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Tate’s eyes widen, and then he laughs. “Oh no, Addison, I’m not putting you to work while you’re here.”

“I mean it,” I press. “I could help.”

Tate opens his mouth, glances to Lucy, and then back at me. “Are you sure? Really, I don’t want you to feel like you have to or anything.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “Honestly, it’s something to do. It’ll get me outta your hair—and my head.”

Tate purses his lips together. “Itwouldreally take the pressure off me. Hank’s a nice guy, but a month of working overtime is making him a little less so.” He laughs. “And we’ll eventually find someone—so you’ll be off the hook soon.”

“Great,” I say with a smile, feeling surprisingly excited about it. “Just tell me when and where.”

Standing in the mess hall’s kitchen the next day, I surprisingly don’t feel as overwhelmed as I thought I would. Hank seemed overjoyed at the prospect of me helping him out for the time being, and he’s been nothing but kind and supportive. A denim apron tied around my waist and my hair thrown up in a bun, I’m ready to get to work.

“See all these vegetables?” Hank asks, motioning to an enormous pile of carrots, celery, broccoli, and potatoes stacked on the counter. “These all need to be chopped up into, oh … yay big.” He holds his fingers about an inch apart. “Each vegetable gets their own tub.” He grabs a stack of large Tupperware, bringing them over to rest on a barrel beside me. “It’s a simple job but surprisingly time consuming.” He chuckles.

“Well, I’ve got time,” Isay with a smile.

He beams, walking past me to grab a cutting board and a sharp knife, setting them down before me. I start with the carrots, quickly falling into a routine of washing, slicing, and depositing them in their tub. Hank scurries around preparing the upcoming meal for the ranch hands—lunch.

“So tell me about yourself, Addison,” Hank says as we both continue our work. “You’re Tate’s cousin, I know that. But what else?”

“I’m from Seattle. Born and raised there. Love the city, but it can be overwhelming at times.”

“I hear that,” he says. “Lived in LA for a while. But nothing beats the peace and quiet of being out here. For me, at least.”

It sounds like something Cruz had said to me. And I know Tate feels the same way. Could it actually be true how idyllic it sounds? The mountains, the slow life. Is Montana really all it’s cracked up to be?

“What do you do?” Hank asks.

It’s the natural question, but I find myself stiffening nonetheless. “I, uh, work for my parents’ company. Real estate.”

Hank grunts. “Nice. Important too—people need homes.”

I shrug, chuckling softly. “I suppose. Although we specialize in luxury real estate. Corporate stuff, mansions, vacation homes. Definitely not a need.”

Hank laughs at that. “Well, we all gotta make a living. Do you like it?”

Again, it’s the next natural question, and yet I find my body reacting like someone has just threatened me with a knife. I swallow, methodically slicing the carrot as I weigh my answer.

As I open my mouth to respond, Hank laughs aloud. I glance over my shoulder at him. “You can say no, hun,” he chuckles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “We don’t always have to love our jobs.”

I find myself laughing too, my body relaxing. “Yeah …” I snort. “Then I guess the answer’s no.”

Hank hums from behind me, back to work. “People put too much stock in their jobs these days. I mean, yeah, we all gotta make a living. But your job shouldn’t be your end all be all. Gotta find your joy elsewhere.”

I dice carrots in silence for a moment. “What about you? Do you like your job? I promise I won’t tell my cousin if it’s a no,” I add with a giggle.

Hank laughs. “I do. But it’s not because of the job itself. It’s the people. The guys who work the ranch. The Thatchers. The fact that—usually—I’m home at a reasonable hour and I get to spend the weekends with my grandkids. That’s why I like it.”

It suddenly dawns on me why Tate was so stressed about finding someone to help Hank out, why he was so quick to take me up on this offer. He cares. Like, actually cares about his employees. He wants Hank home with his family, not working overtime.

And it hits me how starkly it compares to my parents. How many times have I seen them ruthlesslycriticize an employee, or simply fire them? How many times have they ruthlessly criticizedme?

The chopped-up carrots are barely covering the bottom of the bin. There’s so much more to go, and yet I don’t feel overwhelmed by it. In fact, something about all this feels oddly comforting. Simple, methodical, repetitive. I’m not worried about brand relevance, presentation, what I look like, what my parents think of me.

I’m not worried about anything.

I’m just chopping carrots.