“It’s going to be a better day,” I mutter as I pour my coffee into my to-go cup, leaving just enough room for creamer. Hattie believes if you add the creamer first, you don’t have to stir the coffee because it stirs itself. She’s a liar. I know this because I tried it once and nearly grew hair on my chest from the gulp of black coffee I drank.
Never again.
I pour creamer into the cup and then give it a good stir before putting my spoon in my bathroom sink—because that’s the kind of life I live. No kitchen, just a dual-purpose sink.
I cap off my coffee, set it on my nightstand, then reach for my boots to slip them on. I chose a pair of khaki shorts for today, a bright red tank top, and my worn-out baseball cap that I pulled my hair through the back and made a messy bun. I also applied a good layer of sunscreen on my body because I plan to be in the sun today.
I adjust my taupe tube socks, making sure they have the perfect ruffle, and put on my shoes. I have one hell of a tan from my high socks, but they’re necessary when I’m traipsing through the farm. Dirt and weeds and everything you can imagine get stuck in my shoes. I learned pretty quickly to wear work boots and high socks to protect my ankles.
Once dressed for the day, I stick my phone in my back pocket, grab my coffee, and then head out my door.
The morning has a crispness to it now that summer is ending, and a light amount of dew is on the ground from the night before. The sun barely peeks past the horizon, and I’m not sure Mac is even awake yet, so I quietly hop into my four-by-four and ride it around the backside of the guest house, taking the long way to the barn.
Sometimes I enjoy this route to check out the land, take in the mountains in the distance, and see how far this parcel has come since it was first purchased.
I’m pretty sure everyone thought Cassidy and Clarke had lost their minds when they said they were buying a farm since they hadn’t shown any interest in farming. But then Cassidy laid out her plan, and I found it fascinating that they could devise a plan and see it through. It’s why I’ve sworn to keep this farm afloat.
I just wish I could pinpoint the financial problem. I’m going to try to tackle it later this week. I think I need to be immersed in the day-to-day grind to clear my head and then look at the numbers with a fresh mind.
I wind through a gathering of trees where we promised Mac we’d build her a tree house, something we haven’t gotten to just yet, and then round the corner toward the barn, where I see a strange car parked in front. Huh, that’s weird.
Maybe it’s one of Esther’s or Aggie’s friends—they visit occasionally when they’re working. It’s cute. They’ll go around helping with certain chores and treat the work as something to do rather than a job. That’s what happens when you’re retired—they told me—they just want to be useful in some way. I’m not complaining.
I’ll take all the help I can get. Except Wyatt Preston’s.
I park next to the right side of the barn, where we’ve been slowly building a large chicken coop. It’s another new venture we decided to take on, something that wouldn’t create too much work but would also provide another source of income. We wanted to offer enough space so the chickens had grass and some free range to walk around, so we chose the right side of the barn. We made a feeding hole through the barn as well as a door next to the beds where they will be laying eggs so we don’t have to step over them to retrieve the eggs. We can just open the door and collect. It was well-thought-out, but because of that, it’s taken us longer to put it together.
We’re not in a rush, though. I’d rather it be right than have to make changes later. We plan on selling the eggs at The Almond Store. We’ll add a cooler to the store to sell the eggs, some honey, and possibly frozen cookie dough so people can slice it up and bake it themselves. Just some small ideas we’ve thought about to expand the business.
Coffee in hand, I hop out of my four-by-four and head into the barn, where I hear some voices in the distance.
“Good morning,” I call out.
“Morning,” Parson says.
“You in the back?” I ask.
“Yup,” he calls out.
I make my way through the barn and toward the back doors, only to find Parson sitting on the tractor and a man helping him load some tools onto the trailer.
“Oh, hello,” I say.
The man stands tall, and my face immediately turns into a sneer. Wyatt.
The moment I saw him last night, I knew exactly why he was here. Not to see Mac. Not to reconnect with the family. Nope, he was here for business. “Morning,” he says with such an annoying grin that it makes me want to chuck my coffee at him. The man is deadly attractive, an in-your-face kind of handsome that makes people feel weak in the knees, with the slight curl in his hair, captivating eyes, and sharp jawline. “Parson and I are headed out to the fields to see if any potatoes need to be covered. I had no idea you had to make sure there was dirt on them at all times.”
“They grow underground. What else would you expect?” I ask, my voice full of snark.
He stands taller and wipes his hand over his forehead. “I can see you haven’t had your full cup of coffee just yet.”
“That’s an asshole thing to say.” The minute the words slip from my mouth, I realize that I’m standing in front of Parson as well. He has no idea how much animosity I feel toward Wyatt, so I’m just coming off as a total bitch.
Tacking on a smile, I turn to Parson and say, “Would you mind heading out to the field so I can have a conversation with Wyatt?”
“Not a problem at all,” Parson says. I’m sure he wants nothing more than to escape this interaction.
He backs up the tractor and takes off, heading down the side road that leads to the fields.
When he’s out of earshot, I turn toward Wyatt and grip my cup tightly as I say, “You don’t belong here.”
“Oof, I think the deed to half of this land I hold in my possession tells a different story.”
I blow out a deep breath, trying not to get overly angry about this because we knew it would happen. The moment I found out Wyatt owned half of the farm, I had this bad feeling he’d try to claim it somehow, take over, or do something to mess up the plan I’ve laid out for myself.
The plan Cassidy had for this property.
That’s why I was talking to my lawyer. I wanted to see if we could do anything on our end, but there was nothing. Wyatt is the rightful owner, and the worst part of it is that he owns most of the farmland. This means he is the main owner of the potatoes. The potatoes that our entire business plan relies on. If he takes charge of his land, then everything, and I mean everything, is thrown off.
Wyatt’s arrival is the worst-case scenario.
One that puts me on edge.
Because I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose Cassidy’s memory. I don’t want to lose the one thing that makes me feel . . . semi-worthy.
“Wyatt, why are you here?” I ask, just wanting to get to the bottom of this.
“I told you.”
“I want the truth,” I say. “You haven’t had any interest in being here, being a part owner, so why now?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks. “Going through a midlife crisis. I need something new in my life, something to keep me occupied. And I like potatoes.”
“You barely look younger than my brother, so that’s not midlife. And don’t you have book deadlines to keep you busy?”
He leans against the barn door and crosses his arms. “Actually, I don’t have any deadlines at the moment, so I have some time off. Which makes it the perfect time for me to be here.”
“But the problem is, Wyatt, I don’t want you here.”
He nods and toes the ground. “That’s been quite obvious, but that won’t make me leave.” He pushes off the wall and walks over to where the tools hang. He picks up a pair of gloves and a shovel. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll tend to my dirt.”
He attempts to walk by me, but I stop him by standing in front of him. “Wyatt, do not mess with my flow. Everything is under control. I don’t need you digging around in the dirt to fulfill some fantasy you have built up in your head. Your little keyboard fingers won’t be able to handle the real work we do out here.”
“Umm, that’s insulting. And maybe instead of being rude, you can actually offer to show me around. Tell me about the farm and inform me of what’s been going on.”
“Why?” I ask. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because . . . I own part of this land, and I should know what’s going on.”
Growing very frustrated because I know it can’t be the real reason he’s here, I place my hand on my hip and stare back at him. “But why? Why do you want to know what’s going on? And don’t say because you own the land. You’ve owned it for a while. Something must have changed recently that’s brought you here, and I want to know what it is.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little personal?” he asks.
“No.”
“You barely know me. Why don’t you offer to take me out to dinner before you start digging around in my personal life?”
“I’m not asking you out to dinner.”
He scratches the side of his jaw. “Might be good for you to get to know the owner of the other half of the farm. Maybe we can come to an agreement of sorts.”
“What kind of agreement?” I ask, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise.
“The kind of agreement where we can mutually agree on how to run the farm.”
“Uh, the farm is running just fine, thank you.”
“Is it, though? You’re growing potatoes.”
My protective walls are firmly in place as I stare him down. “We grow potatoes to make vodka. With that vodka, we produce almond vodka and almond extract for The Almond Store. We also started harvesting honey and will soon sell eggs as well.”
He slowly nods his head. “And this is for The Almond Store . . . but you grow potatoes.”
“Yes,” I say, exasperated with this conversation. “What don’t you understand?”
“I don’t get why you don’t grow almonds. Isn’t that the main part of your business?”
“It is,” I say through clenched teeth. “But if you were part of the farming industry, you’d understand that the best place to grow almonds is inland, not along the coast, which is where we’re located. Therefore, we purchase the almonds and grow the potatoes.”
“Interesting.” He pauses for a moment and looks around. “Have you tried growing almonds?”
“I can’t with this,” I say as I walk away. “You have no idea what you’re doing, and I’m not about to waste my time attempting to educate you.”
“That doesn’t seem very friendly,” he says, following me.
“What made you think I was friendly?”
“Great point,” he says. “Don’t know what I was thinking.” I hop into my four-by-four, and before I can even get it started, he hops in as well.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask him.
“Going for a ride.” He grins at me.
“No, you’re not.”
“I think I am.” He buckles himself in, and my irritation hits an all-time high.
I grip the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths. Arguing with him doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Maybe I need to take a different approach.
What would Echo say?
You can catch more bees with honey.
So with a deep breath, I say, “Wyatt, I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“I could not agree more. Let’s push everything leading up until now behind us and move forward. Why don’t you give me a tour of the farm, and we can see where I can make corrections?”
Corrections? Oh, the freaking arrogance.
Don’t punch him, Aubree.
It won’t do you any good.
It will only make things worse.
Maybe if you just show him the farm, he’ll see that everything is fine, that no one needs his suggestions, and he can go back to life with his keyboard and creepy stories.
Tacking on a smile that both of us know is fake, I say, “Sounds lovely.” I start the engine and press my foot to the gas pedal, shooting him back in his seat and causing him to fumble to find something to grab onto.
“Jesus, warn a guy.” He straightens up and adjusts himself.
That was worth it.
Hiding my smile, I bring him around the barn and to an abrupt stop in front of the future chicken coop. He flies forward and back against his seat again, looking like a floppy noodle rather than a man with working muscles. “This is where we’re going to house our chickens. It’s an addition we planned for this year. It will bring in some income and—”
“Are you afraid your chickens will die?”
I turn toward him. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Aren’t you aware that potatoes are toxic to chickens?”
Uh . . . no.
I was not aware of that, but to hell if I’m going to admit such a thing to him.
“Yes, quite aware,” I say, lying right through my teeth.
He glances around the ground in front of us, noticing all the scattered potatoes dropped during transport. “Well, there are a lot of potatoes around. Chickens will try to eat them, and then boom, your egg layers are dead. Not only would that be sad but also a huge waste of money.”
“First of all, the chickens won’t be fed potatoes. If you want, we can put up a sign that says no potatoes. And second of all, the chickens will be in the coop. Therefore, they won’t be exposed to the potatoes.”
“You’re not going to let them roam?” he asks. “Free range organic is all the rage.”
“So are coyotes, and they like chickens. We’re not about to let the chickens run free so they can gnaw on some potatoes and drop dead only to be scooped up by a coyote.”
“Seems like a death wish, yes, but have you thought about how the chickens might feel about being trapped in a coop day in and day out?”
“Uh, it’s a giant coop,” I say. Once again, my irritation is clear through my tone. “There will be plenty of room for them to run around. There will be grass and beds and things for them to climb. It will be the mansion of all chicken coops.”
“Oh, if that’s the case. Great idea.” He smiles.
My nostrils flare.
He picks up my coffee cup.
I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind.
He brings the cup to his lips.
Before I can stop myself, I punch the cup right out of his hand, sending it to the ground on the other side of the four-by-four.
Quietly, he looks down at what I can only assume is spilled coffee and then back up at me.
After a few silent seconds, he asks, “Was that necessary?”
“More than you know.” I press the pedal again, sending him flying in his seat.
“BEES?” he asks, looking at the stacks of bee boxes from afar. Since we’re not suited up, we don’t want to get too close, although the thought of driving close enough to the bees only to make a quick turn in hopes that Wyatt would fall out of the four-by-four is appealing.
“Yes, bees. Like I said, we’re harvesting honey and plan on adding jars to The Almond Store by offering almond and wildflower-infused honey as well as honey butter, but that is further down the road. And of course, just regular honey.”
He slowly nods, taking in all the bee boxes Echo has lined up. “Will you be adding to the bakery side of the store?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, given you’re creating more room for things on the farm like honey and eggs, those could be used toward other forms of income like breads and baked goods that specialize in the flavors you’re creating around your brand. For instance, if you do the honey butter—which, in my opinion, investing in some cows on the property to make the butter would be wise—then you can sell loaves of crispy artesian bread with the butter and upcharge for the combo. You could also add in things like cherry almond baklava. You incorporate your brand flavors, use the honey, but then also create another signature piece for the bakery section that will bring in tourists from all around.”
I hate him.
I really, really hate him.
Because dammit, that’s a good idea. Cherry almond baklava? Good God, where can I get that now? My mouth waters just thinking about it. But who would bake it?
“And then of course the cow manure can help fertilize, not that you would have enough cows to fertilize all of the potatoes, but let me ask you this. Do you ever have leftover potatoes from harvest?”
My nostrils flare because I feel like I know where this is going.
“Yes.”
He nods. “You’re unable to produce vodka with all the potatoes?”
“No, we do sell them to local restaurants, though.”
“At what cost? Probably something cheap because you’re all small businesses trying to make a penny in a small town, so you pat their back, they pat yours. Although, how are they truly giving back to you as a restaurant? Sure, they can say if you want dessert, try the one dessert item The Almond Store offers, which is a cookie. But customers could be in the mood for ice cream, so they’ll go to the ice cream store instead, which makes me wonder, should you be offering some ice cream at The Almond Store? With the cows coming in, they can help provide milk for the butter and ice cream, and once again, you take your signature flavors of almond, cherry, and honey, use the eggs you have of course, and create an ice cream palate of unique flavors, driving more people into the store, which of course will spur them on to buy more.”
How?
How is he seeing all of this?
How can he just sit here casually and ramble on about how to improve the farm by just looking at bee boxes and make sense of it all? It’s infuriating.
“Not to mention, if you cut down on the potato fields, maybe down to half because you could probably lose half the fields and produce just as many potatoes that you need to process the vodka and the almond extract, you could use the extra space for the cows. Also, the farm next to yours is a dairy farm. You could possibly form a connection with them, offer some of your land for rent to expand their cows, and then take some of their milk. I’m just spit-balling here, but the possibilities are endless.”
How did we go from bees to this?
Is this what writers are like?
They just ramble on forever, drawing up new images and ideas in their head, making you feel inferior in the field you’ve been training?
I clear my throat. “Well, that was a tangent.” A helpful one, but a tangent.
“Yeah, but with a lot of potential. Shall we move on?”
I’m afraid to.
What will he say when we reach the potatoes?
“IT SMELLS like rotten potatoes in here,” Wyatt says as he looks at the silos. We had just finished visiting the fields, and lucky for me, he didn’t have much to say other than if I switched to drip irrigation rather than a sprinkler system, we’d save fifty percent on water.
I countered that a sprinkler system reduces the chance of frost.
Then he questioned how much frost we were getting.
I then pretended to act like Parson was calling me, and I took off without looking back.
Now that we’re in the silo section of the farm, I know he’ll tell me we don’t need such large storage systems, especially ones that aren’t kept up as well.
“Well, potatoes sometimes get stuck in the silo, leading them to rot.”
“That’s very unappealing,” he says as he looks up into the cylinder tower. “Why do you need so much space? This seems like a lot. Have you ever thought about ways you can distribute the potatoes around town other than for the vodka?” He looks at me. “How many potatoes do you have to compost a year?”
“More than what you probably want to hear.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You need to figure out another way to get these potatoes off your hands. I mean, if you have an overproduction of a crop that is not your main source of income, then you need to change it up.”
“But it is the main source of income,” I counter.
He shakes his head. “The vodka and almond extract are. The potatoes just provide a way to make that. You shouldn’t have an overproduction of potatoes. That’s wasting time, farmland, and money. Either you need to cut down on the fields you’re using for potatoes and distribute that to something else like the cows, or you need to find a new way to use the potatoes rather than just selling them to local restaurants.”
I fold my arms and say, “Okay, then what would your suggestion be if you’re so smart?”
“I’m glad you asked.” He smiles and faces me, sticking his hands in his front pockets, looking like the arrogant man he is. “There is a plant just outside of Silicon Valley that specializes in making biodegradable plastics by using potato starch. I know the CEO and have actually toured the factory. It’s impressive, and they’re always looking to buy potatoes despite having their own fields. They’re at a deficit at the moment.” Is that why he knows so much about freaking potatoes? Here I was thinking he went and researched potatoes for a week straight before he came here. “So your potato surplus could help him out, and you’re helping the environment by creating a biodegradable plastic.”
“Well, that’s . . . interesting,” I say even though I don’t want to.
“And if you went that way, then I’d keep the fields, but then strike up a bargain with the dairy farmers behind you for the milk so you can make the ice cream and butter. But if you’re still thinking about cutting down on the potato fields to make room for more cows, then you could also turn over your potatoes to make potato flour. A farm about half an hour from here makes all kinds of flours, potato being one of them. And of course, with that potato flour, not only could you add it as a retail item in The Almond Store—part of the brand—but you could take that flour and make another specialized bakery item unique to the store.” He twirls his finger in the air. “A full circle moment.”
God, do I want to kick him so badly. Right in the nuts. I want to make him keel over in pain because just yesterday, I was going over the books and trying to figure out why we were coming up short on growing the farm and the business. Then he comes waltzing in, wearing a pair of new boots that now look like they’ve been through the trenches of a war field, acting like he is the mighty potato czar.
And even though I hate to admit it, a little part of me believes it. I mean, his ideas were unlike anything I would have thought of. How could he look at a situation, quickly assess, and find a solution or a way to expand? He looked at the resources, reused them, and put them back into the product, the farm.
Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tells me we should have a few cherry trees to “go with the brand.” I’d buy it. I would probably, in my mind—not out loud, of course—think wow, what a genius.
“I can see you’re thinking.” He leans in with a grin. “Are you thinking about how clever I am?”
A wave of his fresh, earthy cologne comes barreling into my space as I say, “No.” Even though I’m thinking, yes.
He is clever.
Annoyingly charming.
And has a knack for comebacks that make me stutter over my words.
I’ve intentionally resisted reacting, resisted adding to the banter, because the last thing I want is for him to think he can make me laugh.
“Come on, surely you thought that one of my ideas was smart. I was throwing out some good ones.”
“They’re ideas, Wyatt. They’re not action plans. There’s a difference.” And they all require upfront capital that we don’t really have.
“Want me to draw something up for you? Like I said, I’m available right now. I can talk to the cow neighbors and my friend down at the biodegradable plastic plant to see if we can negotiate a deal. Then we can write up a plan of action, a step-by-step process, and maybe throw out some projections. I would need to look at the books, but that won’t be too hard. I could have something on your desk in the next few days.”
Why is he like this?
I thought he wrote thrillers. He’s acting like a billionaire trying to monopolize the potato industry. Who does he think he is? Huxley Cane?
Lord knows he probably knows who Huxley Cane is. They’re probably best friends.
“Uh, are you going to answer me?” he asks.
I focus my eyes on him and tilt my head to the side. “Do you happen to know Huxley Cane?”
“I don’t, but I did serve on a board with his brother, Breaker. Great guy. Why? Do you need me to ask them something? I bet I could set up a meeting with Breaker and Huxley.”
Dear Jesus.
I shake my head and move past him toward the four-by-four.
“Is that a no?”
“Tour’s over,” I say from over my shoulder. “Find something else to do. Hint: annoying me is not an option.”
And then I drive away, leaving him alone in the silos. I can’t deal with him, not right now. Not when he makes me feel far too inferior.
“THERE YOU ARE,” Echo says as she approaches with a bagged lunch.
I’m resting under one of our large oak trees, my back up against the trunk with my water bottle in one hand and an egg salad sandwich in the other.
“Hey, Echo,” I say. “How’s your day?”
“Great,” she says as she adjusts her straw hat and takes a seat next to me. “Can I join you?”
“Of course. Want to lean against some of the tree trunk?”
She shakes her head. “No, that’s okay.” She lets out a deep breath and says, “Gosh, I don’t know if you’ve met him yet, but Wyatt, he’s something else.”
Finally, someone to bemoan with.
“Oh yes,” I say as I set my water down and pick up a piece of my apple that I cut up. “I’ve met him. He really is something else.” My voice is full of sarcasm.
But Echo doesn’t seem to pick up on it as she says, “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as smart as he is.”
Great!
He got to Echo.
Last night, it started with Ethel, then he made his way here, captivated Mac with a present, and then charmed Ryland, Hattie, and even Hayes. This morning, he won over Parson and now he’s won over Echo. He’s probably already made the rounds to Esther and Aggie. They’re going to love him more than they love me. Because how can you not like the charming, smell-good guy over the curmudgeon wench in a pair of khaki shorts with a terrible sock tan?
At this point, I’m sure if my life were one of his novels, everyone would be cheering on Wyatt while they complained about how annoying I am, wishing I was the one the villain captured only to have my body parts sold on the black market. Isn’t that how it always goes, though? The man gets the praise, while the woman gets the blame?
Will that happen here on the farm? They’re all going to love him, and I’m going to fall to the wayside, so much so that they’ll form a mutiny. Then I’ll be asked to step down from my role while Wyatt takes over. And then what? I don’t ensure my sister’s dreams come true, while Wyatt turns the farm into a fully high-functioning modern farm with cows and milkers and creamers and God knows what, with the most beautiful cherry trees George Washington’s ghost has ever seen. People from miles away will visit the farm to look at the cherry trees.
News reporters will flock to Almond Bay to interview the man-wonder who turned around a potato farm that saved the planet with a thing as simple as starch.
He’ll receive awards.
The president will call and name a day in honor of him where everyone gets off work. Wyatt Day. But I won’t get it off because I’ll be working a retail job somewhere open on Wyatt Day because that’s the day that everyone buys a potato, tosses and kisses it, thanking Wyatt for his contribution to society.
“Uh, you okay, Aubree?” Echo asks, probably stunned by my silence. If only she knew what was going on in my head.
“Oh yeah, sorry. Just blanked there for a second.”
“That’s okay. You must be tired. Running a farm is not easy.”
Apparently not for Wyatt.
“Yeah, just busy, and you know, I gave Wyatt a tour this morning, so I’m trying to catch up from that.”
“Parson was telling me Wyatt owns half of the land. Is that true?”
Ugh, Parson. I love him, but sometimes he can’t keep anything to himself . . . just like the rest of the town.
“That is correct. Wyatt is Clarke’s brother, and it was part of the will that when Cassidy passed, some of the land stayed within his family, so yes, he owns a portion of it.”
“Makes sense. Well, he’s done an amazing job on the chicken coop.”
“Yeah, the chicken—wait, what?” I ask, looking over at Echo.
“Oh yeah, I just assumed you assigned him that task. I went over there to grab wood for more bee boxes, and he was working on the coop. I was shocked with the progress he’d made.”
No.
There is no freaking way.
“You look angry,” she says.
I try.
I try to change my face into something neutral, but my eyebrows won’t work with me, nor will the frown I can feel pulling on my lips. This girl might explode.
“Just . . . annoyed,” I say, unable to hold it back.
I know I shouldn’t talk to an employee about this, but for the love of God, I know if I said something to Hattie or Ryland, they’d tell me he has the right to help around the farm. This is his property too.
But they don’t get it. This is supposed to be my project. I’m the one supposed to continue Cassidy’s legacy, not some thriller author who picked up a hammer for the first time today.
To be fair, I don’t know if that’s the case, but this man with his worldly views and talents . . . and connections. It’s frustrating.
And if you think I feel inferior and that makes me sound insecure, you’re correct.
Put yourself in my shoes. My courageous sister leaves me her farm, and I’m struggling to make sense of it all. My father told me when I was young that I would never do anything productive with my life. I want to prove him wrong. I want to make Cassidy proud, and then Wyatt walks in, not a stress on his shoulder or a worry in his chest, and he’s solving what feels like the Great Potato Famine of the 1840s.
“Why are you annoyed?” Echo asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
I let out a deep sigh and stare down at my sandwich. “I wasn’t expecting Wyatt to visit. He sort of showed up out of nowhere last night, and I’m just . . . taken aback.”
“Ahh, I see.” Echo nods. “I think I know where you’re coming from. When I was working on my parents’ bee farm, I had a distant relative come into town. My parents knew about it, but I didn’t, and she was this bright light of ideas. Everyone fawned over her, and it was irritating because I had been making some of the same suggestions for months. Honestly, it was one of the reasons I decided to leave. Because if they could value her opinion, why didn’t they appreciate mine?”
“That would be infuriating.”
She nods. “Is it like that with Wyatt?”
“Sort of.” I pause, and my teeth pull on the corner of my lip.
She must notice my hesitation because she says, “You know, if you want to take a time-out from being my boss and just talk for a second, I’d be more than happy to listen. I won’t hold anything you say against you. I promise. I had my family do that to me time and time again. I wouldn’t do that to someone else.”
“I appreciate that,” I say and then let out a deep breath. I could really use the chance to get this bubbling anxiety off my chest, at least to calm my nervous system before I spiral into insanity. “I don’t know why he’s here, Echo. He’s shown no interest in our family, in the farm, nothing. I thought he’d own part of the farm but never really care about it. He’s a very popular author. He doesn’t need the farm. But then, out of nowhere, he decides to come into town and turn everything upside down. I know there’s a reason behind it, but I can’t figure it out. And do you know the worst part of all of this?”
“What?” she asks.
“And don’t think this is directed toward you in a mean way, but he’s so freaking charming and nice that everyone likes him. I seem to be the only one who thinks he’s being calculating and looking for something else.”
“I mean, he was really nice to me, took interest in who I was, and asked me a bunch of questions. He made eye contact and was very thoughtful when he spoke. So yeah, I get why he’s likable.”
“So do I,” I say. “When I gave him a tour, he had great ideas, was able to solve problems without me asking, and even cracked a few jokes. I, of course, didn’t give him the satisfaction of laughing because I want him to know that I’m not buying what he’s trying to sell to everyone.”
“And what do you think that is?” she asks as she opens her bag and pulls out a ham and cheese sandwich.
“I think he’s trying to be charming and likable because he wants something, and when he asks for it, everyone will say yes because it would be hard to say no to the nice guy. Make sense?”
“Do you think he’d be that crafty?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do. The man plots storylines for a living. Why wouldn’t he plot a way to get what he wants?”
“I guess that makes sense.” She leans back on one hand as she takes a bite of her sandwich. “But I wonder what he wants.”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out, and it’s driving me crazy.”
“I know,” Echo says with a smile. “Why don’t you get him drunk and then ask? He’d be bound to slip up.”
I chuckle. “Great idea. The only problem with that is I’d have to spend time with him to get him drunk willingly, and I bet he’d see right through me.”
“True. Maybe you should befriend him then. If he feels like you’re friendly, he might be willing to share his diabolical plans.”
“That seems far too painful. I’ve already spent enough time around him. I don’t want to befriend him.”
“He might see right through that as well,” Echo says. She takes another bite of her sandwich as she thinks. “Oh, I know,” she says. “Find out where he’s staying, then in the middle of the night, sneak into his room, capture him, and then torture it out of him. I’ve heard men are very protective of their junk.”
I snort so hard that I feel a few drops of snot fly out of my nose. I wipe my nose with my napkin before I say, “Echo Alaska.” She just chuckles and shrugs. “You know, I think I might have to keep you close. I don’t think it’s smart to piss you off.”
“You would be right about that,” she says with a devilish grin.
Yeah . . . very close.
Although I’m not opposed to the torture thing. I might have to think about that.
