She snorts. “Get out of my head.” Her gaze lingers on me now, curious and amused. “And what exactly are you suggesting?”
She bites her lower lip. My chest tightens. I want to tug it free. Kiss the spot where her teeth press in.
My mouth goes dry.
Fuck it. I’m tired of waiting.
If she laughs, I deserve it.
I push back onto my hands, forcing my shoulders loose while my pulse pounds in my ears. “Wanna make out?”
EIGHT
PULVERIZED
FARMER FRED
Can’t goone damn minute without someone whining.
The main barn is finally starting to look presentable. Not good. Not yet. But closer than it was this morning. Shelves partially stocked. Coffee station is almost set. Still feels slow as molasses. We’d be done by now if that girl would stop pausing every five seconds to take pictures of herself instead of doing the work I laid out for her.
This year has to work.
It has to.
I can only ignore the bank for so long.
I need the money. I need the crowd. I need people talking about my farm again instead of that polished eyesore over in Mayfield with its petting zoos and hayrides and smiling staff in matching shirts. This place used to mean something. My place used to matter.
The new field will fix that.
Biggest pumpkins this town’s ever seen. Thick vines. Deep color. Strong. Healthy. Worth something. Worth everything.
That fertilizer better be worth every penny.
Sandie’s voice slices through the barn, sharp and grating. Her arm is high in the air, cellphone in hand, swinging around. “There’s no signal out here! This is ridiculous. I can’t post a single?—”
I snap.
“Then work instead of postin’,” I bark, shoving the barn door open with my shoulder. The hinges shriek. “I ain’t payin’ ya to stare at your phone.”
“You’re not paying me at all.” She scoffs, muttering something about backward towns. I don’t listen. I leave her to it.
I cross the yard toward the shed, boots crunching over dirt baked hard by the sun. The chemical smell hits before I reach the door. Sharp enough to burn the back of my nose. Smiling Seeds knew what they were doing. Old Dixon didn’t lie.
Pumpkins big as barrels this year. Prizewinners.
The farm stinks, sure, but money fixes most things. I’ll hose it all down later. Or buy a lot of air fresheners.
Inside the shed, the feed grinder waits in the corner. Solid. Reliable. My pride and joy. I flip the switch and the machine roars to life, blades screaming as they spin up. The vibration hums through the floor and up into my legs.
That sound always steadies me.
I start feeding the damaged and overripe pumpkins into the machine, turning them into slop for the pigs. They’re probably hungry by now, and since I’m low on cash, old vegetables will have to do. I can at least make it easier for them to eat.
One after another. Rinds split with a wet crack. Pulp sprays the walls and slaps into the bucket below. Seeds bounce across the floor like spilled teeth. The smell thickens. Pumpkin oil. Rot. Stinging my eyes.
I ignore it and just keep feeding the beast.
