I laughed, and Cal's gaze held mine for a beat longer than necessary. The market noise faded—vendors calling out deals, kids shrieking, someone's terrible folk guitar—and for a second, it was just us.
Then Cal cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “You look tired.”
“Wow. Smooth.”
“I meant—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Long day. That's all.”
“Long week.” I straightened, forcing brightness back into my voice. “But we survived, right? You found Hank a home. I didn't burn down the farm. Wins all around.”
Cal studied me, and I had the unsettling feeling he could see straight through the cheerful facade to the knot of anxiety sitting heavy in my stomach.
“Did I say something wrong?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You're upset.” Cal shifted his weight, looking supremely uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said?—”
“Cal, no.” I shook my head quickly. “You didn't do anything. I promise.”
“Then what's wrong?”
The genuine concern in his voice caught me off guard. I glanced around the market—vendors slowly packing up, families wandering back toward their cars, the long day finally winding down.
“I just...” The words stuck. Admitting failure wasn't something I did easily. “I thought I'd do better.”
“At the market?”
“Yeah.” I gestured at the half-empty table, heat creeping up my neck. “Walt always came home with the truck bed empty and cash in his pocket. I thought… I don't know. That it would be like that for me, too.”
Cal's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. “How long did Walt run this farm?”
“Forty years.”
“And how long have you been doing it?”
I winced. “Less than a month.”
“So you're comparing yourself to someone with forty years of experience.” Cal's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. “That seems fair.”
“When you put it like that?—”
“You sold out of herbs. Most of your vegetables. The eggs are almost gone.” He nodded toward my table. “I wouldn't call that a failure.”
“It's not enough either.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. Cal's gaze sharpened, and I immediately regretted opening my mouth.
“Enough for what?”
I busied myself packing the remaining chard into a crate, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Rosie.”
“I'm fine, Cal. Really.” I forced brightness back into my voice. “Just tired. Like you said.”
He didn't move. Didn't push. Just stood there with that infuriating patience, waiting for me to crack.
And because apparently I had zero self-preservation instincts around this man, I cracked.
“Property taxes.” I set the crate down harder than necessary. “Walt mentioned them yesterday. I already paid the bill—fifteen hundred dollars—but now the farm account is...” I gestured vaguely at my pathetic sales display. “Well, let's just say it's not looking healthy.”
