ask, picking it up.
“It’s your portion of the edible sales. Once again, they sold out in record time.”
“That’s awesome, but I told you, I don’t need to be paid. This is your money.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. It’s yours. We’re fifty-fifty on this.” His firm tone leaves no room for arguing.
“Okay.” I tuck the envelope inside one of my pockets. “I’m glad your customers are liking our edibles. It’s weird for me to be making something people are purchasing without tasting it myself.”
He smirks. “You might have to sample one.”
I nod. “Stranger things have happened.” Like the two of us riding in his truck together on our way to pick out a Christmas tree.
“Yesterday, someone asked me if we sold fruitcake edibles.”
“Do you?”
“No. But now I kind of wish we did. It could be a million-dollar idea.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Not even I can make fruitcake taste good.”
“I bet you could.”
“It’s something people either love or hate. There’s no in-between ground.”
“Kind of like me,” he quips.
I snort. “How can you say that with a straight face? Everyone loves you.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Mr. Hilton didn’t,” he says, referring to one of the high school teachers.
“Can you blame the guy for being upset when he found out the tomato plants you grew for the photosynthesis project were really marijuana plants?”
He chuckles. “I’ll never forget the look on his face when a parent pointed it out during Open House.”
“Weren’t you worried you’d get in trouble?” Even as an adult, I can’t imagine being so bold.
He shrugs. “I didn’t really think that far ahead.”
“Yeah, that seems to be a recurring problem with the male species in general,” I quip.
“Hey, I turned out to be an upstanding member of society. I don’t break any laws.”
No, just hearts.
“Looking back, we should’ve known you were destined to open a dispensary.”
He laughs. “And now, I don’t even smoke weed. How’s that for irony?”
“That’s a good thing. You won’t eat into your profit margin.”
He shoots me a quick sideways look, and I catch the flicker of amusement and maybe something warmer in his eyes.
As we drive along, the snowfall intensifies. We fall into a comfortable silence as the white flakes blanket the world around us. It’s peaceful and totally at odds with my brain’s need to overthink the situation.
“You sure this tree farm exists?” I finally ask.
“Hey, have a little faith,” he says, smiling.
If only that were as easy as it sounds.