Take It or Leaf It: A Grumpy Sunshine Small Town Romance (Kirby Falls Book 1) by Laney Hatcher

Author:Laney Hatcher [Hatcher, Laney]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-08-20T00:00:00+00:00

I’d made it my goal to get down to Main Street early enough to set up our own tables for Grandpappy’s and the Bake Shop beneath our big white tent. But when I arrived to see all six tables already arranged in an organized U-shape, complete with chairs for all employees, I knew the volunteers had gotten to us first. And when I’d found a small cooler filled with bottles of water hidden beneath the corner table, I’d known which helpful volunteer had taken care of us.

I glanced down the street to see if I could spot Becca in her lime-green volunteer tee shirt, but she wasn’t anywhere nearby. So I got to work unloading the produce in the back of the truck instead. The rest of the crew would be along within the hour and then things would really get going.

Mom and Chloe would be under the tent with the rest of the Grandpappy’s staff, serving apple cider slushies and all manner of baked goods. They’d even recruited Laramie to their side to assist in the prep work so that Mom and Chloe could handle the face-to-face with the customers. I was a little jealous that she’d thought of that while I had to be public-facing, selling Grandpappy’s merchandise and fifteen varieties of apple on the farm side of things with Mac, my father, my aunt and uncle, and a handful of other farm employees.

The Judd’s Orchard tent was right next door, as to be expected, and I shot Joan a salute when I noticed her arrival a few minutes after mine. She had her sister, Candy—right, Candace—on her heels, awkwardly carrying some sort of cardboard cutout. It looked like a giant apple with a cowboy hat. That was . . . different. But maybe kids would be into a photo op with a cartoon apple. I didn’t know what the cowboy hat was all about. This was North Carolina, not Texas.

That reminded me, I needed to talk to Mac about social media crap. She handled that for Grandpappy’s Farm, and Eloise Carter had given us strict instructions for tagging or hashtagging or something. I had the email on my phone.

When Mac strolled in, dark ponytail swinging, ten minutes before the start of the festival, I resisted my eye roll and pulled her aside. “Hey, so for social media, you’re supposed to take photographs throughout the day and tag @TheOrchardFestival and hashtag a bunch of things so that Eloise can share them across their channels. I just forwarded you the info to the farm email address.”

“Hello, William. Yes, I’m doing well, my dear cousin. I hope you are too,” she replied dryly, shoving her giant purse under the table in the back.

“Just do it, Mac Attack.”

“Don’t you dare,” she growled.

I grinned, unrepentant. “What?”

Her gray eyes—near replicas of my own, passed down from our grandfather—blazed fire. “You better not use that stupid nickname that Brady calls me.”

“Which one?” I teased. The guy had about ten that he cycled through regularly. Mac Attack.

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