Page 13 of This Christmas

“This is a farm.” I look at her heels and mutterunder my breath. “I suggested you change your shoes earlier.”

“It’s not my shoes’ fault there’s mud, Zane.”

Who am I to argue?

Before I pull Caryn to her feet, Evangeline is at Caryn’s side, pushing me out of the way.

“Hey there,” Eve says softly and with such compassion. My memory serves me well, this isn’t the first time something like this has happened here. “I’m Evangeline.”

As soon as Eve says her name, my somewhat softening insides are back to hard, rigid stone. Caryn throws daggers at me. We’ve never talked about Evangeline in the years we’ve been together. Caryn never wanted to know about my past girlfriends, saying they were in the past for a reason. Except my father made it very clear Evangeline meant something to him and my mother.

Eve doesn’t seem to catch on or care. “Come on, let’s get you on your feet and cleaned up.” She helps Caryn stand, knocking my hand away when I offer help. My ex guides my fiancée into the shack and toward the back. I stay there, taking everything in and how it’s changed over the years. It’s much warmer, more homely, and more like a store than a place to seek some semblance of warmth during the tree selling season.

“I suggest you make yourself useful if a customer comes in,” Evangeline says to me before disappearing through a doorway.

As tempted as I am to follow, I stay where I am,afraid she, being Evangeline, may bite my head off. Literally. I’ve done enough to piss her off for the rest of her life and today has only added insult to the wounds I left behind. In hindsight, I should’ve called and told my dad I was coming so he could warn Evangeline.

While the ladies are in the back, likely plotting my demise, I go back outside and shake the snow off the trees, stand a few upright, and add wreaths to the missing hooks. When a customer pulls in, I greet them, and surprisingly remember everything Mr. Holcomb ever taught me about trees and tell the customer what they need to know.

“Zane?”

I turn at the sound of my name to find the man who welcomed me into his home as his own—the man who could’ve been my father-in-law—had I not screwed everything up.

“Mr. Holcomb,” I say, unsure if I should be happy to see him, give him a hug, or stand there and accept the punishment I’m definitely due.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Punishment is definitely coming my way.

“Uh, no sir. I . . . uh . . .

He nods.

The door to the shack opens. Caryn steps out looking rather pissed, and heads right to the car without saying a word to me. She’s wearing sweatpants, something I’ve never seen her in, and a pair of boots that I know aren’t hers. The bag she carries dangles from her fingers. Once I get into the car, she’ll let me haveit. This I’m sure of.

As soon as she’s walked up the small incline and out of sight, Mr. Holcomb clears his throat. It’s not one of thoseI’d like attentionclearing of throats, but more of awhat in the hell is going on?gruff one. I hang my head in shame, embarrassment coursing through me, and in utter disgust with myself.

“Anyway,” Evangeline says. “I’m going to load up the truck and take an order to Whitaker’s,” she says to her dad. “Bernie called and said he needed some more trees, which is why I’m here.”

“Me too.” The lie is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “I came to help.”

“I don’t need your help, Zane,” Evangeline says this without even looking at me. She grabs the nearest tree and carries it to the red truck with wooden slats. Everyone in town loves this truck. If you see it out and about, you know Reindeer Ridge is making a delivery of either their trees, wreaths, or maple syrup. Most importantly, it delivers Santa to the annual Christmas party for the kids, as well as the town Christmas tree and the grand marshal for the town tree lighting.

“Evangeline—”

“Zane, I think you should go,” Mr. Holcomb says. “You’ve helped enough.”

I hang my head, nodding. He’s right. I have. As I pass by the rows of trees, I take one in each hand and carry them to the truck, where Evangeline is. She doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge my existence. Not that I blame her.

“Can we talk later?”

“No, I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Busy.”

“Eve, I’d really like?—”