Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Here, shift this way.” I guide her in front of me, her back to my front, until she’s facing away from the railing, gazing back over the skyline we’re leaving behind. “Better?”
She shivers, but I resist the urge to pull her any closer. “Yes, that’s better, thanks. You’re blocking the worst of the wind. Let me know if you get too cold, and I can take a turn.”
I smile. “I’m good. I’m manly, remember? A manly, feral New Yorker who carries his groceries and walks twenty thousand steps a day and barely feels the cold.”
She glances up at me, lifting a wry brow. “Do you also wrestle rats in the subway?”
“Nah, the rats know I have Greg at home,” I say. “All I have to do is threaten them with a visit from Satan, and they go running.”
“Nice. We had a rat infestation in the dorm at NYU my sophomore year. I woke up with one sitting at the end of my bed, studying me like he was trying to decide which part of me to nibble first.”
I shudder. “Fuck. I would have had nightmares for years. Not a vermin guy. Least favorite part of living in a big city.”
“Well, we don’t have city rats in rural Vermont, but field mice are a problem. Especially come fall, when they’re trying to get out of the cold. We also have bats in our attics and wasps in our eaves and angry groundhogs giving birth under our porches.”
I grin. “Maybe I should pitch a reality show set in the sticks.”
“I mean, you could. The groundhog incident was pretty exciting. We had to call the game warden to come fetch the mama and babies from under Gran’s house before they made it their permanent burrow.” She shrugs and huddles deeper into her coat. “But even with all the wildlife activity, it’s pretty sleepy in the mountains. The most exciting thing to happen recently is the great Fudge Feud.”
“Don’t tell me they’re flinging fudge at each other in the streets of Reindeer Corners. Can’t lie, that sounds exciting. And delicious.”
She laughs. “No. The Reindeer Mercantile opened a candy counter and put a sign out front declaring they had The Best Fudge in Vermont.”
“Bold of them. There’s a lot of fudge in the Green Mountains.”
“There is. It was a ballsy move, even if they hadn’t done it right across the street from the Reindeer Corners Country Store which has been selling fudge in town for over a hundred years.”
I gasp in mock horror. “The nerve!”
She fights a smile, playing along as she adds, “I know, right? Huge scandal. The town was rocked to its core, and Jackie, the owner of the country store, was pissed.”
“Understandably,” I murmur. “So, what did she do? Pistols at dawn? Please tell me it was pistols at dawn.”
Giggling, Caroline shakes her head. “No, the country store put up a sign saying their fudge was the only fudge worth trying. Then the mercantile put up a bigger sign challenging the country store to a fudge off. Then the country store put out the biggest sign of all, saying real Vermonters prefer country store fudge eight to one. Then, the mercantile accused them of erecting a billboard and filed an official complaint with the sheriff’s department. Since billboards are illegal in Vermont, the county had to send someone down to measure the sign. A local news station had a reporter cover the story, it got picked up by a syndicated morning show, and…the rest is history. The next week, the town was mobbed by fudge-scandal-curious tourists.”
I shake my head, murmuring, “The things people decide to get worked up about.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know. It’s so silly, but it’s become a whole thing. There are Fudge Feud t-shirts and mugs and people come to town specifically to try both fudges and fight about which one is better in the town square. Most of the time, they’re joking, but last month things got heated between a couple of guys from New Hampshire. They were both amateur bakers, I guess, and people from New Hampshire are notoriously volatile.”
“Not a surprise with that state motto. ‘Live Free or Die?’ That’s intense. I’d rather live free or arm wrestle. Or mud wrestle. Or call a meeting to discuss our options. Something before going straight to the dying part.”
“Agreed.” She wrinkles her nose. “Though I do hate a meeting. Emmie, our restaurant manager asks so many questions, it’s a miracle if we get out of a monthly meeting in under three hours.” She sighs and leans back a little, until her shoulders are resting lightly on my chest and the urge to wrap my arms around her is almost irresistible. “I’m already dreading January. That’s when we do the budget for the year. If Emmie’s in a mood it could take an entire day.”