“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.
