Yule Be Sorry

All I want for Christmas is my research back. 

A herd of rogue goats ate my hydroponic fir trees and now their owner is working off the debt in my lab like a chaotic star of wonder. 

Eliza Storm is everything I usually avoid—messy, unpredictable, and completely unimpressed by the precision of my greenhouse protocols. Worse, she thinks I'm a stuck up snob who's never gotten his hands dirty. Well, I think she's a reckless urban farmer with a demented donkey organizing her business. 

When a winter storm traps us together in her barn, something shifts and I start to think I could fall for the woman who ruined my life. 

But between my overbearing father using his influence to sway my investors and Eliza's scheming mother pushing her own holiday agenda, it feels like we're both stuck on the naughty list with no hope for holiday magic. 

We don't make sense together anyway. She lives in a nativity scene and my career is dangling by a piece of tinsel. Neither of us has time to cozy up by a yule log. 

I'll just have to settle for a blue Christmas ... unless one of her goats has the power to guide this sleigh through the fog of red tape. 

Yule Be Sorry is book three of the Planted and Plowed series of romantic comedies starring the Storm sisters. Love blooms reluctantly and stems get spliced in these steamy books full of small-town swoon in a big city setting.

I stare at the email from Bramblewood Manor. They’re willing to pay me five grand for a few days’ munching from my wee herd of monsters. 

Pittsburgh is overflowing with invasive vines, but I’m short on income as we sail into December. My Mobile Urban Natural Clearing Herd can be in and out of this fancy property in plenty of time for their Yule Gala, so this feels like a huge relief.

There are just a few small problems. Hiccups, really. 

For starters, the city still hasn’t paid me for my weed clearing work in Highland Park, and I’m caught in some endless loop of quarterly payment processing. 

Which means I haven’t been able to pay my hoof guy, so he won’t sign off on my herd health, so… technically I can’t say yes to this gig right now. 

I write a quick response asking if they’re at least able to pay half up front.

Then, of course, I need to ask Martinez if he’ll accept $2,500 toward what I owe him for just one more tiny little hoof check. 

I sigh. I am so humbled by what I don’t know about running a business. Nobody ever used the phrase “cash flow” in high school, and it’s not like I had anyone showing me the ropes when I started up MUNCH. Heck, nobody even believed me that “goats as invasive weed control” is a viable business idea. 

Well, I sure showed them. Sort of.

I gaze out the window at the pasture, where my sweet beasties are devouring another truckload of Timothy hay while their guard donkey, Chiron, looks on menacingly. 

I’ll never admit any of this, but these animals are truly naughty. Just a few months ago, they darn near wrecked my sister Eden’s wedding by charging the couple just as they were about to kiss. Luckily, Eden and her now-husband were too lovesick to even notice something like a butt-butt from a goat. 

It was just a gentle little tap, really. 

My laptop pings, and I glance at the screen to see a response from Bramblewood. 

Dear Ms. Storm: We are delighted you are able to provide services as requested. It is not our policy to pre-pay. We can, however, offer a 10% deposit to retain your services if you could forward an invoice. 

Most sincerely,

Mandy Warnick

Event Coordinator

I blow out a long breath. I’m going to have to woman-up and make a stink with the city to get what I’m owed. What business can float five figures for an entire quarter? I really need to get better at reading the contracts I sign rather than just scribbling a half signature and hoping I’m not getting screwed. 

This is why people hire lawyers. 

I peel off my overalls and thermal and realize I’m wearing a super ratty sports bra and underpants I’d be ashamed to have a paramedic cut off me in an accident. I hear Chiron braying outside, yelling at me for being a perpetual slob. 

Whatever. I spend the majority of my time with ungulates. 

My clothes are functional. Except the sports bra. That’s more of a suggestion of a boulder-holder at this point. I ransack my drawers, come up empty-handed. I can’t go into a professional space with my boobs flopping around, small though they might be. 

I decide to double up on the ratty bras and slide a dress over my head. Except the neckline of my cutest wrap dress reveals the fraying, gray top of the bras. I groan and rummage deeper into my closet, finding a cardigan with a hole in one armpit. Real professional, Eliza. 

I ease my legs into some tights, which are in excellent shape because I never wear them. 

Overall, I don’t look too bad. I slip on some Maryjanes and jump in my truck to head down the hill and over the Allegheny River to downtown Pittsburgh. 

It takes ages to find a parking spot, and it’s nearly closing time when I finally make it through security and into the correct line. There’s one person in front of me, a super tall dude in a dark pea coat. I spend a few minutes ogling the sharply creased navy trousers and smartly polished brown shoes he’s got on. I can’t see much else of him since he’s leaned over with his hands on the counter, his dark head pressed against the glass, trying to shout at the clerk.

I get why they need these thick plexiglass dividers, but it sure makes it difficult to speak to the person on the other side. 

Even so, this guy is more agitated than he ought to be. He hollers, “This is an agricultural product and a decorative item. They’re living trees.”

My ears perk up, and I can hear the tinny voice of the clerk. “Sir, your application says ‘holiday decor.’ That’s category 47-B.”

Mr. Tall and Well Dressed actually smacks the counter. “They photosynthesize. They have roots. Can you check with your supervisor about the proper category for nursery sales?”

I check my phone as he yells something about hydro-something not requiring soil and see I have just ten minutes before that irritated clerk puts a closed sign on her window. 

She calmly tells him he only filled out a county form, and he needs a separate one for the city. 

The guy tugs on his dark hair. “Is this not the city and county building? How can there be different forms? Can’t you pass it down the counter to the right person?”

The clerk blinks at him. I grip my invoice. The guy yells something about an exemption for carbon-neutral initiatives, and I lose my patience. 

“Oh, get over yourself. She said you filled out the wrong form. Can you just grab a fresh one and let someone else have a turn?”

He whips his head around, glaring at me from behind a pair of thick frames. They’re probably clear lenses he’s wearing to appear smarter than he really is. I absolutely will not acknowledge that the look is working for him. I wave my hands like I’m shooing my goats. 

He frowns. “You can wait your turn like everyone else, madam.”

“Madam? That’s rich. Look, you’re not going to scold her into filing the form for you. These people are bananas about crossed t’s and dotted i’s. Ask me how I know.” I rattle the invoice for emphasis. 

He opens his mouth, but I elbow past him and smile at the clerk. “Hi.” I squint to read her name tag. “Myrna. I’m Eliza Storm, here to check on the status of an invoice.” I offer my sweetest smile—one my sisters tell me makes me look constipated because it’s not genuine. 

Myrna seems to agree with my sisters. Her facial expression is not encouraging as she peers at the invoice and slowly shakes her head. “Vendor distributions from the previous quarter are paid at the end of the current quarter. No exceptions.”

My mouth drops and sweat pools at my lower back. This can’t be right. I’m about to plead with Myrna for a partial payment when she grabs a CLOSED sign on a chain and hooks it over the microphone on her side of the glass. 

I slap the window. “No, please, give me one more minute of your time.” 

Myrna shakes her head and is down a hallway before I can think of anything else to say. 

Defeated, I turn to face the man, still standing there with his own form in his hand. I jab an index finger into his chest and sneer at him. “If you had just owned your mistake, I would have had more time to convince her to pay me, you pompous jerk.”

His nostrils flare, and he applies downward pressure on my hand to remove it from his chest. A zing of sensation darts along my arm, but I’m sure it’s due to heightened emotions. 

“If you had gotten here earlier, you would have had more time to beg.” He sniffs at me, turns on his fancy heel, and stomps toward the revolving door. Caught up in a flurry of frustration, rage, and despair, I follow him, not sure what I’m doing but certain I need someone to absorb all these big feelings. 

“Hey, asshole!” 

He doesn’t turn, and I burst through the door to the crowded, rush-hour sidewalk and poke his shoulder. Okay, not his shoulder because I can’t reach it. More like his spleen. He grunts and turns to face me. I wag a finger like some old nana. “Some of us work for a living. Don’t you dare tell me to get here earlier. What were you doing all morning? Ironing your pants, or does your maid handle that?”

He stares at me for a long moment, his jaw working like he's chewing something bitter. Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, his expensive shoes clicking against the concrete with each deliberate step. 

I stand there on the sidewalk, breathing hard, watching his back retreat until the city swallows him whole. My hands are still shaking—from rage or desperation or the lingering zing where our skin touched, I can't tell. 

Same city. Same problems, apparently. Completely different worlds. 

One thing's certain: this isn't over. Not by a long shot.