Page 47 of A Frosty Flirtation
I nod. “I heard one of my employees talking about it, and I looked it up. The farm’s been in the same family for fifty years, but they made it into more of an experience a couple of years ago. Hopefully, no zombies are waiting to jump out at us.”
She laughs. “Someone needs to get right on that idea. The Murder and Mistletoe Tree Farm. The employees who cut down the tree can be dressed as chainsaw-wielding zombies.”
“Sounds like a liability nightmare,” I say.
She sighs. “Okay, maybe it’s not the best idea.”
“Not unless you want to give kids nightmares for the rest of their lives.” I sip on my cider, allowing her time to decide on a route.
“Why am I having such a hard time making up my mind? This isn’t a life or death situation.”
“When do you ever make hasty decisions, G?”
Her head snaps my way. “How do you know that about me?”
“We’ve been friends forever.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t beenclose friends… until recently.”
If she only knew how well I see her. How I’ve always seen her, even when I wasn’t supposed to be looking.
I shrug. “I’m an observant fucker.”
She gives a quick nod. “Apparently.”
“Which tree route are you thinking of picking?”
“Well, Blind Date With a Tree has me curious. Is it all wrapped up, and you take whatever you get?”
“Probably. I don’t know if that’s the best choice for you.”
Her eyebrows lower. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a planner, not a leave-something-up-to-chance kind of woman.”
Her eyebrows drop even lower as she looks at me through narrowed slits. “You’re being freakishly astute. Who are you, and where is my fun-loving friend?”
Her question makes me laugh, but at the same time, it’s like a thorn pricking my heart painfully. Is my jokester side the only part of me she sees?
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” I say.
Her head tilts as she studies me. “I’m beginning to realize that.”
Ginger finally decides on the Imperfectly Perfect option.
“It seems fitting,” she says, grinning.
“For which of us?”
Her grin widens. “I guess you’ll have to figure that out.”
“We need one of these,” I say, taking a bell from a large basket.
We start following the trail, cider warming our hands while snow whirls around us. The path twists through clusters of pines heavily dusted with white, each one different in stature. Some are tall and thin, some are short and wide, and some are much too big for Ginger’s cottage.
She runs a gloved hand over a branch, dislodging snowflakes. “I love that they’re not perfect. You can tell they’re real.”
“That’s because nothing in nature is naturally perfect. Even beautiful things have flaws.” I glance at her. “Well… you might be the one exception.”
