Inheritance for Christmas (Holly Ridge Christmas #1)

6. Blake

6

BLAKE

A piercing whistling sound echoes through the house, rousing me one second before something cracks at my bedroom window. Blinking, I sit upright, fumbling for my charging cell phone to look at the time. Darkness tells me it’s nowhere near time for my alarm to go off, but something’s happening.

3:21 a.m.

My head twists back toward the curtains, the fog of sleep dissipating, and I throw the comforter off me, the howling wind picking up outside. Throwing back the drapes, I pull open the plantation shutters and recoil slightly to see the dumping of snow outside in such a short time. There were a few flakes falling from the sky when I turned in for the night, but nothing to prepare me for this. Even the weather forecast hadn’t anticipated it.

Exhaling, I close the shutters again and retreat to bed, but I can’t sleep now, the howl of the wind keeping me awake. I check the weather app for the Holly Ridge forecast and see that it’s only supposed to snow for a few more hours before letting up.

There’s going to be a mess in the morning.

My thoughts transfer to Avery, a spark of concern igniting inside me. It’s way too late—or early—to message her, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s okay all by herself. Any hope of returning to sleep goes out the window with images of Avery running through my mind.

I don’t have a chance to text her first. At seven o’clock, as I’m sipping coffee in the living room in front of the gas fireplace, my cell phone dings.

Avery: Did you get snowed in?

A brief smile crosses my lips, and I forsake the back-and-forth text exchange, picking up the phone to call her. I’d rather hear her voice to be sure she’s all right.

She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Did it snow?” I joke. “I hadn’t noticed.”

She chuckles shakily, and I realize she’s unnerved by the storm. I’m glad I thought to call. “A little bit,” she replies. “I’m not sure where to start with the shoveling.”

“I can come dig you out,” I offer.

“Oh, no!” she declares quickly, sounding embarrassed. “I can manage. I was kidding. But are you going to go to the farm today? I wasn’t sure because of the roads…”

I stand and pad over to the window again, taking in the gray morning. It isn’t snowing now, but the storm has painted the neighborhood in a brilliant, glistening white. Several tree branches scatter along the lawns because of the wind. But in spite all of that, I think I can manage the roads in my truck.

“Tell you what,” I propose. “Why don’t I pick you up today? Give me an hour.”

“You don’t have to do that, Blake—” she starts to protest, but I’ve already made up my mind. She’s not used to driving in this kind of weather, and I have to go out there, anyway.

“I want to,” I interject gently. “And we can go through and check the trees to make sure there wasn’t too much damage done to the farm.”

Avery is silent for a moment.

“Avery?”

“You think there’s damage?” she asks, the stress in her voice palpable.

I stifle a sigh, not wanting to answer honestly. “Let’s deal with that if it comes to it. Can you be ready in an hour?”

“Yes. Thanks, Blake.”

“No problem. I’ll see you soon.”

We hang up, and I head to the kitchen to set my coffee mug in the dishwasher, a sinking feeling forming in my gut. How many more signs does Avery need that this farm is a bad investment? I don’t want to be the one to tell her, but I get the feeling that sooner or later, we’re going to have to have that talk.

It’s bad, but not as bad as it could have been. At least not this time. All the same, Avery is crushed to see the damage done by the wind overnight.

“All your work!” she gasps, taking in the barn doors sagging from the weight of the snow. There’s even a broken window in the shop where a branch fell.

Her frustration shines through for the first time, and a pang of sympathy rushes through me. I don’t like seeing this side of her, but I know it’s the first of many times she’s going to be like this if she keeps the farm. It’s a downward spiral, a losing game. Still, I can’t bring myself to tell her that, as much as I want to.

“It’s fine,” I tell her. “It’s all fixable.”

“Glass isn’t cheap,” she insists, shivering inside the storefront as icy air pipes through the broken front window, a pine branch still poking through where the wind threw it. I move to pull it out as she rubs her gloved hands over her jacketed arms. She drops her arms to her side and moves to help me, but I wave her back.

“Don’t,” I urge her. “There are shards of glass. You might get hurt.”

“There are shards of glass for you, too,” she reminds me dryly. “Your skin isn’t made of rubber.”

I push the branch out of the window and wiggle my thick work gloves at her. “Special gloves. They’re made for this kind of thing. Don’t worry. I’ve got this, Avery. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

I’m stretching the truth a bit. It is a mess, but I think I can manage it. She sees through my fib, her eyes narrowing.

“How much is this going to cost to clean up?”

Dusting off my hands, I step back and survey the interior of the store, my mind recalling the damage to the barn.

“We already have a lot of what we need for the barn,” I say evasively, determining how to stretch the materials. “The glass will need to be replaced, but I’ll call around and see if I can’t get a good price from one of the local vendors.”

“Everyone will be calling today—” she starts to argue.

“You’re borrowing tomorrow’s worries,” I tell her gently. “Let’s just see what they say.”

She cocks her head, her shoulders relaxing slightly, but her face is still etched with concern.

“And we’ll go from there,” I conclude. “Okay?”

“How many extra hours do you think it will take?” Avery asks meekly, lowering her head in embarrassment. “I mean, for you?”

I close the distance between us and place my hands reassuringly on her shoulders. “Don’t worry about all that right now. Let’s just get all this cleaned up, okay? I’m not on the clock.”

She eyes me warily. “I do worry about that, Blake. You’ve already done so much around here.”

I smile. “I happen to like this place. I liked your grandad.”

And I like you.

Her body fully sags now, as if a weight has released from her soul.

“Come on. If we work quickly, we might get the crux of it done today. I’ll get some boards out of the barn to cover the windows for now and call about the glass.”

Her head falls back to look up at me, gratitude shining in her eyes. “You’re amazing,” she tells me. “I really don’t know what I would have done without you this past week and a half.”

I laugh. “Something tells me you would have figured it out.”

I find an extra pair of work gloves for Avery in my truck, and she takes to tidying up the store as I take care of the barn and call about replacing the glass. By mid-afternoon, the sun shines brightly over Holly Ridge, sparkling diamonds over the freshly fallen snow.

“The glass will be here the day after tomorrow,” I tell her as we regroup at my truck. The salt trucks did their clearing of Maple Lane, and traffic returned to normal, as if the storm had not occurred at all. “Should we grab some dinner? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Guiltily, Avery gapes at me. “You haven’t eaten all day!” she gasps. “Let me buy you dinner, at least, if you won’t let me pay you for today.”

I quirk a grin at her. “I’ve been craving Tasty Harvest ravioli,” I confess. “Have you been there yet?”

Avery shakes her head. “I haven’t. Is it any good?”

“So good,” I tell her, leading her out of the store. She casts the boarded shop a worried look, and I reassure her that it will be fine as it is until the glass comes in. “This isn’t Austin,” I remind her.

She smiles. “As if I could ever confuse the two places with all this snow.”

Downtown is quiet, a sprinkling of teenagers wandering along the frosted streets, the rooftop fairy lights illuminating as the sun sets rapidly behind the mountains.

Tasty Harvest plays lively jazz music, the classy entryway donned with garlands and an old-fashioned wooden Santa Claus statue holding a “Please Wait” sign.

Savory spices reach my nose, and my stomach growls as a hostess appears, holding two menus in hand.

“Table for two?” she asks pleasantly. We both nod, and she leads us to the back of the restaurant, toward a candlelit booth, with a smile. Avery and I exchange a nervous look, but neither of us comment on the intimacy.

Avery looks around, her eyes landing on the open-concept kitchen with interest. “Is this farm-to-table?” she guesses accurately.

“It is,” I say, opening my menu. “Everything in here is local, including the beer and cider.”

Impressed, she follows my lead and scans the list, her side vision checking out the artwork on the walls. “Local artists, too?”

I nod, glancing at the watercolors on display. She sinks against the booth. “I could do something like this at the tree farm,” she muses aloud.

Pensively, I look at her. “Open a kitchen?” I jest, setting my menu back down.

She laughs. “No, but open the space up to local vendors or service providers. The barn could be rented out for classes.”

“It is a good space,” I agree. “It’s peaceful out there in the forest.”

She smiles at me, and again, I’m impressed with her constant ingenuity, even if I worry about her long-term goals. I would hate to see her disappointed.

Avery turns her attention back to the menu and delights over the choices. “Wow, this looks great! The truffle ravioli—is that what you were talking about back at the store?”

I bob my head, my stomach rumbling again. “It’s melt-in-your mouth,” I declare as the server approaches.

“I’m sold,” Avery says, closing her menu. “I’ll have the ravioli.”

“Good choice,” the server declares. “It’s one of our most popular dishes.”

Dinner goes too quickly, my recommendation pleasing Avery far more than I expected.

“I can’t believe I finished that, but I couldn’t stop eating,” she groans, placing her fork on her empty plate. “How do they even turn a profit with all that food?”

I laugh appreciatively. “It’s pasta. I think it’s always filling.”

“We have to come back so I can try everything on the menu now.”

I raise an eyebrow, placing my napkin on the tabletop without speaking.

We?

If she notices my unspoken question, Avery makes no comment on it. The server reappears to ask about dessert.

“Oh, I want to so much,” Avery moans pitifully. “But I will burst if I eat another bite.”

The young woman laughs. “Coffee?” she suggests.

“Just the bill,” I tell her.

“ I’ll take the bill,” Avery calls out to the waitress’ retreating back.

“That’s not necessary, Avery.”

She leans forward over the table and takes my hands without shame. “You really have no idea how much I appreciate you. I know I keep saying it, but honestly, Blake, you’ve been a great friend and an even bigger help. Thank you for everything. Let me buy you dinner. Please.”

Her fingers tighten around mine, and I offer her a taut grin, again fighting the urge to tell her that I think she should slow down with her plans for the farm.

The bill arrives, and I reluctantly allow Avery to pay before we head onto Main Street together.

“Do you want to take a walk to the park before heading home?” I suggest. “The light are really pretty.”

She casts me a sidelong look and nods. “I’d like that.”

We walk slowly, Avery pausing by the Holly Ridge Art Gallery to take in the window display of landscape oil paintings. Between the streetlamps and the moonbeams, her hair is a blazing array of reds, oranges and blondes against the contrast of her red coat.

She glances back at me, doing a double take as she catches me staring at her. “What?” she chuckles.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me.”

I shrug, stepping closer. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her. Her verdant eyes widen at the unexpected compliment, her mouth slacking slightly as I close the small space between us. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

She smiles waveringly and shakes her head, meeting my eyes. “You’re pretty handsome yourself,” she replies, tilting her head back. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

I grin down at her, lowering my head, our noses brushing. “I don’t mind at all.”

My lips press to hers, our eyes closing together as our warm breaths co-mingle. Heat envelopes me, cutting through the frigid December chill around us. A hand cups her cheek, my mouth fully locking on hers, and she returns my embrace fully and completely.

Slowly, we part, staring at one another. Avery’s lips curve into another smile, and she places her hand in mine, a small shiver rushing through her body. I step closer to her. “Are you cold?”

She tries to deny it, but I can tell she’s putting on a brave face for me. “It’s just been a bit of a day,” she finally admits. “I’m probably more tired than anything.”

“Then let’s skip the park tonight,” I offer. “I’ll take you home.”

“We don’t have to?—”

“We have all the time in the world to go to the park,” I remind her. “Don’t we?”

She eyes me, unspeaking, and we turn around to head back to my truck, hand-in-hand. I blast the heat all the way back to her grandparents’ house, and she invites me inside for coffee, but I tell her to go rest up.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I promise her.

“Aren’t you tired?” she asks, one hand on the door handle.

“Not really. But I have some things to do at home.”

She opens the door, but before she steps out, she darts another kiss on my scruffy cheek. “Thanks again, Blake. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door slams, and I wait for her to enter the front safely, the porch light flicking on to show she’s inside before I drive off toward my house.

I park, noting that the branches on the street have been cleaned up since this morning, banks of snow piled high along the lawns. I check the mail, but there’s nothing in the boxes.

I have to check on the status of Dad’s collection account, I remind myself, my stomach knotting at the thought. I’d conveniently let myself forget about that today with all of Avery’s issues. But they’re linked, Dad’s financial troubles and what Avery was getting herself into. Bad debt is bad debt.

And I’m inserting myself in the middle of it, despite knowing better.

Locking my truck with the key fob, I let myself into the garage and flick on the lights, closing the door behind me. Starting the portable heater to warm the freezing space, I sit on a stool and pick up the chisel and v-tool from the counter.

With a block of half-molded wood in hand, I continue my whittled piece I started last week as my mind wanders deeper into the dilemma in which I’ve found myself. I like Avery Dawson a lot. But is that really enough when I don’t trust what she’s doing financially?