Any Girl But You (Meet Cute in Minnesota #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

QUINN

I am totally convinced nobody actually likes Christmas.

And before you get your garland-covered pitchforks out, hear me out.

Throughout the year, people glamorize the holiday and view it through a sparkly bow filter where everything looks like a sweet, magical winter wonderland.

Parents picture themselves in their matching flannel pajamas, sipping spiced eggnog and watching the little ones tear into their gifts.

Friends laugh at the memory of exchanging goofy white elephant gifts while competing in the office’s annual ugly Christmas sweater contest. Kids remember ripping through shiny wrapping paper and pulling out the gift they begged Santa Claus for at the mall.

Thinking about Christmas, that’s the fun part.

But come actual Christmas time, those parents spend the week swearing like drunk frat boys while assembling presents, friends stress over fighting traffic and coming up with a “clever” white elephant gift while grinding at their jobs, and kids throw temper tantrums when Santa doesn’t bring the toy they want.

The holiday is loud, chaotic, and the same damn song plays over and over (can we all agree there are some solid Mariah Carey fans out there?) During the season, there’s too many people at the store, too many screaming toddlers, and too much sugar.

Wait. That last one I take back. The sugar is one of the best parts of the season. Especially when co-workers bring in their butter toffee and I bet a trip to the dentist that I can make it through one without a cracked tooth.

But that’s it. The music sucks. The people suck.

They think they’re excited, but they’re not.

They’re stressed-out. They’re angry. Last year, I saw a grandma throw a candy cane at a man at a store.

Maybe he deserved it, who knows. The guy did look like a dick.

Point is, an actual candy cane. Lobbed through the air and smacked him square on the cheek.

So, why the hell did I choose to buy a Christmas tree farm?

Yes, that’s right. Seven months ago, I went from Quinn Lee, Wall Street Executive Assistant of Vice President Asshat, to Quinn Lee, Tree Farmer in Spring Harbors, Minnesota.

And I’ve been asking myself this exact question every day since I purchased this place.

I’ll probably keep asking it until I die.

Or sell. But my stubbornness rivals a bulldog’s, so I’ll say die.

These are the thoughts that consume me as I step out of the shower and scrunch my hair in a towel, being careful not to rub.

My curls can be a temperamental little bitch, and the slightest deviation from my coconut hair creamer and wet-diffusing process will fray the strands.

Trust me—nothing can ruin a day like suboptimal coils.

Was the dead of January the smartest time to decide on buying a run-down tree farm outside of my small hometown of Spring Harbors, Minnesota?

Probably not. But the emotion of that weekend seven months ago overtook me, grabbed me by my North Face jacket lapel, and made me jump headfirst—the stresses of my New York job had reached nightmare levels and I missed Frankie, my sister (and New York roommate) who’d moved back here to our hometown to be with her girlfriend, Morgan.

And honestly, I felt a little lost. Not that I’d admit that to anyone, not even my sister.

So, last year when I returned for the holidays and saw the magic of the snow, trees, and holiday lights, a stirring started deep in my core and I thought, This is it. My calling.

Must. Buy. Tree. Farm.

I tug my robe over me, unravel the diffuser, and tip my hair to the side.

Was getting out of New York the right decision?

Definitely. When I moved back to Minnesota, I told myself I would not give another thought to my old job.

That place stripped me of a decade. Constantly being told I was being dramatic, or had misunderstood instructions, or was too sensitive (I assure you, I’m not) killed bits of my soul.

For years I put up with a boss who wouldn’t show up for a meeting and then blamed me for getting the times wrong on his calendar or berated me in front of an audience and an hour later convinced me he never screamed or… Nope. See? I’m doing it again.

I will not think about what happened at my former job.

After my curls reach the appropriate bounce level, I cross the hall into my bedroom of the house that I share with Frankie and Morgan.

Besides the job, so many things have changed from my New York days.

I inherited a house with my sister (thank you, Grandma Peaches), that has a garage and a shed and a lawn.

A freaking lawn. In New York, Frankie and I had a seven-hundred-square-foot two-bedroom apartment with a barely functioning elevator.

Not only do we have a lawn, though, we also have matching furniture and nice pictures on the wall, and Frankie has an actual bedroom furniture set.

Of course, courtesy of Morgan, who’s the type of woman that always has her shit together.

Morgan keeps things around the house tidy, fresh smelling, and homey.

Me… Well, I contribute by taking off my shoes at the door, and keeping my bedroom door closed so she doesn’t have a heart attack when she passes by.

A muffled phone buzzes from somewhere. I dig under the pile of clean laundry in the corner, the pile of dirty laundry in the other corner, and finally grab it from the pocket of the jean shorts I wore yesterday. “What?”

“You don’t live in New York anymore,” Frankie says. “When someone calls you, it’s customary to say hello.”

“Customary, my ass.” I tap my phone onto speaker and open the closet.

“I’ve never said hello to you before, and I’m not starting now.

” I slide over a box with the side of my foot, step on my tiptoes to look on the shelf, then kick over a pile of jackets.

Seriously, where are my Converse? “And I’m not changing the way I talk just because I moved from the city. ”

“People around here are different. I have to deprogram you before you assimilate too much into Spring Harbors’ society. You can’t be all direct and in their face like on the East Coast,” Frankie says. “Here, there’s like… conversational foreplay. You have to ease into it.”

Frankie acts like I’ve never lived here before.

We grew up here, not more than ten miles from the house we now own.

But it’s different, being here as a thirty-two-year-old than as a child.

“Being direct is not rude. It’s efficient.

” In New York, people value directness. Back there, everything is on a clock.

The quicker you get your point across, the quicker you can move on.

It’s a societal norm cherished by everyone, from the servers to the executives.

But here in the beautiful, lush, sleepy town of Spring Harbors, instead of saying, “I’ll have an Americano, little cream, thanks,” I need to flash a toothy smile, and say things like, “Good morning! Beautiful day. Can you believe this weather? I’ll have an Americano with just a splash of cream.

Thank you so much,” or people will think I’m a snob.

So annoying. Who’s got time for that? Not me.

“Speaking of being direct, what do you need? I’m just about to leave.

” Oh, there are my shoes! Buried under my pile of sweatshirts.

Sure, it’s been over half a year since I’ve been back, but I haven’t had a chance to fully unpack.

Who knew revamping a failing Christmas tree farm business would take so much time?

“Don’t kill me,” Frankie says.

Oh no. I freeze at the tone. “This means I’m going to actually kill you. What did you do?”

A sharp inhale comes through the speaker. “I can’t fly back tonight anymore.”

“What?” A flicker of panic rushes through me.

Tomorrow’s the “Christmas in August” event in Duluth—my first-ever vendor event where I’m getting word out that a new Christmas sheriff is in town, ready to knock the striped red-and-green socks off everyone with her new and improved Christmas tree farm.

My sister is supposed to sit with me, flash her dimples, flex her absurdly fit biceps, and charm customers into coming to my place.

“Frankie, you promised you’d sit with me. ”

“I know, I’m really sorry. Long story short, but some major stuff blew up at work and I can’t leave. I’ll fill you in later. But Morgan will be there with you, and we both know she’s friendlier than both of us combined.”

I push my fingertips into my temple and sit on the edge of the bed.

It’s not Frankie’s fault, but it doesn’t mean I won’t be unfairly irritated with her for a solid day.

Last year, Frankie landed the job of a lifetime to be a photographer for the high-end lifestyle brand Birch & Willow, with its beautiful website, product line, and New York flagship store.

So now she divides her time between Minnesota and New York.

Her job is seriously demanding, and in all fairness, she told me last month there was a possibility that she wouldn’t make it to the vendor event.

But I can’t shake the memories of when our parents did shit like this—leaving us at the last minute to fend for ourselves.

A lifetime of not coming to choir concerts, or school programs, or forgetting teacher conferences fills my mind.

Heat rises in my chest, and I blow it out before I say something snarky.

“I swear to God, if you don’t ask Morgan to marry you, I’m going to.

She is literally saving you from me kicking your ass.

” Clearly, I’m joking. Where I’m more the soft, curvy kind, with boobs bigger than my head, my sister’s the kind of woman who does real push-ups, drives a Harley, and takes absolutely no shit.

There is no way I could actually kick her ass.

My sister knows exactly who she is. Frankie left home at eighteen to become a successful photographer in New York. Now she’s reunited with Morgan, the love of her life, and has a job at one of the most coveted magazines in the world. Everything she puts her mind to, she makes happen.

Me? I’m chasing Frankie around the country ’cause I’m too scared to be alone, and still figuring my crap out, day by day.

“Seriously, Quinn, I’m super bummed, and am really sorry,” Frankie says. “But you got this. I believe in you.”

Do I actually have this? I’m not sure. When my aunt and uncle decided to sell their Christmas tree farm, they were so desperate to keep it in the family that they offered it to me at a great price.

After spending a month getting tarot card readings throughout Manhattan, manifesting for hours in my journal, and following all the recommendations for each layer in my astrological profile, I thought the price was a sign from the universe, saving me from having security drag me out of the office after I stabbed my boss in the eye with one of his overpriced gold pens.

Warm sleigh-filled memories, probably way too much wine, and the idea of having Frankie beside me again inspired me to pull the plug.

Frankie had warned me, had said that the farm was not how I’d remembered, how much work it would be. But I knew that she and Morgan—who’s a local wedding planner—had spent the previous summer remodeling the barn for a wedding. So really, how bad could it be?

In January, when I stepped onto the property for the first time. I got my answer. Bad.

Although the trees were in good shape, and the rustic barn looked great from the remodel, everything else was a complete shit show.

From the cracked fence, to broken-down machinery scattering the field like tombstones in a graveyard, to boxes and boxes and more boxes of junk filling every space, I nearly passed out.

After months of chipping and limbing, cleaning every part of the property, a crash course on irrigation, planting, and seedlings…

finally, I’m in a place to recreate the Christmas magic.

“You are marginally forgiven, but I’m still debating what your betrayal will cost you.” I toss the phone on my bed and tie my shoelaces. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m going to Zoey’s today.”

“Finally.”

Not sure how much I love the pep in Frankie’s voice. She and Morgan have tried to get me to meet Zoey, of Zoey’s Bakery—apparently the best baked goods this side of Lake Superior—since I moved here. And I’ve done everything I can do to not meet Zoey.

Sure, they’ve told me about Zoey. And I’ve picked up that she’s sweet, funny, and kind, and exactly not the type of woman I need in my life.

I know what they’re doing—trying to get me to settle down.

Frankie tried this in New York, too. But settling down is not for me.

I don’t have time for relationships. For anyone, really.

Besides, a holier-than-thou snow angel is not my type.

I like my women messy, unhinged, and definitely not looking for attachment—a mirror image of myself.

Relationships are so low on my priority scale they don’t even register.

I’ve got things to do. Which, currently, is finding my purse so I can leave.

“I actually stopped in there a few days ago to put in my order, but she was gone,” I say, marching through the house looking for my purse. Linen closet, maybe? Bathroom? Kitchen?

Zoey’s Bakery is super cute. All pale pink, white, and rose gold with such beautiful, artistic cupcake arrangements, I couldn’t believe they were real at first. From the pink-and-white-striped awning outside the door, to the pale gray hardwood floors, to the couple of white café style tables and chairs, the place almost reminded me of something I’d find back in New York.

And the cookies Frankie mentioned a million times deserved the hype.

Sure, Frankie and I share the same Lee family sweet tooth, but she nearly pants like Pavlov’s dog every time someone brings up the shop.

After I sunk my teeth into a cupcake, I understood why.

“She wasn’t there? I think she works like twenty-four-seven. Must’ve been urgent,” Frankie says. “Make sure you have one of her lavender and vanilla macaroons when you go today.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Oh! There’s my purse. Hanging on a rack outside the coat closet which can only mean one thing—someone way more responsible than me hung it up. “Okay, I really do have to bounce,” I say, strapping the purse around myself.

“For real, though, be nice,” Frankie says with a caution in her tone that I really, really don’t appreciate. “She’s one of the good ones.”

Whatever. Doesn’t matter if Zoey is one of the “good ones.” It wouldn’t even matter if Zoey is a real-life angel floating from heaven. I’m in town for one reason only—recreate the Christmas magic for our town, one tree at a time.