Millionaire Visits Christmas Tree Farm, Never Thought Owner’s Daughter Would Be His Perfect Season
A Chance Meeting at Bailey Farm
The wind slapped against Maverick West’s face as he stepped out of his Ferrari. The cold December air was a stark contrast to the heated interior of his luxury car. Snow crunched beneath his Italian leather shoes, impractical for a Christmas tree farm.
He hadn’t planned on getting out of his car for this errand. His assistant was supposed to handle it, but like everything else this holiday season, plans had changed.
“May I help you?” a voice called from behind him.
Maverick turned to find a woman bundled in a red parka, auburn hair peeking out from beneath a knit hat. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Her eyes, a striking hazel, regarded him with curiosity.
“I called earlier about selecting trees for the West Foundation charity gala,” Maverick said, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. “My assistant was supposed to meet with—” He glanced down at his phone. “Mr. Bailey?”
The woman smiled, revealing a dimple in her right cheek. “My father? He’s down with the flu, I’m afraid. I’m Daisy Bailey. I’ll be handling your order today.”
Maverick hesitated. He didn’t have time for this. The annual West Foundation Christmas gala was in three days, and he had fifty-seven urgent emails waiting for responses.
“I just need twenty premium Fraser firs, at least ten feet tall. I trust you can arrange delivery to the Plaza Hotel Ballroom by tomorrow afternoon.”
Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Twenty trees? Ten feet tall? Tomorrow?” She laughed, the sound incongruously warm in the cold air. “Mr. West, selecting the perfect Christmas trees isn’t like ordering paper clips online.”
“I’m willing to pay a premium,” Maverick said, pulling out his phone to check the time.
“It’s not about money,” Daisy said, gently pushing his phone down. “It’s about finding trees worthy of your event. Each one has its own personality, its own story.”
Maverick stared at her, baffled. “They’re trees.”
“Their memories waiting to happen,” Daisy corrected. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Before he could protest, Daisy was walking away, clearly expecting him to follow. Maverick sighed, glancing at his car, then reluctantly trudged after her, already composing a mental note to have his shoes professionally cleaned.
The Bailey Christmas tree farm stretched out before them, row upon row of perfectly shaped evergreens dusted with fresh snow. The scent of pine and fir filled the air, mingling with the woodsmoke from a nearby fire pit.
“You’ve been supplying trees to the Plaza for their Christmas display for fifteen years,” Maverick said, recalling the details from his briefing. “But this is the first time the West Foundation has used your services.”
Daisy nodded, leading him down a path between two rows of towering trees. “Dad was thrilled to get your call. The West Foundation Gala is legendary.”
“It raises over ten million for children’s hospitals,” Maverick replied automatically.
“And apparently serves the best eggnog in Manhattan,” Daisy added with a smile. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“You’ve never attended?”
“Not exactly on my invitation list,” she said, stopping beside a magnificent fir. “What do you think of this one? Symmetrical, full branches, excellent needle retention.”
Maverick found himself momentarily distracted by the way snowflakes caught in her eyelashes. “It’s green.”
Daisy laughed. “Well, you’re not wrong.”
She reached out, running her gloved fingers along the branches. “But there’s so much more to it. This tree has been growing for nearly twelve years. It’s weathered storms, drought, and even a lightning strike that hit the field next door. It’s resilient.”
Maverick found himself watching her face as she spoke. The animation in her features was more captivating than the tree she was describing.
“You really care about these trees.”
“This farm has been in my family for four generations,” she said simply. “It’s more than a business; it’s our legacy.”
“Legacy,” Maverick repeated softly.
His own legacy was measured in stock prices and profit margins, in buildings that bore his family name and charity events that made headlines. When was the last time he’d cared about something the way Daisy Bailey cared about these trees?
“Mr. West?” Daisy’s voice pulled him back to the present. “Should we tag this one for your event?”
“Maverick,” he corrected. “And yes, this one seems suitable.”
They spent the next hour traversing the farm, with Daisy pointing out trees and explaining their unique characteristics. Maverick found himself increasingly intrigued by her rather than her merchandise.
She knew every inch of the property, greeting workers by name and stopping occasionally to help families who were searching for their own perfect tree.
By the time they had selected all twenty trees, Maverick’s feet were frozen, but he felt oddly invigorated.
“You’ll need to come inside to finalize the paperwork,” Daisy said, leading him toward a rustic cabin that served as the farm’s office. “And warm up. Your teeth are chattering.”
Inside, a massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, its flames casting a golden glow over the wooden interior. The space smelled of cinnamon and pine, with garlands draped from ceiling beams and vintage ornaments displayed in glass cases.
“This is beautiful,” Maverick said, surprised by the genuine admiration in his voice.
“My mother’s touch,” Daisy said, a shadow passing over her face. “She passed away five years ago, but we keep decorating exactly as she would have wanted.”
“I’m sorry,” Maverick said, removing his gloves and holding his hands toward the fire. “My mother died when I was twelve. Cancer.”
Daisy’s eyes softened. “Dad said your foundation does a lot of work for children’s cancer research.”
“It’s personal,” Maverick admitted, surprised by his own candor. He rarely spoke about his mother, even with people he’d known for years, yet here he was sharing with a virtual stranger.
“The best charitable work always is,” Daisy replied, moving behind a desk crafted from reclaimed barnwood. “Now, about your order. We’ll deliver all twenty trees tomorrow morning. Will someone be there to direct placement?”
“My event coordinator, Monica, will handle everything,” Maverick said, reaching for his wallet. “What’s the damage?”
Daisy named a figure that was substantially lower than Maverick had anticipated.
“That can’t be right.” He frowned. “For premium trees and rush delivery?”
“Dad set the price before he got sick,” Daisy explained, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. “He was very impressed by your foundation’s work.”
Maverick pulled out his credit card, then hesitated. “The gala is this Friday evening. Would you… would you like to attend as my guest?”
The invitation surprised them both. Daisy stared at him, her pen suspended over the invoice.
“I don’t exactly have gala-appropriate attire in my closet,” she said finally. “Jeans and flannel aren’t standard issue at the Plaza.”
“We could fix that,” Maverick said, then immediately regretted his phrasing. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean to imply that I need a makeover.”
Daisy’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “That I would presume to tell you what to wear?”
Maverick clarified, “The invitation stands regardless of your attire, although I should warn you that some of our donors can be judgmental.”
Daisy considered him for a long moment. “Why are you inviting me, Mr. West?”
“Maverick,” he corrected again. “And honestly, I have no idea. But I’d like to see you again.”
The directness of his answer seemed to satisfy her. “Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll come. But I’ll find my own dress.”
Maverick grinned, feeling an unfamiliar lightness in his chest. “I look forward to it.”
