“This section needs more blue light,” I add, noting the pale color of several seedlings. “They’re starting to stretch.”
Eliza repositions a bulb. “Better?”
I take readings with my light meter, amazed by how closely her instincts align with my protocols. “Perfect, actually.”
By the time we finish, the improvised system looks like something a mad scientist would build in a disaster movie. Extension cords snake across the floor, clamp lights hang from every available surface, and the whole setup violates about twelve safety codes.
But it works.
“The seedlings should be stable now,” I say, taking a final set of measurements.
“And tomorrow’s presentation?” Eliza asks.
I meet her gaze and swallow, staring into her brown eyes as she seems genuinely concerned with my work. “Should go fine. Assuming I don’t completely humiliate myself in front of my father and half of Pittsburgh’s business community.” I realize how that sounds and quickly add, “Not that I’m nervous or anything.”
Eliza gives me a look that suggests she’s not buying my casual tone. “Your dad’s going to be there?”
“Unfortunately. Along with several of his company’s board members and what my mother describes as ‘serious investors who understand real business.’” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. “Should be fun… explaining sustainable agriculture to people who think environmentalism is a hobby for trust fund kids.”
“Is that what they think you are?” she asks. “A trust fund kid playing with plants?”
The question hits harder than it should. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right.” We stare at one another for a few beats before I sigh in resignation. “Anyway, thank you. For coming. For helping.”
“My pleasure.” She grins. “Though next time, maybe don’t wait until everything’s falling apart.”
“Noted.” I glance around the greenhouse, taking in the chaos of equipment and extension cords. I realize my friends have curled up on a pile of cardboard in the corner, sleeping. “I should clean this and head home. Tomorrow’s going to be…”
“Brutal,” she finishes. “But you’ll be amazing. Your trees are perfect, your presentation is solid, and anyone who doesn’t see the value in what you’re doing is an idiot.”
I want to believe her confidence in me is justified, and I’m a little taken aback by her pleasant attitude. Maybe she’s friendlier when she’s tired. “Will you… would you consider coming tomorrow—today, I guess? To the presentation?”
Eliza’s eyebrows shoot up. “Me? At a fancy investor thing?”
“It’s not that fancy. Well, it is, but…” I fumble for words, not entirely sure why I want her there. “You understand the trees, and I think I present better when I’m not just talking to spreadsheet people.”
“I don’t exactly fit in with the yacht club crowd.”
“Good,” I say firmly. “Maybe they need someone who doesn’t fit.”
She studies my face for a moment, then nods slowly. “Okay, but I’m not wearing a dress.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.”
I nudge my friends awake, and they blink at me, wave a hand, and roll over. I guess they’re staying the night. Eliza yawns and heads toward the door, so I trot after her, wanting to make sure she gets to her truck okay. Should it be this… titillating when a woman drives a pickup truck?
Something compels me to stand nearby, watching with my hands in my pockets as she waves, climbs into the driver’s seat, turns the key in the engine and …
“Is it supposed to sound that way?” I step closer to the groaning vehicle as Eliza smacks the steering wheel with a curse. “When’s the last time you had it serviced?”
“Serviced?” Eliza laughs, but it sounds forced. “Reed, I change the oil and pray to whatever elves tend rusty vehicles. That’s about the extent of my maintenance budget.”
The truck gives a final whine, and then there’s nothing but a clicking sound when she turns the key. “Shit,” she mutters, trying again with the same result.
“I’ll drive you home,” I offer.
“You don’t have to?—”
“Eliza. It’s two-thirty in the morning, and your truck just died in an industrial park. I’m driving you home.”
