many directions lately, and Colin was helping me until he got caught up in the wedding plans.
I need to get my brothers on it. Speaking of my brothers, earlier this afternoon, I spotted Beck coming from Alyson’s farm, long after I helped her with her animals. I guess he, too, wanted to check out the hottie next door.
Shit, I hope she’s doing okay over there. She was thrown into all this without so much as a lick and a lesson, a weird thing my late dad used to say. The gist being, she has no idea what she’s doing. Dad was always quick to roll up his sleeves and help out a neighbor. He’d expect the same from any of his kids. Shit, maybe I should check on her.
Wait, what am I saying?
I bet the goddamn farm she’d be gone within thirty days. I know. I know. Ludicrous, right? Insane really. Maybe I have a goddamn brain tumor, but when that douche Charlie Miller crossed his arms and stared down his nose at me—reeking of whiskey and smugness—it ruffled my feathers. I’m so sure Alyson will bail, I took him up on the bet. If I lose, he gets my farm. But the bet was a no-brainer. A sure thing. Even Charlie seemed like he agreed that I couldn’t lose. Could this really be a pride thing, him wanting the farm back in my family without looking like he’d gone soft?
A thrill goes through me to think I’ll finally get back the property that had been wrongly taken from us many years ago. Which means going over there and helping Alyson is the last thing I should be thinking about.
I head to my cottage and tug on my hoodie as I make my way to the house to check in on Mom, who’s working on making honey lip balm today. But instead, I find myself cutting into the path leading to Alyson’s farm.
What am I doing?
I stand back in the distance and count the number of vehicles in the long stretch of gravel parking lot. She must be completely overwhelmed by now. I stand there for a long moment, the devil on one shoulder, the angel on the other. After a hard internal debate, the angel gets the best of me, and I head to the market. Behind the counter, Alyson is limping around in her heels and trying to bag produce for customers while answering questions from others. From the looks of her and the oversized shirt she’s wearing, I’m guessing her luggage still hasn’t arrived.
“What is the best apple for baking?” a young woman asks as she steps up to the counter.
“Um. Ah. Just a second,” Alyson says. She grips her phone and scans it as she rings up a customer. Christ, she looks like she’s gulping for a breath that just won’t come.
“Hey,” she says, and pushes back her mess of hair when she sees me. My heart takes that moment to skip a beat. Jesus, she might be a hot mess, but she’s absolutely beautiful.
“Do you have any peaches?” a man asks. His voice breaks the spell she has over me, and I turn to him as he adjusts his glasses and studies Alyson through the bottom of the lenses.
“I don’t really think so,” Alyson says, flicking him a fast glance. I swallow against the tightening of my throat. She’s my neighbor, and I shouldn’t be standing here doing nothing.
“When will you have them?” he presses.
Alyson swallows. “I… Uh… I’ll have to check when they become ripe.”
The man frowns at her. “You don’t know?”
Alyson shoots a worried look at her phone again.
“Do you have any soup for sale?” an older woman asks. “I was really looking forward to bringing a container home for supper.” She presses her hand to her chest and beams. “Cindy makes the best squash soup.” Her hand falls, and her brow furrows as she looks around. “Where is Cindy?”
“Squash soup. Okay,” Alyson says under her breath, like she’s adding that to a mental checklist. “Cindy’s not here.”
“I hope she’s coming back. She is coming back, isn’t she?”
“We look forward to her lunches,” someone else says.
I can’t take my eyes off Alyson as the customers bombard her with questions. I step farther into the market, and coming to her rescue, I say, “Granny Smith is the best apple for pie, and the peaches won’t be ready until late August. As for the lunches, that’s not been determined yet. Alyson is new here and