Merry Ever After (Under the Mistletoe collection)

Chapter One Evie

Chapter One

Evie

T he farmer is back.

I can hear him fumbling and cursing in the dressing room of my shop. The dirty shoelaces of his muddy work boots peek out from beneath the red velvet curtain, making me sigh. I’ll have to break out the Swiffer mop as soon as he leaves. But the mess he’s making isn’t my main concern. I only want to know if he found anything that fits.

Abruptly, the farmer straightens, the back of his head becoming visible over the top of the curtain. Our eyes meet briefly in the mirror, which is outlined in blinking white Christmas lights, and embarrassment streaks through my chest at having been caught watching him. My gaze zips back down to the tuxedo-dress design I’m sketching, and I continue to shade beneath the collar.

There’s a pause between the endless stream of holiday music emanating from the old stereo before “Last Christmas” by Wham! takes over for Elvis. The songs seem so out of place because it isn’t even cold outside, the way it would be back in Chicago by now. Surely it can’t be December 22? Yet the streetlamps just beyond the windows are decorated with big tinsel bells, and come evening, the big fir tree in the town square will light up with multicolored vintage bulbs. Christmas in Texas just hits different, I guess.

When I hear a disappointed grunt from inside the dressing room, my shoulders slump. Not a single winner in that entire pile of secondhand jeans he carried in there with him ten minutes ago?

Moments later, when that weathered hand yanks back the curtain and the farmer emerges with a scowl, I’m reminded why he can never find anything in the little corner thrift shop that fits. He’s biblically huge. At least six feet six inches of brute force. Broad and stacked. Filthy from farmwork. Mean looking. A grizzly bear wouldn’t cross his path.

And he’s blushing to the tips of his ears.

As the farmer approaches the register, he carries a single pair of jeans in his hand, the rest of them left neatly stacked behind him in the dressing room. The sound of him clearing his throat is like a crack of thunder and causes me to drop my pencil, deepening the red flush that encompasses the sides of his bristled face.

Soulful brown eyes meet mine from way above. Like, I actually have to tip my head back to make eye contact, and when I do? There’s a worrying little twitch just below my belly button, followed by a slow inundation of heat, beginning at the top of my spine and finishing with a singe of my nerve endings. All of them. What was that?

A moment’s hesitation passes before he sets the jeans on the counter, nudging them forward. “These didn’t fit, but I ripped the damn things trying to get them off.” He dips his chin. “I’ll be paying for them.”

Guess that explains the blush. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Tell me how much, please.”

They couldn’t be more ancient. Frayed and faded and patched. “Five.”

He hides his skepticism and sets a twenty on the counter. “The rest is for the mess, ma’am. I do apologize.”

Just like the last three times the farmer has attempted to find jeans that fit in the thrift shop where I work, in the seconds right before he leaves, he looks at me as if he wants to say something. Maybe ask my name. Maybe ask for my number.

Part of me wishes he would.

The rest of me hopes he doesn’t, because I would have to decline.

The five-month-old baby sleeping in the tiny back office ensures I don’t have time to date. I’m lucky they let me bring my son to work. Lucky the elderly couple who owns the shop allows me an entire rack to display my upcycled designs and keep the cash it generates. That they’re lenient with me if something comes up with Sonny, like a pediatrician appointment or a cold. This isn’t the kind of town that takes chances on a blow-in from the city—so yeah, I’m lucky.

Hoping for anything more would be selfish.

I’m not very smart about choosing men, anyway. The farmer could have a mean streak or mommy issues. A pet boa constrictor roaming freely about his house. Perhaps he chats about agriculture with a mannequin propped up in his kitchen. Who knows.

Bottom line, I wouldn’t give him my number.

For some reason, though, when he fixes his stare on the ground, sighs, and turns to leave, I find myself blurting, “You know, I could make you some jeans. Custom.”

His boots scrape to a stop, and he looks back at me through narrowed eyes. “That sounds like a fuss.”

“It wouldn’t be. I like making clothes.” I make an absent gesture toward my very own rack of designs, and I immediately wish I hadn’t. It comes off like a boast when I meant to be reassuring. Now I’m the one with red ears. “That is to say, I enjoy making new clothes out of old ones.”

“Where did you come from?” he asks from left field, his voice so deep and resonant, it should be singing an old hymn from the back row of a church.

“What?”

He gives a brief, exasperated headshake, obviously directed at himself. “I know everyone in this town, but I don’t know you. One day”—he nods at the counter—“you were just standing there.”

“Why don’t you start by asking me my name?” I tease gently.

Careful, that came close to flirting.

And obviously, this man has not been the recipient of many flirtatious advances. He’s looking at me like maybe he misheard me, though his giant chest is dipping and rising faster than before. “What is it? Please. If you don’t mind me asking.”

No mean streak in this guy, unless he hides it very well. “I’m Evie,” I say, extending my hand across the counter for a shake. “Evie Crowe.”

He studies my hand as he takes it in his astronomically larger one. A polar bear holding a candy cane. “Luke Ward.”

I’m caught quite off guard by the sensation of work-roughened hands and the friction they create on my soft palms. What would they feel like taking tight hold of my butt, rocking me up and back? Lord, I’ve been lonely for so long, I’d settle for him scratching behind my ears. I’d probably thump my leg like a cocker spaniel.

“It’s nice to formally meet you, Luke.”

“Evie,” he says, testing the word. Humming afterward. He’s still holding my hand, but I don’t think he realizes it. “Like I said, I don’t want a fuss.”

“Zero fuss, I swear. But I’d have to take your measurements.”

“Oh. No.” Finally, he releases my hand and begins walking backward toward the entrance, those ears fire-engine red again. “No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s very straightforward. I’d only need a minute.”

“Maybe if some bigger jeans come in, you could just set them aside for me.”

“I don’t foresee that happening, Luke. You’re ...” I flap a hand around to indicate him. “You’re one of a kind.”

“I’m always thinking the same thing about you.”

That gusting confession lands like a piano on a sidewalk, though the crash doesn’t make a sound. He’s not making a pass at me. I don’t think he meant to say it at all. For some strange reason, that makes his words all the more effective. Truthful. I’m shivering beneath my shirtdress, and oh God, my eyes feel ever so slightly damp? Kindness hits me really hard these days, even if his words do go beyond simple benevolence.

I think he ... likes me. That was his way of letting me know.

“Thank you,” I manage, not sure what to say or do next.

My son takes that indecision out of my hands when he starts to cry from inside the Pack ’n Play where he’s sleeping in the rear office.

Luke’s eyes widen as if to ask Is that yours?

I lift my chin in confirmation.

His expression darkens, and he’s out the door before Sonny’s next wail.

“Apparently, drifter–single mothers aren’t his type,” I murmur to my son a minute later while cradling him in my arms, walking him back and forth in front of the register to calm him. “His loss, isn’t it, kid?”

I refuse to acknowledge how much Luke’s reaction has let me down.

Silly. So silly. I only learned his name ten minutes ago.

And I don’t want to date. I can’t . I don’t know any babysitters, and couldn’t afford one if I did. Still ...

“You know what, Sonny? Screw the measurements. I’m going to make him the best pair of jeans in his life. He’s not going to dismiss me so easily.”