Chapter 2
(Aria POV)
My brand-new steel-toed boots felt like two small refrigerators strapped to my feet. I’d laced them up in my dark bedroom, scowling at the calluses they would no doubt create, then tied my hair into a high knot like I was about to fight crime.
I was ten minutes early. Marcus was twenty.
He stood at the edge of the crush pad with a clipboard and a headlamp banded across his brow like a miner, sleeves already pushed up, and those damn sexy forearms. When he saw me crunching across the gravel he didn’t smile. He did, however, glance at my feet.
“Boots.” He nodded.
“Two pounds each,” I said. “Per foot. I checked.”
“They’ll feel lighter by lunch.” He handed me a hi-vis vest and a pair of gloves that looked like they’d wrestled tigers. “Safety talk.”
A small circle formed, crew in hoodies and caps, a couple of interns with lab goggles perched on their heads, a woman with silver hair under a knit beanie whose posture said she’d been doing this longer than any of us.
Marcus’s voice came low and even, the kind of tone people lean toward without realizing.
“Three points of contact on ladders and trailers. Never step over a hose. If you don’t know what a valve does, assume it can hurt you.
Forklifts have right of way. Eyes up when you hear a beep.
Phones in pockets near equipment. If it looks wrong, call me.
If it smells wrong, call me. If it sounds wrong… ”
“Call you,” chorused the interns, buoyant.
He cut me a sidelong look. “Channel one.”
I tapped the radio clipped to my vest. “Channel one,” I echoed, like a promise.
He started walking. I followed, my boots growing heavier with each step. Lighter by lunch my ass.
“This is Alma.” He nodded to the silver-haired woman. “Queen of sorting.”
Alma gave me an appraising once-over, then stuck out her hand. “You pop the leaves and bugs, ni?a. And if you see rot, don’t be precious. We don’t marry every berry.”
I shook. “Got it. Uninvited guests go bye-bye.”
“Raisins are ‘jacks,’” one of the interns piped in. “Shot berries are…”
“Not a TED Talk, Jesse,” Marcus said gently. “Miss Bennett’s learning by doing.”
He positioned me at the sorting table with his hand on the small of my back. They fit there perfectly. The conveyor ticking to life. Clusters rode up and spilled. The air smelled green and wild and a little like cut apples. Grapes came fast.
Alma’s hands were a prayer… pluck, flick, toss, gone. Mine were an apology at first, then less so. Leaves, stems like little claws, a fat daddy-longlegs who did not sign his waiver, paraded in front of me. Sorry buddy, off you go. I flicked him away.
“You’re too gentle,” Alma said, not unkindly. “Hands, not heart.”
I squared my shoulders and sped up. The work was oddly hypnotic: reach, choose, reach, choose. My brain, so good at spiraling with a thousand thoughts a minute, slowed, then quieted.
By the second hour, my gloves were coated with dust, the cuffs of my jacket damp from inevitable, invisible water. Sweat slid down my spine in the cool air. My boots thudded to a steady drum.
“You hungry?” a voice asked.
I turned. Marcus offered me a paper cup and half of a breakfast burrito wrapped in foil.
“It’s black,” I said, taking the coffee.
“You’ll survive,” he said.
I sipped. It tasted like discipline and campfire. I took the burrito, held the warmth against the ache in my palm, and then ate it in four unladylike bites as Alma nodded.
“Good girl,” Alma said. “Fuel is part of safety.”
Marcus’s radio crackled. “Hale, clamp loose on two. We’re dribbling.”
“On my way.” He glanced at my gloves, my face, my feet. “You okay?”
“Peachy,” I said, which was bold for someone with a blister the size of Nebraska on her heel. He gave a small nod and peeled away.
The sun finally made its entrance, first a smudge, then a wash, then the whole stage lights. The vines woke, showing their verdant hue. Row by row, the headlamps blinked off. Mist rose from the creek like breath on glass.
“Trailer.” Alma ordered. “We’re full. We move bins.”
We hustled to the flatbed. A strap had slipped under one corner and needed yanking free. “I got it,” I said, and hopped onto the deck.
The wood was slick with crushed skins smeared like a purple bruise.
My boot hit just right and I slid. My world did a slow-tilt and my stomach flipped.
I windmilled in the most ugly, ungraceful way.
It would be a spectacular fall. Except it wasn’t.
Strong arms scooped me up as large fingers splayed across my stomach to set me back on terra firma.
“Three points of contact,” Marcus said, not letting go for a moment even though I was on solid ground.
“I had two and a half,” I said breathlessly, trying for levity.
“Two and a fall,” he whispered in my ear. His hand gave me a squeeze before he let go. His boots found dry, steady places by muscle memory, then he offered his hand, looking at me with a hooded gaze.
I took his hand. My legs wobbled but not from the slip.
He jumped back up and hauled the strap free, rebalanced the bins, and hopped down like a pro. When he hit gravel, he scanned me again, knee, elbow, pride. “You hurt?”
“Only my dignity,” I said.
He nodded.
We worked. The day warmed.
My phone was nestled in my pocket. I didn’t film anything, although three times I caught frames with my eyes and tucked the images away for later: fog curling over purple skins; a crow perched on a fence post like a statue; Marcus bracing the ladder with one hand, looking up, saying nothing, being the reason nothing went wrong.
By late morning my arms were jelly and my blister had achieved minor celebrity status. I was sticky and damp and euphoric in a way I hadn’t felt before.
“Break,” Marcus said, with authority. The crew gathered around the picnic tables under a large oak. Alma pressed a tangerine into my palm with a motherly smile.
“Eat,” she said. “You earned your spot.”
I sat and peeled the tangerine in one floppy spiral as the juice ran down my fingers. Across the yard, Marcus was simultaneously listening to a distributor on the phone, watching a hose connection, and glancing periodically at us. He never seemed rushed, only focused.
He came over and set a small brown box on the table in front of me. “Socks,” he said.
I blinked. “I’m not usually a charity case.”
“They’re boot socks,” he said. “Thicker heels. You were favoring your left leg. I’m guessing you have a blister on your right foot.”
“So you do look at my feet,” I have a tendency to turn tenderness into a joke.
“I watch everything for potential failure,” he said, straight as wire as his dark eyes appraised my very being. Then, after a moment that made my heart skip a beat he added, “That includes you.”
“Romantic,” I said sarcastically to hide my growing attraction.
He stood there, broad and precise, a man cataloging hazard and hope with the same steady hand.
“Back at nine,” he told the crew, and they nodded in unison.
When we rose, he fell into step beside me. “You didn’t take your phone out.”
“I promised,” I said. “Also, I like having fingers.”
The grunt in his throat might have been approval. Or indigestion. “After the shift,” he said, “you can take photos on the hill. Away from equipment.”
“Science and sunsets,” I said.
“Within reason,” he said, like a man learning a second language he hadn’t planned to use.
We soldiered through into the early afternoon. By the time the first run ended, the pad smelled like grapes and soap. We hosed down our mess. The water ran pink, then clear. Alma clapped my shoulder with a gloved hand that left a print on my shirt.
I turned to find Marcus leaning against the barrel room doorway with his headlamp around his neck. His gaze moved over the pad, the hoses, the stacked lugs, counting, assessing. When it landed on me, it stayed a second longer than it should have.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“I thought this was a one-time hazing,” I said.
“Harvest is weeks. We don’t get magic from one morning.”
“I don’t think I’m made for this,” I said, honestly.
“Not everyone is. Give it one more day and then we can see where you fit in. And wear the damn socks.”
“Yes, Mr. Hale,” I said, because I like to live dangerously.
Something in his jaw ticked, slowly. “Marcus,” he said quietly. “Off the pad.”
I felt it tingle down my spine, a name like a hand pressed against the small of my back. “Marcus,” I repeated, matching his hush.
He straightened, as if he’d indulged himself enough for one day. “Don’t make me come find you in the dark,” he added.
“I won’t be late,” I said.
“Good.” And then he was gone, already halfway to his next fire, leaving me on the edge of the crush pad with wet boots, smarter hands, and a blister that, somehow, felt like belonging.
I peeled the new socks from the box and tucked them into my tote.
On my way to the car, I paused at the hill like he’d said I could, turned in a slow circle, and let the whole valley fill me.
Rows like ribs, a bubbling creek, the white shoulder of the farmhouse, the barrel room standing cool and quiet as a chapel.
I didn’t post it. Not yet.