“Some people just want to knock others down a notch.”
“I don’t think he meant it like that.” She places a hand on my arm. She’s warm, and an inferno flares to life on my skin, winding its way up my shoulder, threatening to overtake my chest.
I shift uncomfortably and she pulls back. “Like I said, I don’t think that’s how Coleman meant it. I do think that he wanted to test you, but I don’t think he thought you’d be—”
“Humiliated?”
“Yes. But just so you know,” she adds quickly, as if trying to soften the blow, “half those people literally have nothing to do all day, and most of them wanted you to win.”
“And you?”
Why am I asking this? Obviously it doesn’t matter if she wanted me to win. This is a business arrangement, and you don’t have to like who you’re in business with—you only have to tolerate them.
But there was something about seeing her out there, looking worried, that got under my skin. Maybe because it was unclear whether she was concerned for me or for her farm.
Not that it matters. Isn’t this settled? She’s a verified fortune hunter. End of story.
“Well, of course I wanted you to win.” She says it to the window, like it’s painful to admit. She gestures to the farm surrounding us. “Without you, we’re ... we’re done.”
Well, it’s settled. She was worried about the farm. That pisses me off, too. Everything’s pissing me off today—her being a social climber, the chain saw breaking. It’s one big mess.
Rowe’s gaze drifts from my drumming fingers up to my face. Color dots her cheeks, and she unstraps her seat belt.
“But I’m guessing,” she tells me, “that if you show back up there, unfazed by Coleman firing you, and prove that you can cut those posts, he’ll be impressed. Heck, the whole town will be.” She tugs on the door handle and opens it slightly. “So what do you say? Will you let me teach you a thing or two about working a chain saw? Or are you going to pretend to know everything?”
I swipe a hand down my face in exhaustion. Seeing as how I’ve got a company to win, I may just have to be willing to take lessons from anyone I can.
“Sure. Why don’t you show me a thing or two about chain saws?”
She slowly grins like this is a victory. “Great. I thought you’d never ask.”
This is something I never thought I’d say—watching a woman work a chain saw is about the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
We’re in Rowe’s dad’s shop, which is covered in vintage product signs—from Coke to Pepsi to Shell to Castrol. They’re all neatly hanging on the walls, and most of them look brand new. They’ve been cared for, revered.
There is also just about every tool a man could need, as well as half a dozen chain saws.
I run a finger over the smooth surface of a Husqvarna. “These are your dad’s?”
“Werehis,” she clarifies in a hard voice.
“He collected them.”
She glances up from the smaller STIHL chain saw she’s holding and says with surprise, “Yeah, he did. I never thought about it much, but yeah.”
“I can appreciate a collector.”
“Oh? Do you collect things?”
“Vintage Land Rovers,” I tell her. “The older, the better. The rougher, the better. There’s nothing like finding an old Discovery 1 series and rebuilding the engine.”
Her jaw drops. “You can fix a truck?”
“I’m not just a pretty face,” I growl. “I do have talents that don’t include playing golf and investing money.”
“And eating caviar,” she tosses out sarcastically.
“And that.” I glance up around the barn, noting the patchwork of different-colored wooden boards that line the ceiling and walls. Thereare shades of gray, brown, and tan, all lined up on top and beside one another, creating a symphony for the eyes. “This is a nice space.”
