off. She wipes her face then catalogs the market as her first customers of the season enter. They browse the produce as I browse Alyson in her muddy high heels and even muddier shirt. What the hell is she doing in Jack’s clothes anyway?
Wait! Is that really the first question I’m asking myself?
Since I can only focus on one thing at a time—I’m a guy, after all—and her sexy legs are sleek and bare, they’re dragging my concentration, despite the fact that there are a billion other questions bouncing around in the back of my brain. Namely, Jack had a niece? He never talked about family, and at times, he seemed so lonely. Why hadn’t he reached out to her before now, and what the hell was he thinking, leaving the place to her?
As if feeling my eyes on her, she lifts her head and gives me a somewhat shaky smile. It lights her blue eyes, and while my body takes notice, my goddamn stomach tightens at the vulnerability she’s trying to hide. If she knew what was good for her, she’d up and leave right now—but I suspect she’ll wait until morning. I can’t think of any reason why she would want to stay.
“Thanks for helping.” She waves her arms around. “Where does all this stuff come from?”
“The apples are last year’s crop. We, and by we, I mean, you, still have some produce in cold storage. I can show you that later if you like.” I wave my hand toward the back of the orchard. “Out back, Jack has an extensive vegetable garden, and he also purchases a lot of produce from my farm. He bags them and sells them here, and the craft stuff, like the sweaters, gloves, and mugs, and artwork, are here on consignment from local artists.”
“Amazing.” She goes quiet as the customers approach the counter, and I ring in their order. After they pay and leave, she says, “You don’t run a market?”
“No, but I have a U-Pick in the works. I’m waiting on the right permits. Insurance for people on the property and all that.” I reach under the counter and produce a folder. “Your paperwork is all here, for when you sell.”
“Oh, thanks. I guess that’s pretty important. You know, for when I sell.” She steps toward me, and while she’s trying to portray confidence and composure, there is a tightness in her shoulders that once again stirs my gut. She’s a nice girl, cares about tourists and animals, and I wish I could tell her everything will be all right. It won’t be, and I’m not about to give her false hope. I don’t want to see the farm sell to Bryce Kent, the local who’s been itching to buy it. Jack never really liked the man, and I only mentioned I knew a buyer simply because I think Jack would rather the farm succeed than see it run into the ground by a relative who is outside her comfort zone. She has no chance of success, and she pretty much told me she knew it.
“How… I mean, are people hired to take care of the trees and sprays and things?”
“Sprays and things?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know, like pruning, fertilizing, harvesting.” She waves her phone. “Google search.”
“Yes, Jack hires seasonal workers. The spring pruning has been taken care of; fall pruning will need to be done; trees have to be checked for disease and rot; and harvest is September to October. Jack sells his good apples to local grocery stores, the fallen ones to the juice makers. He hires pickers in the fall. All the information is in this file, but you won’t have to worry about that.”
Her body tightens, a sure sign that she’s overwhelmed by all this. “Right. Still, I’m interested in how things work.” She tilts her head. “Do those tractors out back have a manual I can read?”
“Yeah, I can probably find them.”
“I know nothing about this, but how hard can it be to run a farm, anyway?” she asks, making light of what we do in farm country, which seriously pisses me off.
I clench down on my teeth at her naïveté, her ignorance, her goddamn judgment. Really, though, did I expect anything more? I get it. City folk, especially ones who come from wealth, will always look at us hardworking farmers as dim-witted rednecks. They have no idea how hard we work or how much we care about the food that goes into their mouths.