Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

Harrison shows me how to clean the barn by pitching in himself, which surprises me after he kinda let the pigs have their way with me. I follow his lead, eyeing him as we work. Whenever he gets down to business, he has this serious look on his face, with his eyebrows tense and pulled together, his eyes sharp as needles, and his lips pursed with intense concentration. I don’t know what it is about him that keeps pulling my attention. Maybe I just don’t get why he’s being so hard on me. He’s a pretty handsome guy. If he’d just ease up on me, I feel like we could actually be friends.

Instead, Harrison is the killer of all things happy or fun.

Coach Tanner was so wrong about him.

He takes me to the outdoor paddock, an enclosure where the horses graze, play with each other, and enjoy the fresh air. “For a so-called ‘farm’,” I mutter after Harrison gives a tiringly long and wordy speech about horse hygiene, “y’all sure do deal with a lot of stinky-ass animals. Like, why’s this place called a farm and Coach Strong’s place a ranch? You both keep animals. I thought—”

“It’s not about having or not having animals. It’s what you do with them, what you raise them for.” He sighs impatiently. “Hoyt, remind me again why you even applied for this job?”

“But you plant and harvest crops on a farm, too. So where are the cornfields or rows of vegetables and stuff? You haven’t shown me any of that. I thought I was gonna be riding badass machines all day, harvesting wheat and grain, gettin’ a good tan, watchin’ some huge scary contraption chop it all up …”

He rolls his eyes. “You seriously think I’m gonna let a kid like you play with our big-boy machines on your first day?”

“This was supposed to be just a tour,” I remind him.

“And you’re supposed to be an actual farmhand. But instead, I got a high schooler who doesn’t know a hoe from a rake.”

“What did you just call me??” I snap. Harrison squints at me questioningly. “Just kidding. ‘Hoe’. You … You said ‘hoe’. I was just pretending you called me a—”

“Yeah, juvenile humor, I get it.”

I stare at him, annoyed.

The guy has no sense of humor.

As we leave the horses and head over to the cows, I snort at his back. “I’m not a high schooler anymore, by the way. I’m a high school grad now, free from that place. And if I had my truck, I’d be burning my way around town makin’ bank. I’m a grown-ass man.”

“Making bank? A grown-ass—?” He blows air out of his lips. “You’re just lucky, that’s it.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. Got out of totaling your truck without even a scratch on you.” He squints at my head. “Well, other than that little nick on your forehead.”

“That nick was already there. Football injury.” I consider him for a second, then nudge his side with an elbow. “You know how it is. Weren’t you some big deal back in your days, old man?”

That stops him. “Old man??”

“Yeah, a big deal. Or was it just Coach ‘Spruce Juice’ Strong?”

He lets out a cackle I didn’t realize he was capable of. “Old man?? Boy, I’m thirty. You’re the baby at just eighteen.”

Now that has me snarling. “I ain’t a baby.”

“Oh, we’ll see after tomorrow.” He comes up to me, shadow towering over my face. “Tending a farm is hard work. The hardest you will ever know. And you’re already whining about stinky pigs, begging me to see vegetables. I doubt you’ll even last a day.”

I take a step forward, nearly putting my face to his. “Try me.”

He doesn’t back down. “I’m gonna do more than ‘try’ you. You will watch and you will learn every little thing I say or do. Your eyes are on me at all times. Your ears, open. I don’t want a lick of sass from you. Got it? I have the power to kick your tight, whiny tushie right off this farm if I want.”

He breathes in my face, hot and pointed, his eyes shining with conviction. All that handsomeness is almost too much to bear this close up, but I hold my ground and send all that fire right back to him through my own eyes.

The corner of my mouth curls up defiantly. “That’s odd.”

Harrison quirks one eyebrow ever so subtly. “Odd …?”

“Yeah. What you just said. I find it odd. Because what I heard is that Mr. Gary Strong has no other options for extra workers. Fairview’s got no one. Applicants are run dry. From the sound of it, I’m pretty much the only option you’ve got.”

The tiniest bead of sweat dances down the side of Harrison’s face, like a crack in his resolve making itself known.

“And unlike you,” I go on, feeling bigger by the second, “Gary actually believes in me. I think it’s his opinion I need. Not yours. It’s him I’m trying to impress. Not you.” I lift my chin smugly. “I’m not goin’ anywhere … old man.”