CHAPTER FOUR
FINLEY
The drive back to the farm is quick, she nearly made it. I park near the house, kill the engine, and step down, the gravel crunching under my boots.
Over my shoulder I see the small white SUV pull in behind me. The redhead climbs out, her hair catching in the sunlight like spools of copper. She looks so out of place with her perfectly put-together outfit. And thigh-high boots.
She is infuriatingly attractive.
I motion toward the picnic bench under the oak tree out front. When she reaches me, I extend my hand. Her palm is small and too soft against my rough calloused one.
“Alex Rhodes” she says with a quick smile.
“Finley Knox,” I reply before dropping into a seat on the bench. She sits across from me, smoothing the skirt that hugs her thighs a little too tightly. Her eyes dart around taking in the farm.
“This place is much bigger than I expected.” She says in awe.
“Yeah,” I say shortly. “We supply all of Oakridge, and some surrounding towns.”
I watch her for a moment, her big brown eyes taking in the surroundings. The sweet, floral scent of her perfume drifts over me, soft and delicate. I have to shift in my seat. Focus, Finley.
She tilts her head, curiosity in her eyes. “How long have you… managed the farm?”
I keep my answer short. Too much talking is unnecessary and time consuming. “Three years.”
She nods and doesn’t press further. Good. I want this over as quickly as possible. The day is long, and I have more than enough work waiting for me.
She pulls out a small note pad and pen. “Oak & Rye is launching something new next year.” She says voice bright with excitement. “We’re launching our own brand of healthy ready-to-bake meals. I’d love your opinion on what produce I should consider—what has a nice shelf life once it’s prepped?”
I glance up at her, noting the enthusiasm in her eyes. “Root vegetables,” I say flatly, still keeping my eyes on the barn beyond the picnic bench. “Carrots, sweet potatoes, beets, parsnips. Squash. Cabbage and onion also have a good shelf life.”
She nods eagerly, scribbling notes. “Okay, great, thanks.”
I nod once, already thinking about how I need to wrap this up so I can get back to the fields. Then she speaks again.
“Can you show me around? I’ve never been on a farm before. I’d love to see where my product originates.”
I let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. The last thing I need is to babysit this girl playing businesswoman.
“Sure,” I say flatly, pushing up from the bench. “But this needs to be quick, I have work to do.”
Her whole face lights up, and she practically bounces to her feet. “Perfect!” She says, her grin wide.
I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking toward the first barn, her quick footsteps trailing behind me.
ALEX
The first place Finley takes me is a long, weathered barn with faded red siding. The moment we step inside, the smell of feathers and feed attack my senses.
Gobbles echo around me, I stop in my tracks as hundreds of turkeys waddle around in pens.
A man in coveralls moves down the row, crouching here and there, lifting wings, inspecting feet.
“What’s he doing?” I ask, leaning closer to Finley so he can hear over the sounds of wings flapping and gobbles.
“Checking them for health status,” he says, his tone brisk. “Making sure none of them are injured or underfed.”
I glance at him, trying to imagine waking up every day to this chaos. “You do this for all the animals?”
He nods once, eyes forward.
We step out of the barn, the cool air cleansing my senses. My eyes drift to the left and land on the house. White siding, weathered just enough to show its age. Beautiful.
Two stories rise above a wide porch that wraps all the way around, rocking chairs lined up along it. Wind chimes sway gently in the breeze, singing soft, tinkling notes.
Plants of all sorts climb along the railing—creeping vines and hanging baskets. A perfect home in the middle of all the farm chaos.
“My grandpa built it.” Finley’s voice breaks the moment, gruff but quieter than usual.
“It’s a beautiful home.”
The next stop is the cow pasture. The field stretches farther than I can see, green fading into brown as the autumn frost begins to bite. Cows graze lazily in clusters, ears twitching and mooing.
“Wow…” I murmur, stepping a little closer, taking it all in—the size of this place is staggering.
Then, a chorus of shouts pierces the calm.
I turn, heart nearly seizing, I freeze. A massive bull, horns curved and menacing, is charging straight toward me.
I squeal, stepping back, panic bubbling in my gut.
Before I can react any further, Finley’s massive frame is in front of me, tall and solid—protective. He plants his feet wide, shielding me. He lifts his arms wide, the bull slides to a halt, Finley unafraid and unwavering.
He steps forward, arms still high and wide, and the bull steps back. Step by step, he’s guided backwards—until a worker throws a rope over the bull’s head. Another man prods the bull with a buzzing cattle prod, making sure it continues moving safely.
I stand frozen, heart still racing, staring at Finley’s wide back. Finally, he turns to one of the nearby workers, voice loud and stern. “What the hell happened?”
The man wipes his forehead with the back of his sleeve, his chest heaving. “We were transporting him to the trailer for the butcher… he got loose, I’m so sorry, Boss.”
Finley nods once, eyes scanning the field, then looks back at me. “Tours over.” Without another word, he turns and starts walking back toward the house.
I pause for a second, blink, and mutter under my breath, Well… okay then. I follow at a slower pace, still processing everything, then veer off toward my car.
“Bye, Finley,” I call, giving a small wave. He doesn’t bother looking back—just lifts a hand and waves once as he climbs the steps to the porch.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I let the seatbelt click and take a deep breath. My brain is finally catching up with what just happened. The adrenaline, the sheer size of the bull, and the way Finley put himself between us.
I mutter to myself, voice low in disbelief. “I’m…surprised he didn’t just let the bull kill me.”
The engine hums as I pull out of the driveway, the image of his massive frame still burned into my mind.
I barely get into the road before my phone buzzes. Glancing down, I see Finley’s name light up the screen. My brow furrows.
I swipe the message open and read:
When you get to the soft sand, don’t slow down. Keep a fast pace. Do not stop or hesitate.
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Okay… would’ve been nice to know that the first go-around,” I mutter, shaking my head.