Page 18 of Holiday Pines

“Tuesday.”

As they approached Wes’s truck, Jake noticed quite a collection of wadded-up Dairy Dream bags and cups scattered in the bed.

“Someone has a junk food habit,” he teased.

“It’s fast and easy… kinda like beating you at darts.”

“Hey!”

“Just kidding.” But whether he was or not, the grin and the twinkle in Wes’s eyes warmed Jake completely. “See ya, Jake.”

Wes climbed in and started the engine. For a second, they gazed at each other through the truck window, then Wes pulled away, taillights disappearing around the corner.

Jake stood on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, staring after him.

This is a bad idea.

He knew it was.

But standing there in the cold December night, Jake couldn’t shake the image of Wes’s smile and those dark and soulful brown eyes.

You’re in trouble.

He continued walking back toward the Hawthorne House.

Four

Wes was pacing.

He knew he was pacing because he’d checked his watch three times in ten minutes and worn a visible path between the kitchen and the living room window, his boots scuffing the same worn floorboards over and over.

It was just a meeting. Business. Numbers on a page, proposals, maybe some talk about restructuring. Nothing to be nervous about.

Except his stomach had been tied in knots since he’d woken up at four. He’d been checking his watch every five minutes like it would make time move faster or slower. He wasn’t even sure which he wanted anymore.

“You all right?” Henry called from the living room. He had the TV on—some cooking show he pretended not to care about but watched religiously, muttering commentary about technique and seasoning.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You seem jumpy as a long-tail cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

“I’ve got a meeting at two. Just want to make sure everything’s in order.”

“Ah. The banker.”

“Yeah.”

Henry was quiet for a moment, and Wes could hear the creak of old leather as he shifted in his recliner. “What’s his name again?”

“Jake. Jake Marley.”

“Oh, yeah.The ghost.”Henry chuckled. “That’s appropriate given the circumstances. Man shows up to warn you about your future.”

Wes stopped pacing long enough to shoot a look toward the living room. “That’s not—it’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” There was no malice in Henry’s voice. “When’s he getting here?”

Wes checked his watch again. Eleven minutes. “Two o’clock.”