Two – Eliza
TWO
ELIZA
The following day
T he plane hums as it lands in Tennessee, and I don’t wait for the announcement to unbuckle.
I’m way too excited to be home—and far, far away from the cesspool that is Manhattan.
If I never set foot in that place again, I won’t care.
Every business conversation felt like a foreign exchange. It didn’t matter how confidently I explained how a farm runs from sunup to sundown, or how the soil feels between your fingers. All they cared about were projections, profit margins, and scalable vertical integrations.
Whatever the hell that means.
Every meeting ended with the same cold dismissal—“We’ll be in touch”—which really meant, “We won’t.”
And then, of course, there was him .
The final cherry on top of my New York Shitty Sundae. The man who ruined my twenty-dollar latte and had the audacity to blame me for it.
He was easily the sexiest man I’ve ever seen—hazel eyes, low-cut black hair, dimples that could ruin your whole week.
Until he opened his mouth.
Rolling my eyes at the memory of him, I make my way to baggage claim and mentally replay every meeting that went sideways. The missed opportunities, the forced smiles, the glossed-over condescension.
I grab the last suitcase from the carousel—right as a deep voice growls behind me.
“What the hell happened, Eliza?” my older brother, Jackson, bellows.
Before I can play dumb, he grabs my shoulders and spins me to face him.
“When were you planning to tell me you bombed the meeting with Josiah Investments? So much so that they won’t even answer my emails now…”
“I wasn’t,” I admit.
“Why the hell do you think I sent you up there?” he fumes. “I need someone who can get us some new investments for our damn farm.”
“I am the someone,” I say. “I have two business degrees, and I handle myself just fine at all the other meetings…”
“On a scale from one to ten, how badly did you burn the bridge?”
“Fifty.”
“Jesus Christ.” He glares at me.
“I really am sorry.” I meet his eyes. “I tried every tip and trick from that course you made me take, but when the CEO asked if we could ‘continue the discussion over wine… with me in his lap,’ I just… lost it.”
His expression slowly softens.
“The other guys were less direct, but it was all the same. I know you were counting on that contract, but…”
I trail off. What else is there to say?
“If he calls to follow up, let me know.”
“I won’t answer.”
“No, I want you to.” His tone darkens. “I’ll finish the conversation for you.”
I nod, but ignoring the call sounds like the safer plan.
My brother’s still on thin ice with the sheriff for beating the shit out of the last guy I almost dated?—
(and by “dated,” I mean the guy who said, “If we don’t fuck tonight, I’m done with you.”)
“Why didn’t you tell me he came onto you?” he asks.
“Seriously?” I give him a blank stare.
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
He grabs my bags before I can stop him. “Let’s get home. You’ve got a lot of new stuff to deal with in the garden before tomorrow’s check-ins.”