Chapter 3
Harper
I storm into Bill's office at seven-thirty AM, armed with solutions and righteous indignation. Three alternative writers, all perfectly qualified, all conveniently not Nate Wilder's ex-girlfriend. My presentation is flawless. My logic is bulletproof. My hands are only shaking a little.
"As previously stated, Jennifer covers agriculture already." I slide the first bio across his desk. "Tom has that documentary background you're always raving about. And Becky just won a state journalism award—"
"Harper." Bill doesn't even look at my carefully prepared alternatives. "Sit down."
"I prefer to stand." Standing means I can flee if necessary. After yesterday's notebook disaster, fleeing is my primary coping mechanism.
Bill sighs—the sigh of a man about to ruin my life. Again. "There's something you need to know. Dr. Wilder isn't just doing an article series anymore."
My stomach drops to somewhere near my inappropriate-for-farm-work heels. "What do you mean?"
"He's signed a deal with a documentary crew. They're filming the whole sustainability program for a streaming series. Agricultural innovation in small-town America, that sort of thing."
"So?" The word comes out more defensive than intended.
"So the contract specifically names you as the featured journalist. Apparently, the producers love the idea of a 'local reporter discovering agricultural revolution in her own backyard.
'" Bill makes air quotes. I hate air quotes.
"If you don't do this, we lose the documentary, the grant money, and probably the paper. "
"That's—" I sink into the chair I refused moments ago. "That's extortion."
"That's business. The town council met last night. Emergency session. They're calling this the biggest opportunity Willowbridge has had in decades."
Of course they are. Because why would the universe give me a break when it could instead trap me in an increasingly elaborate torture device of Nate Wilder's design?
"He planned this." The words taste bitter. "The documentary, the contract, all of it."
Bill's expression softens. "Harper, I don't know what happened between you two—"
"Nothing happened." Everything happened. My heart happened and then unhappened in the space of a college party where Chad Brewster's nasally voice became the soundtrack to my humiliation.
"Right." Bill clearly doesn't believe me. "Well, whatever didn't happen, you need to figure out how to work with him. Your job—hell, all our jobs—depend on it."
"So I'm professionally required to spend time with my ex-boyfriend who orchestrated this entire thing to force me to talk to him?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds bad."
"How would you put it?"
"Local journalist gets career-making opportunity to document agricultural innovation?"
I laugh, but it comes out slightly hysterical. "You've been practicing that spin."
"The mayor may have suggested it." Bill at least has the decency to look embarrassed. "Harper, I'm sorry. If there was another way—"
"There isn't." I stand, gathering my useless alternative writer bios. "When does filming start?"
"Next week. But Wilder wants you to shadow him the rest of this week to 'establish rapport' before the cameras roll."
Establish rapport. With the man whose notebook confession still has me alternating between fury and something dangerously close to hope.
"Fine." I head for the door. "But I'm expensing new farm boots. And therapy. Lots of therapy."
"Harper?"
I pause at the door.
"He requested you specifically. That has to mean something."
It means he's still making decisions for both of us without asking. Just like six years ago.
An hour later, I'm standing at Morrison Farm in my second-best pencil skirt and heels that seemed professional in my house but now look like I'm cosplaying as a city girl who's never seen dirt. Which, to be fair, is basically what I've become.
Nate's already there, of course, leaning against his truck in worn jeans and boots that actually belong on a farm. He takes one look at my outfit and I can see him fighting not to laugh.
"Don't," I warn.
"I didn't say anything." His mouth twitches. "Though I did tell you to pack something washable."
"You told me that yesterday, after I was already covered in—" I stop myself. We're not doing this. We're not bantering like old times. "Where's Mr. Morrison?"
"Barn. Bessie's having complications."
"Bessie? Didn't we just—"
"Different Bessie. He has twelve cows named Bessie." Now he's definitely fighting a smile. "It's a thing."
Of course it is. Because this day wasn't surreal enough already.
The barn smells exactly like every barn ever—hay and animals and something earthy that city people find either charming or nauseating. I'm trying to breathe through my mouth when Morrison appears, looking frantic.
"Doc, thank God. She's been pushing for two hours, but something's wrong."
Nate's already moving, transforming from the man who orchestrates elaborate documentary traps into someone completely different. Focused. Competent. Kind of impressive, if I'm being honest.
Which I'm not.
"Breech," he says after a quick examination. "Harper, I need another set of hands."
"I'm just here to observe—"
"Now, Harper."
The urgency in his voice overrides my protest. Before I know it, I'm holding things I shouldn't be holding in a pencil skirt, getting splattered with things that will never come out of silk, and trying not to think about how naturally we're working together.
"Pull when I say," Nate instructs, his hands doing something I don't want to think too hard about. "Gentle but firm."
Twenty minutes later, there's a calf on the ground and I'm covered in substances I'm choosing not to identify. My skirt is ruined. My blouse looks like a crime scene. My shoes... actually, my shoes somehow survived, which feels like a tiny miracle.
Nate pulls off his jacket—of course he wore layers—and holds it out.
"You're shivering."
I am shivering, but not from cold. From adrenaline and the weird intimacy of delivering life together and the way he's looking at me like he did in college when we'd work together at the campus barn.
"I'm fine." I wrap my arms around myself instead, ignoring how everything squishes.
He keeps holding out the jacket. "Harper."
"I said I'm fine."
"You're covered in amniotic fluid and it's fifty degrees."
"Then I'll be fine and cold and covered in amniotic fluid." Why am I being so stubborn about this? It's just a jacket. Except it's not. It's acceptance and comfort and letting him take care of me, and I can't do that. Not again.
He drops the jacket on a hay bale within reach but doesn't push. "Suit yourself, Harps."
The nickname slips out. We both freeze. He hasn't called me that since—
"I should go." The words tumble out too fast. "Write up my notes."
"Right." He clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me. "I have three more farms to visit today if you're actually doing this shadowing thing."
The shadowing thing. Right. Because this morning wasn't humiliating enough—now I need to spend the entire day with him while smelling like a barn floor.
"Before you go," Morrison says, "Doc, could you look at the runt? Emily's been beside herself."
A small voice pipes up from behind a hay bale. "Freddie won't eat."
A little girl emerges, maybe five years old, carrying a calf that can't be more than a few days old. It's tiny, clearly the runt, and the way she's struggling with its weight makes my chest tight.
Nate immediately drops to his knees, bringing himself to her eye level. The transformation is instant—the gruff veterinarian who's been tormenting me with documentary contracts becomes someone soft, approachable.
"Hi Emily. I'm Dr. Nate. Can I meet Freddie?"
She nods solemnly, setting the calf down carefully. "He won't drink from his mama. Daddy says he might not make it."
"Well, let's see what we can do about that." Nate's hands are gentle as he examines the calf, talking Emily through everything he's doing. "See how his eyes are still bright? That's good. And his nose is wet—also good. Sometimes the littlest ones just need extra help."
"Like me," Emily says. "I was a preemie."
"Exactly like you. And look how strong you are now." Nate pulls a special bottle from his bag, one with a smaller nipple. "Want to help me feed him?"
Emily's face lights up. "Really?"
"Really. I need a very special assistant. Someone patient and gentle."
For the next twenty minutes, I watch Nate teach a five-year-old how to bottle-feed a calf.
He guides her tiny hands, shows her the right angle, celebrates when Freddie latches on.
His patience is infinite, his voice never rising above a gentle murmur even when Emily accidentally spills formula all over his boots.
"You're doing great," he tells her. "Freddie's lucky to have you."
"Dr. Nate?" Emily asks as the calf drinks. "Do you have kids?"
My breath catches. I know I should look away, but I can't.
"Not yet," he says softly. "But I'd like to someday."
"How many?"
His eyes flick to me for just a second. "Four, maybe."
Four. The exact number we used to talk about, lying in his dorm room, planning a future that included a farmhouse and kids and animals and everything we'll never have now.
"That's a lot," Emily giggles. "I want a hundred kids."
"A hundred might be challenging," Nate says seriously. "Where would you put them all?"
"In a castle. With a hundred puppies."
"Now that's a solid plan."
Emily beams at him, and I have to turn away because this is exactly how he was supposed to be as a father. Patient and kind and perfect with children in a way that makes my ovaries want to stage a revolt against my better judgment.
When I look back, he's watching me, something unreadable in his expression.
"The documentary crew is going to love this," I say, defaulting to sarcasm because it's safer than acknowledging what I'm actually feeling. "Local vet saves baby animals, news at eleven."
His jaw tightens, but Emily distracts him with another question about Freddie, and the moment passes.