by Score, Lucy
On cue, her phone alerted her to a new text message. She picked it up and silenced it. Before she had the chance to put it back down, three more texts buzzed in. In desperation, she stashed the phone inside a stack of wreaths on her table.
Great. The gossip group had been activated. Everyone would be speculating that she and Carson’s nephew were getting it on when—depressingly enough—they were not.
“Interesting place,” he said, eyeing her living space as he dumped the bags on the kitchen counter.
He wasn’t catching her or her home on their best days.
“It’s usually much cleaner than this,” she told him. “I’ve been busy.”
She’d bought the two-story farmhouse and its ten acres that summer. With the help of local contractor Calvin Finestra, Sammy had worked her way down a prioritized punch list to make the house—mostly—livable.
They’d upgraded both bathrooms, opened up the living and dining areas, and stripped the dizzying pink heart wallpaper out of her bedroom. But the cramped kitchen with its pine plank cabinets and faded candy apple red counter tops was one step up from eyesore. And then there was the upstairs. The second floor needed more TLC. But it would have to wait until later like everything else since the barn and pastures were next on her list. Then there was the adjoining parcel of land she had her eye on. But that was far, far into the nebulous future.
At least she’d sprung for new, grown-up furniture.
The long, white-washed oak dining table occupied the space between the kitchen and front door. It looked pretty great… when it wasn’t smothered under an obscene amount of craft supplies. Four days of dishes were stacked in the tiny sink in the U-shaped kitchen. Stan was currently shoving his face in the load of week-old clean laundry that sat half-folded on the coffee table in the living room.
“Given your get-up, I was expecting a Christmas tree,” he said, his gaze lingering on her legs.
The way he looked at her was downright sinful. Sheep be damned. Booty call back on!
“I always get my tree from Carson at the Solstice Celebration. I had no idea he wasn’t going to sell them this year,” she told him.
“What’s in the totes?” He nodded toward the four red and green plastic totes stacked behind her couch.
“Christmas decorations.” There were a lot of things she hadn’t gotten around to lately.
“Whoa.” Ryan’s eyes widened as a gray cat popped out of a wreath on top of the table. It narrowed its yellow eyes at him and tore across the table before disappearing under the couch.
“That’s McClane,” she said, finding her voice. “The black one is Holly.”
“On the way over here, I was trying to predict how many animals you’d have. So far, unless you have a herd of goats upstairs, I’m disappointed.”
“Said the guy who brought a sheep with him!”
“He’s basically the same thing as a dog,” he argued, unpacking the food.
“No goats. Yet,” she said. “Three cats and some fish outside in the pond.”
Willis waddled out from behind the armchair in the living room, a strip of plaid ribbon wrapped around his foot.
“Oh yeah. And a duck,” she finished.
Stan gave Willis a wide berth when the duck waddled in his direction.
“I thought you’d have at least four dogs. And I was betting on a blind one and one with three legs,” Ryan said while he rummaged through her cabinets.
“Willis has a limp courtesy of a groundhog trap if that helps. But my friend Layla—the deputy—takes all the stray dogs. Her schedule is a little friendlier to needy pets.”
He set bowls, plates, and utensils on the counter and opened the containers.
It smelled heavenly. “What are you doing here, Ryan?” she asked finally.
“My parents have dinner together once a week without fighting,” he announced, plating sandwich halves with an unexplained bitterness.
“Uh. How dare they?”
He strode to the table with a plate and bowl in hand. She sat when he indicated a chair.
“They divorced when I was a teenager and were still fighting when I left for college,” he explained.
“Okay.” Her stomach growled when he put a bowl of chicken noodle soup and a chicken salad sandwich in front of her. It was her favorite comfort food meal.
“My oldest sister called to tell me she was pregnant months ago,” he continued as he headed back to the kitchen for his food. “I didn’t pick up or remember to call her back.”
“Ouch,” Sammy said, picking up her spoon and watching him.
He sat next to her, looking frustrated. Restless.
“I poured all my energy into being the best accountant in the firm. It was stable, predictable. There was a map to be followed. The outcomes could be anticipated. And the rug still got pulled out from under me. I walked into that conference room having no idea it would be my last time. I didn’t have a defense prepared. I had no clue there was anything to defend.”
She winced for him. The man who hated surprises had been dealt the worst kind. And the hits just seemed to keep coming.
He picked up half of a ham and cheese on marbled rye bread and stared at it. “My parents didn’t know I broke up with my ex-girlfriend a year ago even though I talk to my mother every Tuesday.”
Sammy held up a hand. “Hang on. There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence.”
“What? That I’m anal enough to schedule phone calls with my mother but I don’t bother telling her when I end a relationship or get fired? She thinks I took vacation time to be here, by the way.”
She let out a surprised laugh. “Why does she think that?”
His shoulders jerked up and then dropped. “Because that’s what I insinuated.”
“It sounds like you’ve had an interesting day.”
“I was sitting there, surrounded by an entire lifetime of someone else’s paperwork and family photos, and I didn’t know what to do next. I always know what to do next,” he lectured, waving his spoon at her.
“You’re not here because you think I know what the next step is, are you?” she asked. She couldn’t even craft her way through a few dozen wreaths.
“No. I wanted to see you. Because since I walked into that conference room a week ago expecting to be made partner, I’ve had this ball of ice in my gut. The only time it goes away is when I’m with you.”
Her internal squealing was deafening.
“Oh,” she said on a breathy sigh.
He looked at her over a spoonful of soup. “That’s it? ‘Oh’?”
“I’m processing. Slowly. I’m a little sluggish at night. Besides, there are a million things you could mean by that statement.”
“But you know I don’t mean a million things,” he said, very, very seriously.
She swallowed hard. “Maybe you could narrow it down for me?”
“I’ve never been around anyone so…” He glanced around them, at the tangle of ribbons and ornaments, the loops of grapevines, clippings of pine. “Chaotic,” he decided.
Booty call off. She willed the hair on her legs to grow longer. “Gee, thanks.”
“Someone so chaotic, who made me feel comfortable, safe, challenged, intrigued,” he clarified.
Okay, so it wasn’t an “I’d like to rip your pants off and satisfy you six ways to Sunday” kind of statement, but it wasn’t an “ol’ buddy, ol’ pal” punch in the shoulder either.
“You’re going sixty miles an hour from dawn to dusk, changing directions, reacting, adapting. You got me on a horse when I should have been eyeballs-deep in bank statements. No one distracts me from a puzzle,” he said. “But it turns out that you’re the more interesting puzzle.”
Now that was pretty freaking romantic, Sammy decided. Booty call back on.
“You reminded me of something I’d forgotten a long, long time ago.”
“What’s that?” she asked, staring hard at his mouth.
“That sometimes it’s okay to let
go. That maybe I don’t have to be in complete control of every facet of my life. Maybe it’s okay if I let things happen.”
“I reminded you of that?” she asked softly.
“You did.”
She pursed her lips and considered. “Damn. I’m smart.”
Stan wandered over to the table and nudged her with his nose. She gave him a scratch between the ears.
They ate in companionable silence, Sammy’s brain turning over everything he’d said.
When he was done, Ryan pushed his plate back. “A week ago, I was doing everything I’d set out to do. I had the biggest client list in the firm. I was on track for partner. I had a down payment on a new, bigger condo. But I never saw this coming.”
Sammy reached out and took his hand. “No amount of planning can protect you from everything. You can’t anticipate every possibility.”
He laughed. “That’s for sure.” Those gray eyes raised to meet hers. “I never saw you coming.”
Booty. Call. On.
“So,” he said, drumming his hands on the table. “Want some help with all this?” he asked, gesturing toward the holiday explosion.
“Wait. What?”
She couldn’t freaking believe instead of tearing off her Christmas-themed boxers, the man was sitting at her table making bows.
“What are these?” Ryan asked, hefting a fat stack of papers he found under a wreath and Holly, the sleek black cat.
Sammy groaned, feeling her muscles tense just looking at them. “Those are grant applications,” she said, untying the lopsided Happy Hanukkah bow for the third time.
“For your practice?” he asked, flipping through the pile of intimidation.
“For the non-profit farm sanctuary I’m starting,” she said with a sigh. “That’s what these damn wreaths are for. It’s supposed to be the first official fundraiser for Down on the Farm.”
“I’m going to need more information than that,” he insisted, glancing up from the paperwork.
“Right now, livestock that local animal control departments liberate from unsafe situations is distributed to a network of foster farms. It’s not an ideal situation since farmers are already busy enough without adding abused or neglected animals in need of medical care and attention into the mix.”
“So you bought this place to start your own sanctuary,” he assessed.
“Yeah. Down on the Farm will be a no-kill sanctuary for homeless farm animals. Think of it as a retirement community for livestock. I’ve got ten acres here. But I need the funds to fix up the barn and the fields. Then there’s the food and medical care.”
“Sounds expensive,” he said, flipping through the applications.
“Expensive, but worthwhile. Right now, I do what I can by providing free vet care for the rescued animals. I also pay for feed and supplies out of my own pocket. But it’s not enough.”
“That’s a shitty, irresponsible business model.”
“Well, don’t pull any punches or anything,” Sammy complained.
“Explain to me why the hell these papers are sitting here blank while we waste time tying stupid bows.”
“Because I committed to selling wreaths. Okay?” she said in exasperation. “We always have a wreath stand at the Solstice, and last year’s wreath maker is on a barefoot tai chi sojourn across Canada. Do you want Blue Moon to go without trees and wreaths this year?”
“Blue Moon isn’t my concern. You are,” he said, frowning over the applications. “Sam, these grants would put a hell of a lot of money into your coffers. You’re wasting time and energy on a useless fundraiser that won’t net you any real capital.”
“Look. I paid for the booth. I promised people wreaths. I’m going to deliver.”
He opened his arms to encompass the table. “Then why am I the only one here?”
“I didn’t ask for your help or your food delivery,” she said stubbornly. Booty call off. She didn’t need some armchair quarterback coming in here and critiquing her priorities.
“Did you ask for anyone else’s?”
She gave up on the bow and crossed her arms. “No.”
“So in Sparkle’s Perfect World, you were going to work full-time—without your vet tech—make fifty fucking wreaths, set up and man a booth, and finish your grant applications by…” He glanced down at the paperwork. “Tomorrow at midnight.”
Sammy pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and slouched in her chair. She was probably grinding glitter into her corneas. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid. And impossible.”
“Why didn’t you ask for help?”
She picked up the bow, determined not to be defeated again and mashed it into a knot. “I didn’t think I needed it.” Giving up on any semblance of perfection—or aptitude above kindergarten-level bow tying—she knotted the wire with pliers. There. Done. She propped it against the wall with the other finished wreaths and tried to ignore just how droopy and crooked they all looked.
“Do you want to know what your problem is?” he asked.
“No.”
“Your problem is you want to fix everyone else’s problems,” he said, ignoring her.
“How is that a bad thing?” she scoffed.
“Can you ask that when you have an Oy to the World ribbon glued to your sweatshirt?”
She glanced down and ripped the length of ribbon off her chest.
“You are prioritizing other people’s problems over your own. Other people’s needs over your own,” he pressed on, warming to the topic.
“I don’t have problems,” she insisted.
He gestured at the table, the spools of ribbon, the reels of wire, one glittery cat tail, and dozens of unfinished wreaths. “How is this disaster going to turn into startup capital? By committing to the wrong priorities, you’re missing the big picture and endangering your future.”
“I appreciate your criticism,” she said dryly. “However, it’s not helping me finish these wreaths.”
“Cancel the booth, the fundraiser, and fill out the damn paperwork, Sam.”
If her spine got any more rigid, she worried it might snap like a dry twig. “I made a commitment,” she said defensively. “Maybe you go back on your word, but I don’t.”
“No need to get snippy.”
“There’s no guarantee that I’ll land any of those grants,” she reminded him. “But I am guaranteed to sell every one of these horrible wreaths. No matter how lopsided and sad they are, Mooners will buy them to support the cause.”
Ryan sighed. “What’s the price of one of these holiday monstrosities?” he asked, holding up a wreath buried under jingle bells. Glitter rained down on the table.
“Twenty-five bucks a pop,” she announced defiantly.
“What are your margins?” he asked.
“Margins?” she repeated, feigning innocence.
“You know what margins are. Quit stalling so I can win this argument. How much did you invest in supplies, time, labor?”
She eyed the mess in front of them. “I don’t know. But the branches were free.”
“Let’s say you spent five dollars in supplies on each wreath.”
That was probably on the low side, considering she’d already made three trips to the craft store, but Mr. Grumpy Number Cruncher didn’t need to be made aware of that.
“Then there’s the cost of the booth rental,” he continued. “And the signage and whatever booth decor you got.”
Crap. She’d forgotten about that.
She couldn’t just throw a bunch of wreaths on the ground and take people’s money. She needed a table. Tablecloths. Maybe one of those cute letter board signs that crafty people always seemed to have. And lights. The event was at night. How was anyone going to see the wreaths without lights?
“Not to mention your time shopping, making the product, setting up the booth, running it, tearing it down.” He was on a roll and hadn’t noticed the panic his words induced. “Do you hear that?” he asked, cupping a hand to his ear.
<
br /> “I think it’s your sheep snoring,” Sammy guessed.
He made a whistling noise like a bomb falling until his palm hit the table, startling two cats, a duck, and a sheep. “That’s your profit margin plummeting.”
“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” she complained. Accountants didn’t seem to be an empathetic lot.
“Your time would have been better spent applying for these grants. If you get just one of them, you’ll be bringing in far more money than if you’d sold every one of these crooked circles for two hundred dollars apiece.”
“If your intent is to make me feel like an idiot, it’s working.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re not an idiot, by the way. You’re just making idiotic decisions.”
She threw a jingle bell at him. It hit his forehead and bounced off. McClane scrambled out of his ribbon nest and pounced on it. Holly’s glittery tail twitched as she watched.
“You’re a mean accountant,” Sammy announced.
“I’m telling you what you need to hear in a way that it’s going to sink in. You don’t need a hand holder. You need an ass kicker. If you want to be successful in this endeavor, you need to forget everyone else’s problems and focus on helping yourself.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because you’re pathologically helpful. Instead of filling out grant applications that you have an excellent chance of getting, you volunteered to make and sell fifty wreaths, babysit a flock of deranged chickens, find a home for a stray sheep, and drive a hungover stranger around town for a day.”
“Do you really think I have a shot at a grant?” she asked him, watching him closely.
“I do. And I find the fact that you’d waste time worrying about that annoying.”
She found herself oddly comforted.
“Of course, if your business plan and financials are a wreck, that’s an obstacle,” he continued, ruining her temporary sense of comfort. “But the idea? The solution you’re providing and the way you’ll execute it? You deserve this money.”
She looked down at her sparkly, sticky hands. At her half-finished, half-decorated house. At the man who wasn’t actively trying to seduce her into a one-night stand. What the hell was wrong with her?
