I Really Can’t Stay (A.R.’s Holiday Standalones #1)

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

T he soft flakes fall lightly around me as my boots leave indentations in the snow cover with every step. It takes about two minutes of being outside of the Stokes home before grief settles into the depths of my bones and pulls me under.

Tears stream down my face as I walk, and I will them to go away, silently begging for them to give me a break just this one time.

I don’t want to be sad.

I want to bask in the merriment of the holiday and enjoy my time with the wonderful family who invited me into their home.

But grief is a double-edged sword, cutting deep with the smallest of thoughts.

Blowing out a shaky breath, I wipe at the tears and pull myself together in the last few steps it takes me to reach the Christmas tree farm.

Forcing myself to focus on the perfect Christmas postcard scenery instead of the anguish brewing inside, I stop just before the entrance and take it all in.

White string lights line the fence posts, while large light towers illuminate the farm like a beacon, letting the population of Julian know they’re still open for business, despite it being almost seven p.m. on Christmas Eve.

Most of the precut Christmas trees are protected under a giant event tent, but there is a large selection of snow-covered trees still in-ground and ready to be cut.

Crossing under the Ryan Family Tree Farm sign, I make a beeline to the tent, wanting to get out of the below-freezing temperatures.

When I step inside, I’m immediately engulfed in the delicious scent of pine, and hints of coffee and cinnamon from the nearby snack bar. It’s quiet—only a few other people are looking around. There’s a family selecting a last-minute tree to embellish their home, and a young woman sitting on top of a picnic table, looking at something just out of view.

The tent is much warmer than the frigid air outside, so I unzip my jacket just slightly, and wiggle my hands free from my gloves, shoving them into my pocket. Walking around, I look at the different trees, letting my fingers brush against the needles.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and pulls my attention, so I take it out and see a new message from Lincoln.

Message received

Subject: How many messages have you received?

Are you okay? I came back from my call and my parents said you went for a walk. I hope we didn’t scare you off…

Let me know if you want company. See you soon?

-Lincoln

Quickly, I respond, letting him know that I’m fine and will be back shortly, but he doesn’t need to come find me. Truly, I don’t intend on being here long. I should probably think about getting back on the road, anyway. I hate driving at night, and in these conditions, I know it will take me even longer to get back down the mountain.

While I walk, I catch up on the messages I missed from friends wishing me a Merry Christmas. As I type out a response to my friend and coworker, Genesis, I lose all sense of awareness, and before I understand what’s happening, I feel my entire body lurch forward. Attempting to catch myself, I spin wildly, grabbing onto the branch of a nearby tree.

But it’s too late to keep from falling, and I end up crashing onto the cold hard dirt, landing flat on my back.

As if that isn’t enough, at the same time as I end up on the ground, the worst noise in the world begins to clatter around me.

Disoriented, I lift my head to see what’s happening and am instantly mortified as I watch the domino effect of fir trees falling one by one.

“Are you okay?” a man shouts and rushes over, coming around from behind another row of trees.

His eyes widen as he takes in what is happening, and springs into action, wrapping his arm around the tree closest to him so it doesn’t fall.

Single-handedly, he’s able to stop them, and when he is sure the trees are stable, he rushes to my side.

I feel like I’m seeing double, but it’s not a bad sight to behold. The man is ruggedly handsome, with messy hair that’s overgrown, and facial scruff that adds to his features. His deep brown eyes have a beautiful glow beneath the lighting in the tent, and make me feel like they’re staring into my soul. He wears a red plaid shirt, and jeans that are slightly dirty from the long day’s work. He’s the epitome of a man who lives in the mountains, and my cheeks flush as every spicy lumberjack book I’ve ever read comes crashing into my mind.

I’m hot and bothered as I sit here ogling the man, suddenly all too aware I’m laying in the dirt after falling exceptionally ungracefully, with this plaid-wearing Adonis staring down at me.

“What happened?” I ask, a little confused. Trying to sit up, the man touches my shoulder and gently pushes me back down.

“Hang on, not too fast there, Snow Angel. You might have a concussion.” The deep baritone rumble of his voice sends a shiver down my spine that somehow lands in my stomach and sends a wave of warm arousal down to my core.

“I do not have a concussion!” I argue, wanting to put some distance between me and this man before I pull him down on top of me.

Maybe I do have a concussion—what are these thoughts?

Pushing upward again to try to sit, I notice a bright yellow extension cord lying over my boot.

Oh God, I must’ve tripped.

Looking over at the Christmas tree wreckage, I blow out a frustrated breath. There are at least four trees that have fallen and are lying on the dirt floor, just like me.

The man follows my line of sight and starts to laugh. “You really did a number on my trees there.”

“Your trees?”

“Last time I checked.”

“You own this place or something?” I close my eyes, rubbing my temples.

This is so embarrassing.

“Do you have a headache?” he asks, his voice laced with concern.

“A small one, but I don’t think it’s from the fall.”

“Do you want to try to stand?”

“Yes, please.”

The man pushes to his feet and holds his hand out for me to grab. Slowly, he helps me up, but the second I put pressure on my ankle, I feel a throb.

Hissing, I grit my teeth. “I think I may have twisted my ankle.”

“Let’s go take a look.” Guiding my arm over his shoulder, he wraps his arm around my waist and helps me hobble over to a nearby picnic table.

“What’s your name?” he asks as we move slowly across the tented area.

“Zee.”

“Zee? That’s not a name. That’s a letter,” he teases.

“It’s short for Elizabeth.” I hiss again as my good foot steps on a rock and slides slightly against the dirt. “What’s yours?”

“Miller. Miller Ryan.”

“So the man making fun of my name has a last name for a first name. Sounds about right.”

He grins, and my heart does a weird flip-flop.

“Easy does it,” he coaxes, guiding me down to the bench. When I’m seated, he turns my body to prop my leg up, then proceeds to unzip my boot.

Reaching for my wool sock, he pulls it down. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “Go ahead.”

“Is she alright?” the woman at the other table calls out to Miller.

He feels around at various parts of my ankle, looking at it carefully as he alternates pressures, gauging my reaction. “Yeah, Tamar. I think she’ll survive it.”

“Doesn’t need emergency surgery? A tourniquet?” I tease, my thoughts drifting back to Lincoln. Maybe I should ask him to look at it.

Pulling my sock back in place, Miller lets the elastic gently snap against my skin. “An ice pack should suffice. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, thank you.” I smile up at him as he stands, and watch him walk away, wondering why there’s a heaviness in me with every step he takes.

He peeks over his shoulder a couple of times, grinning whenever our eyes meet, until finally, he turns past a line of trees, in the direction of the snack bar, and then out of my sight.