Page 46 of Call It Love (Sterling Mill #5)

Chase

The committee was due to be here at ten.

I wasn’t nervous. Not really. We’d done the work.

The farm looked solid. Healthy. The same as it did any other day, with a few spruced-up places.

Only the tree lot looked different, and only those of us who fixed it knew that.

If the committee liked what they saw, great.

If not, we’d still be here tomorrow. Still planting, still growing.

I sipped my coffee and leaned against the porch rail, watching the light shift across the fields. It was a good day to have people see the place.

Anna moved through the kitchen behind me, quiet but efficient.

She double-checked the brochures I’d printed and wiped down surfaces that didn’t need wiping.

Everything about her was calm on the surface, but there was something in her eyes that looked unsettled.

Not anxiety exactly. Just…distance. Like a part of her was somewhere else.

I wondered if she missed Mallory, who’d returned to Nashville yesterday, and with her, her unmistakable energy and humor.

“You good?” I asked, catching her eye as she walked past with a tray of glasses, which she set on the spotless table that she’d wiped down three times already this morning.

She smiled, but it felt automatic. “Yeah. Just want things to go well.”

“They will,” I said easily.

She nodded before slipping back inside the house. Seconds later, she returned to my side with the brochures, but her fingers fidgeted with the edges of the paper like they needed something firmer to hold on to.

Right on cue, a black SUV rolled up the drive.

The doors opened and three men and one woman stepped out, all dressed in professional but casual clothes—jeans or khakis and green official Tennessee Christmas Tree Growers Association polo shirts.

They were all smiles as they collected clipboards and cameras from the back of the SUV.

I recognized a couple from the annual TCTGA meeting last spring. Then, as if he needed to make more of an entrance, one last man emerged from the front seat. I felt Anna stiffen. When I glanced at her, her skin had gone pale, her eyes fixed on him.

I followed her gaze. Tall. Silver hair. Unlike the rest of the committee, he wore a tailored gray suit and polished shoes. He walked with the confidence of someone who didn’t have to prove a damn thing as he led the delegation to the steps.

“Good morning,” he called. “James Washington, Secretary of Agriculture for our wonderful state.”

The name landed. Her ex-father-in-law.

Well, hell.

I didn’t care about his apparent self-importance—I could take whatever he handed out if he cared to make trouble. But I wasn’t sure about Anna. This was a family who had hurt her, and those wounds sometimes festered when poked at.

I stayed close, shoulder brushing hers. A quiet, I’m here.

“Chase Allen,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s good to finally meet you. I’ve heard solid things about Silver Creek Farm. Great products, dependable business standards, good community ties.”

I shook his hand, firm but measured. “We do our best.”

As the rest of the committee introduced themselves, Washington looked over the brochure Anna had quietly given all of them.

“You’ve built something impressive here,” he said with a nod, voice smooth as bourbon. Or a gator gliding just below the water’s surface. “Exactly the kind of operation the association wants representing Tennessee.”

Then he turned, and I watched him look at Anna—not with surprise, not even curiosity, but with a kind of cool familiarity that set every instinct I had on edge.

“Anna.” His voice was smooth, like he’d just run into an old acquaintance at a charity dinner.

Anna didn’t move, but I felt the change in her. A shift in her breathing. Then she straightened her shoulders.

“Secretary Washington.”

I loved that she didn’t acknowledge any familiarity.

He offered the smallest smile, unreadable and sharp. “Didn’t expect to see you here, although I suppose I shouldn’t be. Most people end up back where they started. Though I suppose this place does suit you. There’s a certain comfort in familiar…dirt, as it were.”

My fists clenched at my sides. Was he actually implying she was nothing more than dirt? I started to reply with the first unfiltered response that came to mind, but I pulled it back in when Anna spoke first.

“It’s honest and hardworking, which is more than I can say for other places.”

He was clearly not amused, but before he could respond, she shifted her attention to the entire group.

“Would anyone like some coffee or juice before you head out? I baked lemon rosemary muffins this morning. The rosemary is from the garden here, but it’s representative of the herbs that are grown in the greenhouses and garden. ”

The offer caught their attention.

“Rosemary in muffins? I’ve never heard of it,” Sonya, the only woman, said, eagerly picking up a muffin to try it. Her eyes widened as she chewed. “Oh, my. These are amazing! The flavor is subtle, but intriguing.”

After that, everyone else took a muffin as well.

Everyone except James Washington. He stood apart from the group, and I was pleased to see no one seemed interested in including him.

He pretended to study the brochure, but his eyes weren’t on the paper.

They kept drifting to Anna. Watching her with a faint, knowing smirk, especially as he saw the bruise on her face that her makeup still couldn’t quite hide.

Anna must have felt it, too. She didn’t say a word to him, didn’t glance his way, but I saw the way her fingers gripped the coffee pot tightly as she offered more to the rest of the group.

Washington clapped his hands together. “Well then. Now that we’ve seen a little of the homespun quality here, let’s see what else this place has to offer, shall we?

Hopefully, it’s just as… enlightening .” Then he slapped me on the back, harder than necessary.

“You’ve got a good thing here, Allen. Building on a name like yours.

We have that in common.” He gave me a thin smile.

“That’s no small responsibility. One little wrong influence can take the whole thing off course. ”

I stood still for a beat. That wasn’t a compliment. It was a warning wrapped in a smile. And I knew whatever today was supposed to be, it had just changed.

Plastering on a fake smile, I answered, “Oh, I’m not worried. That’s the thing about strong roots. They’re hard to pull up, and we’ve been here a long time.”

Longer than you, asshole.

Beside me, Anna cleared her throat, sending me a warning glance. I knew she didn’t want me to rise to the bait, but I no longer cared about the tree. I cared about Anna’s comfort. And the sooner I got this asshole off my property, the better.

“Chase will show you around,” she told the group. “Once you return, lunch will be ready for you.”

There were more murmurs of appreciation as they stepped down from the porch.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

She took a breath, steadier now but still on edge.

“Yes. He just caught me off guard.” Her eyes flicked toward the gravel drive, where the others were waiting.

“But let’s be honest—it’s not exactly subtle.

The Secretary of Agriculture showing up to a tree farm committee tour?

Overkill. He’s not here by accident.” Her pretty blue eyes were troubled.

“I think he’s going to make trouble. Look for faults. Twist something to discredit you.”

“Let him. I’m not worried. Like I told him, we’ve been here for generations. We’re not going anywhere.”

Her smile was a little tremulous. “I love you.”

“Love you more.” I touched her hand briefly, then caught up with the group.

The tour moved at a steady pace. We walked the lower rows, where the younger trees were just coming into their shape.

I pointed out the tag system we used, our irrigation layout, and the natural pest control measures we implemented last season.

They nodded, jotted notes, snapped photos.

Sonya especially seemed impressed, pausing every few minutes to ask about root spacing or how we handled volunteer groups during the holidays.

Paul, the more reserved guy with the clipboard, muttered, “Clean lines, good height distribution. Looks like textbook stuff to me.”

I thanked him, keeping my tone even, but their feedback made it clear—we were hitting all the right notes.

Except with Washington.

He said little. Walked slowly. Glanced around like he was cataloging weaknesses instead of strengths. He stayed near the back, quiet and calculating, scanning the property like he was waiting for something to confirm whatever opinion he’d walked in with.

When we passed the nursery’s propagation shed—where we rooted our own cuttings to make starter plants—he finally spoke.

“Most growers these days outsource to commercial specialists,” he said, flicking a glance toward the modest structure. “More efficient.”

I kept walking. “Maybe. But it gives us better control over genetics and disease resistance since we know what works perfectly in our exact conditions.”

He hummed, noncommittal. “Or it just keeps you from scaling. But then, not everyone has what it takes to do that. ”

“We’re already one of the largest, family-owned nurseries in the state.”

No one said anything, but their perplexed expressions suggested they were picking up on an underlying tension.

I kept walking, jaw tight. If Washington came here thinking he’d find reasons to discredit us, I hoped he brought a longer list because I had answers for every single thing he could throw at me.

When it was time to head to the ridge to see what they’d really come for, Bodie and I hauled them in our pickups, which were the cleanest they’d been since we bought them.