Chapter 7 Eliza
Eliza
My goats eat like they’re half-starved while I replay Reed’s abrupt visit. One minute we’re having an actual conversation about water-resistant metals—which, okay, was kind of fascinating—and the next he’s practically sprinting to his car like I threatened to brand him.
Men are weird. Rich men are weirder. And, unfortunately, hotter and harder to forget.
By eight, I’ve finished the animal chores and loaded a bag of my best composted goat manure into the truck.
It’s a peace offering… sort of. Eden’s always going on about how goat manure is gardening gold.
Lower nitrogen than chicken, perfect pH balance, breaks down slow and steady.
If Reed’s going to be all scientific about his trees, he’ll probably appreciate quality organic matter.
I get the goats situated at Bramblewood and head north to Reed’s evil lair, singing along to the holiday music on the radio. But only because I’m not hauling Chiron and I can hear things for once. I am not feeling festive. Absolutely never.
The drive to his place takes twenty minutes through neighborhoods that get progressively more corporate.
Glass buildings, manicured parking lots, signs advertising “innovative solutions” and “sustainable futures.” By the time I find the Sustainable Innovation Incubator, I’m feeling underdressed in my cleanest overalls and wondering if Reed’s embarrassed to be working with someone who smells farm-fresh.
His greenhouse sits at the end of a row of identical units, distinguished only by a small placard reading Urban Forest Solutions.
I knock on the door, clutching my bag of manure to my chest.
Reed opens it, wearing a fresh button-down shirt and khakis that probably cost more than my monthly feed bill. He clearly showered after our muddy encounter, his hair damp and smelling of expensive shampoo instead of earth and animals.
“You came,” he says, sounding surprised.
“Only to avoid court.” I hold up the bag. “Brought you something.”
His eyes drop to the canvas sack, and I watch his expression shift from curiosity to horror. “Is that…?”
“Goat shit. The good stuff.” I push past him into the greenhouse, immediately overwhelmed by the sterile perfection of everything. It gives sci-fi movie vibes for sure. I clutch at the poo bag. “My sister Eila swears by it. Says it’s better than any chemical fertilizer you can buy.”
“Eliza.” Reed’s voice climbs higher. “This is a sterile environment. I can’t have contaminants—”
“Contaminants?” I spin around to face him. “This is premium organic matter. My goats eat the highest quality—”
“I’m sure they do.” Reed holds up both hands in surrender. “But hydroponic systems use super precise nutrient solutions. Adding manure would throw off the entire pH balance, introduce unknown bacteria, contaminate the root systems—”
“So you’re saying my shit isn’t good enough for your fancy trees.” Am I enjoying arguing with him about this? Everything is strange today.
Reed runs a hand through his still-damp hair. “I’m saying manure is an excellent fertilizer for traditional soil-based agriculture, but it’s incompatible with my growing methods.”
I set the bag down harder than necessary, irritation flaring. “Right. Because your way is better.”
“It’s not better; it’s different.” Reed’s voice takes on that careful tone people use when they’re trying not to offend. “Hydroponics eliminates soil-borne diseases, reduces water usage by ninety percent—”
“And costs a fortune to set up and maintain.” I gesture around the greenhouse at all his fancy equipment. “What happens when the power goes out? When your computer crashes?”
“Those are manageable risks with proper planning and backup systems.” Reed straightens, falling into lecture mode. “Traditional agriculture faces climate variability, soil depletion, pests, weather damage—”
“Traditional agriculture has been feeding people for thousands of years without anyone needing a PhD to grow a tomato.”
“And look where that’s gotten us.” Reed’s composure cracks. “Topsoil erosion, groundwater depletion, pesticide resistance, climate change—”
“So, your solution is to grow everything in a lab?”
“My solution is to grow things more efficiently with less environmental impact.”
We stare at each other across his robot workshop, the air humming with tension that’s about more than farming methods. I can see the passion in his eyes, the genuine belief that his ideas will help save the world. It’s… admirable, even if it’s completely impractical.
“Fine,” I say. “Explain it to me in words a simple farm girl can understand.”
Reed’s jaw tightens. “You’re not simple.”
The quiet certainty in his voice catches me off guard. “What?”
“You’re not simple,” he repeats, stepping closer. “You run your own business. You understand animal behavior… sort of.” Reed moves closer, close enough that I can see gold flecks in his brown eyes. “And you pulled me out of a puddle with your bare hands.”
Reed’s looking at me in awe. “I was just trying to help.”
“That’s what I mean.” His voice drops lower. “You don’t think in terms of protocols or proper procedures. You just see what needs to happen and make it happen.”
We’re standing close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can count the faint freckles across his nose. When did he get so close? When did I stop backing away?
“Reed,” I start, but I’m not sure what I’m going to say.
His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before snapping back to my eyes. “We should… The trees need—”
A loud crash from outside breaks the moment. Through the tiny window in the door, I see one of Reed’s neighbors wrestling with a dumpster. Reed steps back quickly, running his hand through his hair.
“Right,” he says, voice carefully professional. “The trees. Let me show you the growing systems.”
For the next hour, Reed walks me through his operation. He enthusiastically explains nutrient solutions and pH meters, light spectrums and growth cycles, speaking in the kind of technical detail that should put me to sleep but somehow doesn’t.
Maybe it’s the way his face lights up when he talks about sustainable agriculture. Maybe it’s how his hands move when he’s explaining something he cares about. Or maybe it’s the way he keeps glancing at me to make sure I’m following along, like my understanding matters to him.
“So, the purple lights simulate the spring sun?” I ask, reaching to touch one of the tiny trees. Its needles are soft and perfectly formed, a fairy tale plant.
“Exactly. Blue light promotes vegetative growth; red light encourages flowering and fruiting. By controlling the spectrum, we can optimize each growth phase.” Reed moves beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he adjusts the seedling.
“And people will really buy miniature Christmas trees?”
“Urban consumers—city folks—want sustainable options that fit their busy lifestyles. Apartment dwellers, environmentally conscious families, people who don’t want to drive to tree farms or deal with disposal…
” Reed’s hand covers mine on the pot, and I realize I’ve been absentmindedly stroking the tree’s needles.
“Plus, they stay alive after the holidays. Living decorations that grow year after year.”
His thumb traces across my knuckles, probably without him even realizing he’s doing it. But I realize it. I realize a whole lot about the warmth of his skin and the way his breathing has changed and how we’re both pretending to look at the tree.
“Reed,” I say again, and this time I know exactly what I want to say.
But his phone buzzes on the counter behind us, breaking the spell. Reed jerks his hand away as if he’s been burned, immediately moving to check the message.
“It’s Bramblewood,” he says, scanning the screen. “They want to move the pitch-a-thon up to tomorrow.”
“That’s good, right?”
Reed’s face pales. “If I have a product to show them, sure…” He stares at his seedlings despondently. “This is my last chance, Eliza. If this fails, I’ll have to go back to my parents. Accept their money, their corporate job, their entire life plan.”
The fear in his voice makes my chest tight. “I don’t know what all that means, but that won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you care more about these trees than anyone else possibly could.” I step closer again, drawn by his vulnerability. “I know you’re brilliant and passionate and too stubborn to give up.”
Reed looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me believe things could work out?”
Before I can answer, his phone buzzes again. Reed glances at it with a grimace.
“My mother,” he says. “Probably wondering why I missed the ballet.”
“You should answer it.”
“I should.” But he doesn’t move. “Eliza, about earlier, when I left so abruptly—”
“You got overwhelmed.” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t matter, even though it kind of does. “Happens to everyone.”
“Not to me. I don’t get overwhelmed. I plan for contingencies.”
“Maybe you need more practice with chaos.”
Reed’s mouth quirks in what might be the beginning of a smile. “Is that what you are? Chaos?”
“Among other things.”
His phone buzzes incessantly, and Reed sighs. “I should take this. Look around, but please touch nothing.”
As Reed steps outside to take his call, I wander through his greenhouse, touching his trees and breathing in the fragrant air.
Through the window, I watch him pace while he talks, his free hand gesticulating.
I’m no stranger to uncomfortable calls with parents.
I avoid my mother’s calls more often than not.
He’s nothing like the men I usually find attractive—too serious, too controlled, too concerned with doing everything perfectly. But there’s something about the way he looks at his trees, the way he talks about sustainability and efficiency and making the world better.
And the way he looked at me when he said I wasn’t simple.
My phone buzzes with a text from Eden.
How’s it going with tree boy?
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to answer. I brought him manure that nearly gave him a heart attack. He talks about soil in a way that does things to my nether parts. Yet, he has the power to ruin me with one call to a lawyer. Everything is deeply confusing.
Complicated
I bite my lip and add,
Good
Eden responds immediately.
The best ones always are.