by Carly Keene
Holly Dreams
Christmas Lumberjacks Book 1
Carly Keene
Thistle Knoll Press
Copyright 2019 Carly Keene. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is that short excerpts may be quoted in a review.
Cover designed by Graphicdiz at Fiverr.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
1. Sledd’s Christmas Tree Farm
2. Hot Chocolate
3. Hot Lumberjack
4. A Girl Can Dream
5. Pie at the Diner
6. Night at the Farmhouse
7. Would You Like Whipped Cream on That?
8. Plans
9. A Proposal
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Sneak Peek: Christmas Presents
Thank You
Coming Soon
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Carly Keene
For Joe
1
Sledd’s Christmas Tree Farm
Adam
Dakota and Jackson are standing right there in front of the main building, the slackers, jostling each other and laughing. We’ve nearly sold out of precut trees, and it’s only afternoon. While we do charge a small fee for what we call the “Paul Bunyan experience,” where customers go out on the farm and choose a tree that we will then cut for them, most of our business comes from the precuts.
I go out and grab my brothers by the napes of their necks. “You two lazy bums,” I say, and think about knocking their heads together. I don’t, because we couldn’t keep the place going without all three of us working the Christmas season. But I think about it. “We need some more precuts. Like, now.”
“I cut some this morning,” Dakota says, and twists out of my grip. He’s been taller than me since I was 18 and he was 16, and he’s never let me forget it. Twelve years of ribbing. He never picks on Jackson, but Jackson’s the baby. “Nice six- and seven-footers, with two eight-foots. I brought half of them back on the pickup, but there are still seven lying out there in the field near the pond. You don’t want me to go get them right now, do you?”
I give him a hard stare. “Yes, I do. I need to get a deposit together for Nancy to take to the bank this afternoon, and I have to fix that chainsaw that you said was running rough.”
Jackson squints at me. “Why now? Why not on Monday?”
“Real estate taxes are due tomorrow, and I’d really like for that check not to bounce.”
“Well, I can’t go,” Jackson says, and grins that smooth lady-killer grin of his, nodding back over his shoulder to a group of college girls clearly on a mission to get a tree for their sorority house. “I got business over there.”
I roll my eyes. “Do not give me that. We have too much to do for your active sex life to be an agenda item.”
Dakota pats me on the shoulder. “Leave baby bro alone, I’ll go get ‘em. And I’m scheduled to be back at work at the national park at six, so I’d better go soon.”
Ladies and gentlemen, my two dumbass brothers. Jackson is all skirt-chasing charmer, and Dakota is all “can’t we just get along?” peacemaker. Me? I concentrate on getting shit done. At least one of us has to.
Our grandfather left us the farm when he died six years ago. Nana died the year before that, and I guess he didn’t want to go on living without her. I want a love like that, too. I’m waiting for Miss Right, and when she shows up I’ll be ready to go. I don’t know what she looks like; I just know that I’ll know her when I see her.
Poppy and Nana had made a decent living off the tree farm, selling Christmas trees to customers and other trees to the landscaping businesses around here. But times have changed. Plant nurseries, greenhouses, and tree farms are finding it difficult to survive, when all the big-box home improvement stores sell what we produce, and cheaper. It’s harder to stay in the black every year, and it’s only because all three of us are chipping in the labor that we can keep Sledd’s open. Dakota’s actual job is a ranger at the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which means he can only help us at the farm occasionally.
On top of that, a Christmas tree farm is a seasonal business. Which means it only provides a season’s worth of income. I don’t know about you, but personally, I need to eat year-round.
To complement the Christmas tree farm, I run a landscaping business with my youngest brother, Jackson. It keeps us busy from March through November, and it pays well for eight months out of the year. But it’s getting harder to run the two businesses without having to let something slide, and in our case, that’s the tree farm facilities.
The trees are in fine shape. The buildings, not so much.
The horse barn is dilapidated, and Poppy’s two old horses are going to need warmer quarters if we don’t get their shelter fixed up soon. We don’t get a lot of snow in the mountains of East Tennessee, but when it comes, it can be deep and cold. The hay barn is sturdy, though it’s crammed with junk: old tires, eight million kinds of nail and screw and bolt that we’ll probably never use, spare parts for equipment we haven’t owned in thirty years … just looking at it makes me tired. This shed where we keep the cash register is snug enough, but it could do with a coat of paint.
Poppy loved the farm, and we boys loved being here with him. We always hated going back home to Nashville with Mom and Dad, and we always begged to stay the whole summer, to help Poppy plant more trees and trim the young ones so they’d grow evenly. Now that our parents are retired and living in Florida, there’s nobody else to keep the farm going.
But it doesn’t make much money. Frankly, if it weren’t for nostalgia—and for our motherly assistant Nancy, whose late husband used to work for Poppy—we’d have let it go under.
Jackson goes over to the sorority girls to sell them a big precut tree. It’d be nice if they tipped him, but I suspect that any tip he gets from them will involve an invitation to their holiday party rather than cash. Dakota drives off in the old red pickup for the rest of the precuts. I go back into the shed and add up the takings from yesterday and this morning. I write up the deposit, and then I do some more figuring regarding the current balance of the bank account, the deposit Nancy’s taking to the bank, and the amount of the tax check we’re going to owe the county tomorrow.
Looks like we’re going to squeak through this tax period, but barely. There will be enough to pay Nancy for her part-time labor—because Nancy needs the supplemental income, and because we need Nancy. And then maybe the Sledd boys can buy some damn groceries.
2
Hot Chocolate
Adam
I adjust the timing on the chainsaw, but it’s old, and I suspect that we’re going to have to replace all of them soon. If it’s not one thing to be repaired, painted, cleaned, sharpened, or replaced, it’s fifty-‘leven other ones.
Dakota is setting out the new batch of precut trees, and Jackson’s talking to a woman about the you-choose-we-cut service. There are two little kids climbing all over a pile of scrap branches.
“Will you get off that, you little monsters?” Another woman stomps over and hauls them one by one down off the heap. Her tone of voice and her hands on the children are gentler than the harsh words. “You’ll break a leg or something! Be careful! We don’t want to have to take you to the hospital!” Her jacket hood is up, shadowing her face, so I don’t know what she looks
like. But she’s got a truly spectacular apple-bottom ass, set on top of strong, curvy thighs.
I’m a sucker for curvy girls. Too bad this gal’s already taken—or I assume so, if those are her kids.
But it turns out they’re not. “Look, your mom’s talking to the Christmas tree guy over there about finding the right tree. Wonder if you go out to look for one on a snowmobile or something?”
Yeah, like we have the spare cash for a snowmobile.
“I’m thirsty,” whines one of the kids.
“I’m cold,” says the other.
“I’m sorry,” says Spectacular Ass. Then she turns around and sees me. At first her mouth drops open, and then she shuts it before she steps closer. “Hey, um, do you work here? Is there any way we could get some hot chocolate for the kids or something?”
“Uh.” There are some packets of hot chocolate mix in the farmhouse. I think. I can’t really form the words, though, because Spectacular Ass is really pretty. Full, lush mouth, snapping brown eyes, a lively face. “Um … not here. No hot water, either.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “What kind of place is this, anyway? No hay wagon, no kids’ area to keep the littles out of trouble, and no hot chocolate? I was promised hot chocolate.”
By whom? We’ve never offered that.
“And don’t look at me like I’ve got three heads. If you’re calling it the Paul Bunyan experience, where’s the hot chocolate?”
“I never heard of Paul Bunyan drinking hot chocolate.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem!” She shakes her head, and her hood falls back to expose short brown curls. “This place could be so absolutely great, and instead it’s this bare-bones, rundown tree stand with nothing fun about it. Why don’t you decorate a couple of those live trees and play some Christmas music? Hang a wreath, put up some holly and mistletoe? Why not offer a sleigh or a horse-drawn wagon ride out to cut your own tree? And why isn’t there hot chocolate?”
She’s crazy. Also, she looks like Shirley Temple in a snit, if Shirley Temple had big round tits under her unzipped parka. It’s sexy as hell, actually, even if she is crazy and annoying.
Hot chocolate, really? “Look, lady. This is a tree farm. We offer fresh Christmas trees. That’s it. That’s all we do. It’s tradition.”
She opens her mouth again, probably to bitch at me, and then the other woman comes back. “Hey, kids, you want to go out in the truck and pick out a tree for Mr. Sledd to cut for us?”
The kids chorus, “Yeah!”
“Great,” Jackson says. “Got that chainsaw repaired?” he asks me.
I hand it over. “Best I can do.” They all pile into the pickup, leaving Shirley-With-Tits standing there glaring at me.
“Aren’t you coming, sis?” the other woman yells toward her.
One kid pokes her head out the truck window. “C’mon, Aunt Holly! Let’s get our tree.”
Holly of the Spectacular Ass gives me one more glare, and marches said spectacular ass off to get into the front seat with Jackson. I spare a second to be jealous of my brother, sitting tight against those thighs in the pickup, right next to a woman so passionate about hot chocolate that I can’t help but wonder how she’d be with that passion directed into more pleasurable channels.
3
Hot Lumberjack
Holly
I can’t imagine what April was thinking, bringing her kids out here to this cheesy place out in the country. Sledds Run, TN, is not that far from the suburbs of Knoxville, and it really is pretty out here. But there’s nowhere for the little boys to go while she talks, and as usual they are into everything, risking life and limb.
She’d invited me to go with her to get her Christmas tree, and I thought of my holiday namesake greenery, of tinsel and jingle bells and warm blankets and hot chocolate with candy cane stirrers. Then she told me something about a “Paul Bunyan experience,” and immediately I thought of hot lumberjacks cutting down Christmas trees with axes. Shirtless. Showing off bulging muscles.
(Am I sex-deprived? Or just depraved?)
Anyway, so I was all excited. Instead, we’re here at this dump. Looks like the last time anything was new around here was circa 1957, and there is a complete and total lack of holiday cheer, not to mention hot lumberjacks.
I’m cold. I’m disappointed. I need a good cup of something warm and sweet.
I turn around from yelling at the kids to get away from the safety-hazard pile of branches, and the most gorgeous guy I have ever laid eyes on is standing there with a chainsaw. Tall, dark hair, piercing eyes. Chiseled cheeks warmed with a neatly-trimmed beard. Muscles on top of muscles.
Hot lumberjack, anybody?
Okay, so I was wrong about that.
So I get hold of myself and ask about the hot chocolate, and those brilliant blue eyes of his get narrow, like I asked for John the Baptist’s head on a plate and not a festive winter beverage. And when I say how disappointed I am in the whole Sledd’s Christmas Tree Farm thing, he gets all snarky. It’s a real shame.
Because seriously, he is gorgeous. I’m almost mad at him for being so damn gorgeous and out of my league.
The other guys are cute, too, but not like Hot Lumberjack. I’ve never seen anything like him in real life. My ex-husband was very average. I mean, he was decent-looking, but what appeals to a high-school girl isn’t necessarily the kind of man that a woman needs. Greg was the kind of cool that a rebellious teen would find exciting: motorcycle, long hair, leather jacket, don’t-care attitude. Mama told me not to marry him, but I didn’t listen. I was eighteen and you couldn’t tell me what to do.
And then it turned out that Greg’s don’t-care attitude extended to me. And to his job. And to stuff like, you know, paying the damn rent.
I wound up working three cashier jobs just to pay for the necessities. It wasn’t until after the divorce that I was able to save some money and go to college. It’s taken me seven years to do a four-year degree, because I had to work until I had enough to pay tuition, then take a year of classes, then work more. A pain in the ass, but at least I don’t have college loans hanging over my head.
The other thing I don’t have? A career.
I’d thought that a marketing degree would get me a position where I could direct how things happen, make sure that the business could present itself to its clients or customers in a desirable way. I got my diploma six months ago, and the few job offers I’ve had have been with big companies, where I’d be a small cog in a very large machine. That doesn’t appeal.
So until I find the right job, I’m staying with my sister and her family, just outside Knoxville. I love Sandy, and her husband Jim is nice, and the kids I get along with just fine, most days.
I shake it off and sneak a peek at Hot Lumberjack’s thighs, which are mighty. Like his arms. I shiver at the thought of those thighs on either side of my hips, and those arms on either side of my shoulders. What’s wrong with me? It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex, but I don’t usually get so fired up by just a guy’s good looks. I don’t know what it is about this particular one, but he is pressing every. single. hot button I own. I wind up glaring at Hot Lumberjack, and he glares back.
Then we have to get into the pickup with another lumberjack guy, who is perfectly cordial. He says his name is Jackson, and makes some idle chit-chat with Sandy and the kids.
He’s nice. Cute, too—his hair’s a lighter brown than Hot Lumberjack’s, and he’s not quite as broad across the chest. When he smiles I can see that his eyes are a softer blue. He’s charming, asking us about our holiday plans and wishing us an enjoyable Christmas. But it was that first guy that really got me, and I don’t think I’d change my mind about it.
Sandy finds the tree she wants pretty fast, and Jackson starts to cut it down, and then the chainsaw starts acting up. It won’t cut through the wood, and it starts smoking, blasting out black oil-soaked miasma. Jackson muffles a curse. “I forgot to make sure I had the ax we usually keep in the truck to use
if the chainsaw is messed up, and we’ll have to go back to get it. I’m sorry, kids, there’ll be a little delay.”
Good, that means I might get to check Hot Lumberjack out again.
As we get back to the main building, I ask Jackson what his helper’s name is.
“Helper?” he says, frowning in confusion.
“Yeah, the guy who gave you the chainsaw. Beard. Blue eyes. Him.” I point.
“Oh.” Jackson opens the door and slides out. “That’s my older brother Adam. He’s pretty much the manager. Busted chainsaw notwithstanding, he’s a smart guy and a pretty good mechanic. I think this ancient thing is just worn out.”
He goes over to where Hot Lumberjack—Adam—is standing with those gigantic arms crossed, and they have a conversation I can’t really catch.
“What are you so tense about?” Sandy whispers in my ear.
“I’m not tense. I’m disappointed in this place.” And I want to climb the disturbingly-sexy Adam Sledd like a tree.
“Maybe they could use a marketing manager,” Sandy teases, and I rabbit-punch her in the arm. Not fair.
Then Jackson goes off toward the back with the chainsaw, and Adam picks up a giant manly lumberjacky ax and puts it in the bed of the pickup. Holy crap, is he coming with us?
Holy crap, he is.
4
A Girl Can Dream