This is Brady Pruitt at his finest.
Easy laughs. Wind in his hair. Dressed down with that smile crinkling his eyes.
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Finsted’s Farm. It’s a longtime supplier, goes way back with the family company over fifty years. All organic too. Happy place, you’ll see.” He nods. “They’re my go-to for help with sourcing ingredients for my dog food pilot program. They churn out quality and they really care, you know? Reasonable costs, about as fair as you can get. From a business perspective, it’s ideal, if we can just get the damn formula right.”
The frustrated look in his eye almost makes me laugh.
I toy with the ends of my hair, reading between the lines. Brady likes them because they care, but for his family, it sounds like it’s all business.
So many lines drawn in the invisible sand between them.
Us and them.
Himand them.
We’re quiet for most of the drive, which takes us over an hour north into the Skagit Valley. Finsted’s Farm is a quaint little name for a rustic place dripping charm, not far south of Anacortes and just far enoughaway that when we pull up in the yard, there’s no hint of anything but green country in the air.
I breathe deeply and smile.
A dirt track leads to the farmhouse, forking off toward what look like several big milking sheds. Chickens wander in random paths through the large yard with patches of mud, a huge green space that fades into the vast fields beyond.
The goats bleating in a corral just past the whitewashed wooden house are too cute for life.
Just like he did before we set off, Brady circles to my side of the vehicle and opens the door for me. I give him just enough time to get out of the way before I’m bolting over to the goats for a closer look.
By the time I reach their fence, I’m laughing my dumb head off.
They’re munching away on grass and brush. One looks at me with his beady gold eyes like he can’t believe I’d dare interrupt his mealtime.
This place feels so peaceful.
I see what Brady means byhappy place. It’s a good farm, old-school looking, not one of those mass factory farms where misery opens a line to hell just to keep modern civilization running.
A fearless chicken walks up to investigate my shoe. It cocks its head and pecks once before deciding there’s better food elsewhere.
Brady stands by my side, hands in his pockets. For a long moment, we just enjoy the scenery, taking in the pretty mountains in the distance, shrouded in wispy clouds.
A rough-looking grey-and-white farm cat slinks past, watching us cautiously. I kneel down and wag my fingers, whispering encouragements that make Brady laugh.
“You’ll want to watch out for George,” a voice says from behind us. “He’ll chew your fingers up if you dare show him any affection. He’s a mean old tomcat but the best we’ve got for chasing rats.”
We turn to see a middle-aged woman in rubber boots and mud-specked jeans, beaming at Brady at she chews gum.
Guess no one’s immune to his charm.
They hug, and she immediately turns to me.
“Wendy Finsted,” she says, holding out a callused hand. “Guess you must be the famous fiancée? Hell of a pleasure to meet the gal who could lock down this troublemaker.”
“Famous? Oh no, I—”
“Don’t play it modest, lady. The whole state knows by now. Half the women at the diner won’t shut up about it this week.” She laughs and pulls me into a hug. She smells faintly like straw and horse and mud, but it’s not unpleasant. “Glad to finally meet you!”
I wonder what Brady thinks now, watching someone who’s clearly important to him meeting me like we’re really engaged.
There are far more people we’re fooling than his parents, in the end.
