Chapter 5
FIVE
QUINN
The first weekend arrives with a bang.
The farm swells with people. Families pushing strollers crusted with mud, twenty-something in flannels taking selfies, and teenagers racing down the zipline.
It’s better than we could have hoped.
And I owe it to the woman who showed us how to get more eyes on our social media channels and website.
I try to be everywhere at once. I check on the ticket lines, test targets at the apple cannons, and make sure the POS works smoothly across the property.
My siblings and I fall into our rhythms easily. I appreciate how busy I am. It keeps my mind focused on what matters most: saving the property.
But then I see her.
And all sense of focus and control goes to hell in a hand basket.
Tricia is crouched on the gravel outside the Snack Shack. She has chalk in hand, sketching a sign on a board that will live for the weekend.
Her tongue peeks out the corner of her mouth in concentration. Sun shines on her face. When she sits back, she claps her knees and grins at what she’s made.
It’s the kind of smile a man could lose himself in if he isn’t careful.
A dad with a kid on his shoulders wanders over to her.
“Hey, that looks good. Did you do that?”
“Thanks.” She gives the same friendly, patient smile she’s been doling out all weekend. “I thought the chalkboards would add a little personality to our line-up.”
“Mind if I—” He reaches for the piece of chalk like he’s been invited into someone’s studio for the first time.
I’m three steps away before he finishes the sentence.
“Actually, those are Tricia’s boards,” I say, my voice a little louder than necessary. “We don’t want anyone but her drawing on them.”
“Oh. Right.” He blinks, polite confusion clouding his face. “Sorry, man.”
He backs away. I don’t say anything else. I don’t need to. The scowl on my face and squared shoulders are enough.
Tricia just looks at me strangely. As if I’m a puzzle she’s trying to unscramble.
Later, when she’s painting faces, I catch her laughing as a pint-sized boy demands a tiger “with extra teeth.” She’s a blur of color and patience.
Another dad hangs around, leaning toward her like he’s got all the time in the world and wants to use it.
What the hell is going on with these men? And why are they treating my patch like it’s a dating app.
I can only imagine what lines he’s pitching or how he’s offering to show her around town since she’s new in town.
I know that language. It’s the same kind of talk Huck’s father used in the beginning.
That kind of smooth talk comes cheap.
I step between them and kneel down.
“How’s the tiger?” I ask, and the dad takes the cue and drifts away, his grin thin. “Working on your growl?”
“Yeah!” The boy shouts. Then, turning to his dad and roars in his face.
He jumps back, out of her personal space. Tricia thanks me with her eyes. For half a beat, I think about pulling her into my arms.
For the other half, I think she might let me.
As she stands in line to get her lunch, she chats with Chase like they’ve been friends for years.
A man behind her tries to start a conversation and she answers politely. He slips her a number on a napkin before he leaves. “Call me if you want to see the town sometime.”
She smiles politely and tucks it into her pocket. The rage brewing inside me threatens to boil over.
I wish I could say it ended there. But nearly every damn time I see Tricia, she’s being chatted up by some guy. The sharks are circling, and she’s their prey.
I don’t like it. I don’t like other men talking to her like it’s their right.
By Saturday evening, the temperature—and crowds—cool. The last of the guests filter out. Our cleans up. Lanie is in the office doing the deposits. Pumpkin is curled on the porch like a croissant.
I find Tricia at the blackboard again, making small adjustments to next week’s schedule. When she looks up and sees me, there’s that slow smile, the one that makes my teeth ache.
“You staying late?” she asks.
“We’re never really off,” I say. “You?”
“Same. I need to finalize a few new graphics for the map. Then I’ll sync with the site.”
I grab a broom and start helping with the last of the clean-up, but I’m a poor broom partner. I find reasons to be where she is—by the office door, the snack shack, the tool shed—anything to keep her in my line of sight.
It’s ridiculous. It’s controlling.
It’s a side of myself I’ve never seen before.
When she finally tucks her tablet into her bag and shoulders the straps, I step forward.
“You going to take the ATV back to the staff lot?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’ll walk. The air’s nice.”
I can’t let her walk alone. Not tonight. Not when one of the other seasonal workers could lean on his charm.
“Get in my truck,” I say. “I’ll take you.”
She pauses, eyes flicking to my face. Then she slides into the passenger seat without argument, leaving a faint scent of chalk and cinnamon that hits me hard.
The ride over is quiet, almost tense. Neither of us speaks much. I drive the long way, around to avoid driving over the fresh mulch we just spread out near the hay maze.
About halfway to the employee lot, the truck dips and the headlights slice across the fence. I slow the engine and pull to the side behind a stand of pines. My heart is too loud. I can feel the pressure in my chest like a fist.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She glances up in surprise. “For what?”
“For... this. For the way I’ve been acting. For being a knuckle-headed idiot.” The words tumble out. “For acting like I own the air you breathe.”
She gapes at me. For a second her face doesn’t move enough for me to read it. Then her mouth curls into a half grin.
“Quinn the Bold is apologizing?” she asks, her tone teasing. “Is this your first time?”
“It’s not something I make a habit of doing,” I admit. “It’s—”
She reaches up and cups my cheek, thumb brushing the crease by my eye.
“Quinn.” Her voice drops. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“That’s not the point.” I close my eyes at the warmth of her palm. It anchors me in a way only the land has ever done before.
“I’m sorry I’ve been distant. I’m sorry I pulled away the other night.” I high release a shaky, raw breath. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have let you leave go.”
Her fingers tighten. The world narrows until I can’t hear the hum of the truck, the crinkle of foam cups in the console. I know the next moment will decide whether I can be professional and keep my distance, or whether I can be a fool and let the woman of my dreams go.
I lean in.
Her breath catches as our lips meet.
I groan, pulling her closer as she seems to melt against me.
It’s like every small, careful thing I’ve been hoarding—protectiveness, admiration, lust—unspools in that second. Her mouth is warm and soft and exact. My hand finds the curve of her neck and holds, not roughly, but with intent. She answers like she’s been waiting.
It escalates—fast, urgent. Her hands come up, find my shirt, threading fingers into the cloth. I press closer, and her shudder adds fuel to the fire already burning inside of me.
I taste cider and sugar. My head swims. My rational mind turns to static and then nothing.
We pull back in the kind of breathless rush that leaves both of us stunned, laughing a little harshly from the force of it.
She leans her forehead to mine. “I will kick your ass if you go cold on me again.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my lips.
“I’m worried,” I say. “You work for me. I don’t want to mess things up between us or the patch. I don’t want to be the reason either fails.”
Her eyes—God, those eyes—soften. “We can be discreet.”
“Discreet?” I echo. The word tastes like paper.
“Keep it between us until the season’s over,” she says. “We see where it goes. No public displays, no drama. Just…us. After close, like tonight. No fights in front of customers. No getting sacked over it. Deal?”
I let out a breath that sounds like a release valve. Simple rules soothe the control freak in me. “Deal,” I say.
She smiles, the kind that lights from within. “Also,” she adds, leaning closer, “I want a second date. After close tomorrow. You, me, coffee. No maps, no websites. Just dinner.”
My chest tightens with something that feels dangerously like hope.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d like that.”