Page 3 of In The Weeds
I flip onto my back and watch storm clouds gather outside the window. I just need to remember what those things are.
* * *
NOVEMBER
EVELYN
Well.
I was not expecting that.
I pace back and forth in my room at Inglewild’s only bed and breakfast, watching my shadow follow along the floral wallpaper. Jenny, the owner, must have visited my room while I was at the farm because I came back to candlelight and cookies, everything soft and romantic.
I frown at an ivory candle and debate my options.
I was in a similar bed and breakfast that weekend in Maine. There were flowers on the windowsill and a man with art on his skin pinning me to the bed, his lips against my neck and his throaty laugh in my ear. The same man I just ran into at the farm he apparently works and I was sent to evaluate.
Was not. Expecting. That.
Cookies tempt me from the shiny pewter tray in the corner. I snag one and swipe at my phone.
Josie answers on the third ring. “Did you get there okay?”
“We have a problem,” I say around a mouthful of dark chocolate and peanut butter.
“Uh oh,” her voice turns serious over the sound of paperwork being shuffled on the other end, the clink of a mug being set on a saucer. I check the time. It’s still late afternoon in Portland. She’s probably on her eighth cup of coffee. “Did Sway book you one of those escape room things again?”
Two months ago, my representation team thought it would make quality content if I were locked in a room for forty-five minutes by myself. No preparation or warning. Thank god I’m not claustrophobic.
“No. Thanks for the reminder though.” Josie laughs and I collapse on the edge of the bed, eyeing the plate of cookies. “I got to the farm today.”
“And? You were excited about this one.”
Iwasexcited about this one. Iamexcited about this one. A Christmas tree farm just off the eastern shore of Maryland, owned and operated by a woman named Stella. Her story is lovely and romantic, and the small glimpse I got of the farm today was nothing short of magical. I just wasn’t expecting her head farmer to be the same man I had my first—and only—one-night stand with three months ago.
He had wandered into that dive bar with messy hair, a white t-shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled, and eyes like sea glass. He took one look at me and I felt my stomach drop all the way to my toes.
“Beckett is here.”
“Who?”
“You know,” I drop my voice. “Beckett.”
I hear the fumble of a glass and a string of creative curse words. “Maine Beckett? Hot, tattooed Beckett?” She sucks in a breath through her teeth and when she speaks again, her voice is three octaves higher. “Out of the ordinary, Evie is finally cutting loose, one-night standBeckett?”
I give in and grab another cookie. “That’s him.”
I told Josie about Beckett after one too many glasses of Sauvignon blanc, wrapped up on her couch like a burrito. I couldn’t figure out why I was still thinking about him months later. It was supposed to be fun and fleeting. A harmless night. No strings.
Not something to relive in a marquee performance every other night in my fever dreams.
Josie laughs, a sharp cackle that has me pulling the phone away from my ear. I roll my eyes.
“Thank you very much for your support.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she says with a snicker. She tries to sober herself, but another chuckle slips through. “What are the odds? Is he visiting?”
“No, he works here. He manages the farm operations.” He runs the place with the owner, Stella, and the woman who heads the bakery, Layla.
