Chapter Six
The next morning, Daphne walked through the P-Patch gate, and every practical thought in my head went straight to hell.
She wore denim shorts, a green tank top, and her hair twisted up off her neck with loose brown pieces already falling around her face.
The outfit was fine for garden work, sensible even.
That didn't help me much, because the sun hit her shoulders, her legs were bare, and I remembered exactly how she'd felt against me at Beargrass Lake.
I tightened my grip on the clipboard.
Four hours remained on her sheet. One clean sign-out stood between Daphne and the end of anything that made me her supervisor.
After that, I was just a man who wanted her in my bed and had run out of decent reasons to pretend otherwise.
Daphne stopped in front of me and glanced at the clipboard. "You're making the hours sheet face."
"I have a face for that?"
"You have several official faces. That one says paperwork, rules, and probably hydration."
"It's July. Hydration deserves respect."
Her smile came quick, and the tight place under my ribs eased. Yesterday had ended with Fletcher's name in her handwriting and tears in her eyes. Today, she was here. When our eyes met, she didn't look away.
Fletcher was the problem.
Daphne shifted her tote higher on her shoulder. "Monica texted before I left. She's reviewing the broker materials before her ten o'clock call."
"Good."
"She said not to discuss Cascadia documents on-site."
"Then we won't." I glanced past her to the open gate, then back at her mouth because I was apparently done making smart choices before breakfast. "We'll pull weeds and behave ourselves."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Both?"
"Don't get ambitious."
A laugh slipped out of her, quick and real. The sound went through me better than coffee, which was inconvenient because I still had a city garden, a crew, a clipboard, and the last four hours of Daphne's court-ordered service between me and doing anything about it.
Birdie came around the pepper bed with a basket on one arm and a straw hat tied with a blue scarf today. Her earrings were tiny silver watering cans, because apparently the woman had never met a theme she didn't plan for.
"Daphne, honey," Birdie said, "those boots look like they haven't heard the bad news."
Daphne looked down at her new tan work boots. "They have ankle support."
"They have innocence," Gus said from the south row.
Tyler leaned on a rake near the compost bins and shook his head. "That won't last."
Daphne pointed at him. "I'm not taking survival advice from a man who has a personal feud with compost."
Tyler straightened. "It's not personal. It's strategic."
Gus looked at the rake in Tyler's hand. "You're holding that backward."
Tyler looked down. "That was also strategic."
Daphne's shoulder brushed mine when she turned her laugh away, and the brief contact hit hard enough that I had to study the clipboard.
"Phones in bags," I said. "Water before work."
Daphne gave me a narrow look. "You're really going to supervise me through your final four hours like nothing happened?"
"No." I handed her a water bottle from the cooler. "I'm going to supervise you through your final four hours like a lot happened and I still know how paperwork works."
Her fingers closed around the bottle. This time, I didn't avoid touching her. Our fingers brushed, bare skin against bare skin, and the look she gave me made the whole shed, garden, and state of Montana feel too small.
"Careful, Zane," she said quietly.
I leaned a little closer. "That's my line."
Her cheeks flushed, and I had to focus on the clipboard before I made the morning worse.
Behind us, Birdie said, "Tyler, go make yourself useful near the compost before I learn something I don't need to know."
Tyler muttered, "I was born for awkward timing."
Gus picked up a bucket. "You were born for supervision."
I let Daphne go before the morning got away from me.
The last shift needed to be clean.
I put Daphne on the west bed first, away from the south fence and the view of my land.
Her note was locked in my truck. Her hands were steady when she pulled on her gloves.
The tight line had left her shoulders. Today, she could pull weeds and argue with produce like the P-Patch had originally intended.
She knelt beside the bed with the foam pad under her knees and tugged at a weed near the carrots. "This one has confidence."
"Loosen the soil first."
"I know." She worked her fingers around the stem. "I'm giving it a chance to reconsider."
"The weed?"
"Me."
I crouched across from her. "You reconsidering something?"
Her gaze lifted to mine. "Several things. Most of them involve whether behaving ourselves was too ambitious."
The heat that moved through me was fast and mean.
I looked down at the carrot tops. "Pull the weed, Daphne."
Her mouth curved. "That sounded official."
"It was either that or kiss you in front of Birdie."
She glanced toward the pepper bed.
Birdie didn't look up, but she smiled into her basket.
Daphne leaned toward the weed. "The garden has too many witnesses."
"That's been a problem since day one."
She pulled. The weed came free with the root intact, and her face brightened with the same pleased look she'd given the repaired drip line yesterday.
I wanted to see that look in my bed.
I stood before my control got any worse. "Good. Keep going to the marker. Then we'll switch to tying tomatoes."
"Intermediate string privileges again?"
"You're not cleared for advanced string until after noon."
"That feels unfair."
"It's a safety issue."
Daphne laughed and went back to the bed.
Work steadied the morning, but it didn't make the pressure go away.
The sun climbed hot and white over the pines.
Bees moved through the purple flowers near the gate.
The repaired drip line ticked along the south row, darkening the soil around the roots.
Every ordinary sound sat over something waiting: the scrape of Gus's bucket, Birdie's clippers, Tyler negotiating with the compost pile, Daphne's breath when she bent over the bed, and my phone sitting facedown inside the shed.
At nine fifty-seven, Daphne's tote buzzed on the shed shelf.
I was tightening a tomato tie near the middle row. Daphne looked up from the west bed, dirt on her forearm and a loose strand of brown hair stuck to her cheek.
She stood and pulled off one glove. "That's Monica."
"We'll take it in the shed."
I looked toward Birdie. "Give us five."
Birdie nodded once. "Take ten if it saves me from watching Tyler invent compost law."
Tyler lifted both hands. "I asked one question about jurisdiction."
Gus said, "Dirt has jurisdiction."
Daphne pressed her lips together as we walked to the shed.
Inside, the air was dim and hot, full of cedar dust and old rubber.
The hours clipboard hung on its hook. Her tote sat on the shelf where she'd put it at the start of shift.
The folded note from yesterday was no longer there.
I'd put it in my truck before the crew arrived, because I didn't need Fletcher walking through my gate and seeing anything in Daphne's handwriting.
Daphne took her phone from the tote. "Should I answer?"
"Yes. Put it on speaker if Monica agrees."
She swiped the call and held the phone between us. "Hi, Monica. I'm with Zane McCrae in the P-Patch shed. No one else is in here. Is speaker okay?"
Monica was quiet for a beat.
"You may leave me on speaker," Monica said. "Mr. McCrae, this is Monica Owens with Cascadia Land Partners."
"I know who you are," I said.
Daphne glanced at me.
I added, "Good morning."
Her mouth twitched, and I got the look that meant I wasn't helping.
Monica didn't waste time. "Daphne told me yesterday that you own the adjacent McCrae parcel and Beargrass Lake access referenced in our West Ridge packet."
"I do."
"Have you signed any access agreement, easement agreement, letter of intent, or preliminary authorization connected to West Ridge?"
"No."
"Have you given Fletcher McCrae or McCrae Land Brokerage permission to represent your parcel as a viable acquisition or easement route?"
"No."
"Have you agreed to owner engagement within the current project window?"
I looked at Daphne.
She held the phone steady, but her eyes stayed on my face.
"No," I said. "I've told Fletcher I'm not selling, I'm not granting access, and I'm not sitting down to make my no more comfortable for him."
Daphne's mouth curved again.
Monica's voice sharpened. "Has your refusal been clear?"
"Clear enough that my brother stopped asking nicely and started talking around it."
Monica went quiet again.
"That is useful," Monica said.
"It's also irritating," I said.
Daphne looked down fast, but I saw the smile.
Monica continued. "I reviewed the broker history, the revised access appendix, and the land-use map this morning.
Cascadia is pausing the West Ridge access pathway tied to your parcel.
We are also removing McCrae Land Brokerage from current external representation until the discrepancy is reviewed. "
Daphne's shoulders dropped, and her grip eased on the phone.
My hand tightened on the edge of the workbench. "Pausing means what?"
"It means Cascadia will not pursue that access path as viable based on the current packet. It also means Fletcher McCrae does not have authority to present your parcel as an anticipated easement or acquisition route for us."
"That's the first smart thing I've heard all week."
Daphne's eyes flicked to mine.
Monica gave a short breath that might have been a laugh if she'd let it out. "I'll accept that as gratitude."
"It's as close as I'm getting before lunch."
"Understood." Papers shifted on Monica's end. "Daphne, you were correct to disclose the conflict and correct not to remove materials from the office. We'll discuss internal handling when you return."
"Yes," Daphne said. "Thank you."
"Mr. McCrae, I may need a written confirmation from you later today that no authorization exists."
"You can have it."