Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Annabelle snorts. “I’m serious, Lucy. I need these logs split, or the country charm of Fall Fest will be ruined. I’ve got, like, an aesthetic to maintain.”
“Clearly,” I tell her, keeping a straight face, but inside I’m fighting the urge to laugh. Only Annabelle would stress about the aesthetic of wood chopping at a small-town festival. “What about pumpkins?”
After all, the festival is called Fall Fest.
“Way too soon for those,” she says, waving me off. “It’s only September.”
The festival in Star Lake, Washington, is the town’s biggest event of the year, and Annabelle’s been planning it for months. I can’t help but visualize her wrangling eight guys from Rent-a-Lumberjack like some kind of petting zoo.
Honestly, watching her figure this out will probably be more entertaining than the festival itself.
Maybe I’ll sell tickets.
Annabelle sighs, then takes another long sip of her wine. “I swear, Lucy, if one more thing goes wrong with this festival, I’m going to lose it. Clarke Robinson was going to repaint the old sign and ended up needing stitches in his palm.”
I’m dying to ask her how painting a sign could lead to stitches but don’t want to trigger her.
“You’re not going to lose it,” I reassure her. “You’re going to rally and pull off an amazing weekend because that’s what you do. And then you’ll act like it was simple and no big deal.”
As the town’s only wedding planner, Annabelle is the most organized and creative person I know. I’m struggling to plan our friend Kiersten’s bachelorette party; I could never plan an entire event for an entire town.
The only thing I’m good at is yoga, which doesn’t require creativity.
“Simple and no big deal? Stop flattering me.” My bestie narrows her eyes at me, but I can see she’s pleased with the praise. “You make me sound like some kind of hero.” Annabelle tosses her hair.
I laugh. “Someone has to be the hero of the Fall Fest. And it sure as hell won’t be Clarke.”
“Freaking Clarke,” Annabelle grumbles. “I swear to God. The worst part is, he’s the only one I could get to volunteer! And can we not forget it’s high season? I got stopped twice outside Loon Landing Café this morning by tourists asking for directions to the nearest Starbucks.”
The nearest Starbucks is fifty-five miles away, if that gives you any idea about how remote we are.
She rests her chin in her hand, looking genuinely stressed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if the rest of those lumberjacks don’t show up, Luce. I mean, three guys can’t split all those logs by themselves. It’ll take them all day!”
All the logs?
How many logs does she have if she needs all those men?
I nibble on my bottom lip. “Well, hmm. You could always fake it? Set up a bunch of already-split logs and let people pretend to chop them for fun.” I grin, half joking. “Throw in a hashtag like #StarLakeStrong and you’ll have people lining up for their turn with an axe.”
If we don’t mind all those severed limbs.
Annabelle stares at me for a moment, like she’s actually considering it. “You know, that’s not the worst idea.”
“Uh. I was kidding. Say it with me: liability.”
She shrugs, sipping her wine again. “It’s better than people showing up to a lumberjack demo with no jacks and no demo. Besides, it’s all about the aesthetic, right?”
So she keeps pointing out. “You really think people won’t notice the logs are already chopped?”
“Have you met tourists? They’ll take one look at those flannel-wearing hunks holding an axe and think they’re witnessing some kind of historical reenactment.” She leans back in her chair, looking wise and pleased with herself. “Trust me, they won’t care.”
I snort. “Well, in that case, maybe you should have the lumberjacks pose with the logs and skip the chopping altogether. They can hand out autographs after.”
“I know you’re joking, but don’t think I wouldn’t do it if I got desperate.”
A loud laugh interrupts our musings, and we glance over at a group of buff dudes sitting several tables away.
They’re loud, obnoxious—and trying to impress anyone within a fifty-foot radius. One of them is currently attempting to flip quarters into a beer glass, only for one to fly off the table and onto the floor. It spins before dropping with a metallic clank.
So immature.
“What are they, still in college?” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Look how competitive they’re acting. Like, jeez, they’re flipping those things like there’s a prize?”
Annabelle sips her wine. “Guys will do anything if it comes with a trophy at the end.”
“True,” I say, watching as another big guy attempts to get the quarter in the glass with a flick of his index finger. But it sails through the air and hits the person at the next table in the back.
“Honestly, I’d pay money to see them chop wood,” I reluctantly admit.