“That’s all I want,” I grit out, reminding us both that I don’t have time for these games. Don’t have time for these thoughts, either. Though, unfortunately, I can control only one of those things.
CHAPTER 10
Tally
It’s day five, and I’ve learned absolutely nothing since moving in with the grumpiest man alive. I’ve rarely seen Walker, which is fortunate for him, because I think I’d kill him if I did.
I spent the last two days counting flowers. Each freaking daffodil. Well, maybe not each individual one. After counting three flower beds and finding they all had almost the same number of stems—give or take ten—I decided to count the flower beds instead. Much quicker work than counting one hundred thousand bulbs separately. Though it still took me two days to verify.
The only thing that kept me half sane was trying out that cherries jubilee recipe. As predicted, with the ice cream that Eli dropped off, it was utter perfection. Of course, once I got on a baking kick, one thing led to another and I ended up making pineapple upside-down cake, cherry cheesecake brownies, and cherry winks, a cookie made with cornflakes that is surprisingly delicious because of the maraschino cherry baked inside it.
Walker was undeserving of my treats so I took them over to the brewery and the bookstore to share. I hope his stomach was growling, though, when he smelled all the sugary perfection that he never got to taste.
Clearly, the ridiculous chores he’s given me are his way oftrying to keep me out of his hair, which I don’t mind, because who would want to spend time with someone so completely miserable? So what if he’s stupidly good-looking? Or if there’s something in the way he looks at me that makes my pulse thrum. Makes me seek out his attention even though I tell myself I don’t want it.
Shit, I’ve got some issues to work out. But today is not the day. No, today I’m sneaking around “his” bedroom—can it be considered breaking and entering if it’s your own room?—in hopes of finding something that will tell me why he’s so invested in the farm.
I heard him get out of bed at 5:30 a.m. On a Saturday. The minute I heard the front door shut behind him, I ran into his room and have spent the last few hours scouring every inch of it—under the bed, in the closets, in his bedside drawer. That was risky. I was almost positive he isn’t the kind of man with toys, but you never know.
Of course, boring grumpy Walker just had a picture of his nephew on the end table and a lighter, some spare change, and ChapStick in the drawer.
Defeated, I stomp downstairs and step out onto the porch, my eyes searching for the man in question.
It’s infuriating that I’ve learned basically nothing since I got here. From what I can see—outside of him laying blankets over the flowers despite their requirement for sunlight to freaking bloom—he knows what he’s doing. He’s hard at work every day, and my mother seems happy and settled, too. She spends her mornings walking with the Liberty Ladies, then she checks in with me and we share a cup of coffee before I start my chores.
Maybe she’s just handling grief differently than I imagined she would, and this is her way of moving forward. The farm is too much to handle on her own, and considering all the work I’ve done this week, it’s clear she needs Walker. I just wish I knew what Walker was getting out of it. Although, I guess he has a place to stay and she must be paying him a wage. With what money, I have no idea. We won’t turn a profit for a few more weeks based on past years. And my parents were never great at saving.
I stretch my legs on the porch and finally catch sight of him coming out of one of the cottages near where my mom is staying by the wildflower fields. I haven’t cleaned any of those properties yet. What is he doing over there?
A fog has settled over the farm this morning, like a cozy blanket hanging heavy in the air. Walker seems almost mystical as he emerges from the mist. He’s wearing his trademark Wranglers, work boots, and a long-sleeve Henley. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I take this opportunity to study him: the scruff that covers his hard jaw, how the lines of his face deepen as he looks into the distance, and the way his lips part and his eyes flare the moment he catches me spying on him.
His steps don’t falter because the man is good at going toe to toe with me, so I straighten my hips and prepare for battle. “You checking my numbers?”
Walker grunts as he climbs the stairs to the big house until he’s standing right in front of me.
I push on despite his silence. “Have any other pointless tasks you want me to do today?”
Walker lifts his ball cap from his head and flips it backward, then arches a single brow. “Pointless?”
“Yes, Walker. Having me count each individual daffodil is pointless.”
“Did you know that daffodils multiply each year and can crowd each other?”
I blink at him. “Um, no.”
“If we have too many,” he continues, taking a step toward me, “they’ll stop blooming and our crop will be destroyed next year. So, Tally, it’s not pointless. It’s important that the numbers in each flower bed don’t tip too high in one direction. And if they do, I can adjust by digging and dividing them more evenly.”
Well, fuck me. I nibble my bottom lip, worried now because I didn’t actually count them, and consider the mammoth task of starting all over again.
“Anything else you want me to explain to you?” he grits out.
I shake my head.
“Then do you mind moving so I can go inside?”
Shit. Do I tell him the truth? It’s probably fine. None of the flower beds look overcrowded, and I can check myself. “Sure. Um, is there anything else I can do? You know, like maybe help take off those tarps.”
“Leave the tarps alone.” The grizzly warning instantly has my hackles up again. Why is he so damn insistent on keeping the bulbs covered? I might have been wrong about the daffodils, but I know tulips need sunshine. I listen to the sounds of Walker’s boots hitting the wooden planks until he stops and turns to me again. “If you want to help with the flowers so much, why don’t you mist them?”
