This is going to be a tactical strike, I tell myself as I stomp on the gas of my rental car. It took me three hours—three hours—to drive here from the regional airport. And that was after two connecting flights, because somehow, this Podunk town doesn’t even have a single direct flight to any major NYC hub. I thought that was impossible in this day and age.

Guess you learn something new every day.

I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and double-check my makeup quickly. Eyeliner and mascara in place, full red lipstick applied, foundation set to battle mode. I’m ready for whatever my hometown has to throw at me. I don’t care what the locals here think—my boring, unimaginative, small-minded peers who never bothered to dream past the borders of this town, never imagined any kind of career outside of the same old farming paths their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents trudged down.

They can insult me all they like—same way they did almost two years ago when I came here, straight to the hospital, to hold Mama’s hand. They can whisper and elbow each other and smirk behind open palms when I walk past. I don’t give a shit because I’m here and then I’m out again.

All I need to do is meet the property assessment manager, find out how much this farm is worth, take a few photos and get it up on a real estate page, then sell it to the first bidder. I don’t need the money—I don’t care how low the first bid comes in. I’ll sell this place for a penny if I need to. I just want to get it off my hands.

My conscience tickles the back of my skull as I think about it.

Okay, fine, maybe I’ll do some basic background checking. Make sure that whoever wants to buy it will run it the way it’s always been run—as a small, family-run farm, a local business. Not one of these huge Monsanto Corp plots of land my mother was always complaining about. I don’t want someone to completely bulldoze the place.

I just want them to take it off my hands and into their own, preferably more capable, hands.

Shouldn’t take long. One week, tops. I called into my firm and told them to put my freelance projects on hold for a week. By then I’ll be back in my cozy apartment on the Upper East Side, buried in my work once more, happily forgetting that this place ever existed.

You can survive one week, I promise myself. That’s nothing.

But as I peel into town in the Porsche I rented for this haul (I’m a corporate member, I get free upgrades, so sue me for enjoying the luxury) and immediately draw at least two dozen narrow-eyed stares from the corner café as I whip past toward the narrow road out of town up toward Mama’s place, I’m starting to think even a week might be pushing it.

I’m stronger than I think, I remind myself. I survived eighteen years here, after all. Birth all the way up through high school graduation. The girl that grinned through all the insults, glared right back through all the teasing and hair-pulling and muttered comments, fake rumors, bullshit accusations—she’s still inside me. Hell, she’s the tough-ass bitch who made me successful in NYC.

All I need to do is conjure her up again to survive the next seven days.

I stomp the gas pedal as I leave the town center behind, picking up speed on the bumpy road. I miss this feeling, I have to admit. I don’t own a car in the city—that would be stupid, nobody owns a car there. Who would need one?

But there’s something liberating about stomping on the gas pedal with no one watching. Flying past the pavement onto the crunching gravel of Mama’s longer-than-it-ought-to-be driveway, and not having to take any other cars into consideration.

By the time I reach the house, I’m doing far past any logical speed limit, my heart racing and a huge, stupid grin plastered on my face. Never mind that this car wasn’t built for off-roading. Never mind that Mama didn’t re-pack the dirt road that makes up the last half-mile or so to the farmstead. It’s a rental, I have insurance, I don’t care if the undercarriage smacks a few times as I fly over uneven hillocks, then slam on the brakes, nearly skidding right past the driveway into the grass beyond.

I screech to a halt in a billowing cloud of dust, ten feet away from the four-bedroom, single-story wooden farm that I called home for the first eighteen years of my life.

It takes until the dust clears and my adrenaline levels return to normal for me to notice the other occupant of the driveway. The beat-up blue pick-up truck parked on the far side of the house, back to the porch like it’s awaiting a delivery of lumber or something practical.

Probably one of the county assessment guys, come to survey the property and figure out how much it’s worth. Crap. I didn’t expect them to beat me here.

It doesn’t matter, I remind myself as I put the car in park and grab my Hermès purse—a purse that earns me a million compliments a day back in NYC, but which feels somehow out of place here, too much. I ignore the instincts tickling at the back of my mind. That’s just my country self talking. The girl I used to be before I escaped this hellhole.

I face the pickup again and throw my door open. Who cares what these surveyors think? And me dusting the place a few times isn’t going to make them assess the property value any higher. They’ll pay me what they want to pay me for it, no matter what.

I can find a nice charity to donate it to. Something Mama would’ve loved. I think about those sad-eyed dog commercials on TV, the way she used to tear up every time the music started playing. I’ll look into donating to the ASPCA for her. That would make a nice memorial.

I’m still thinking about sad puppies when I take my first step out of the car… and promptly shriek, toppling forward, barely catching myself on the car door before I face-plant in the mud.

Mud.

Because of course, it rained here last night. And we don’t have a cement driveway. Not even a proper gravel one. “I don’t see the sense in splurging on something like that when our trucks can handle this road just fine,” Mama always said. When I pointed out that sometimes visitors’ cars might not be able to navigate the dirt road, she just grinned. “Exactly. The road weeds ‘em out for me.”

Mama was never big on strangers visiting. Hell, even when friends popped by to visit, she always needed alone time to recharge after they left. The ultimate introvert.

I pull my high heels out of the mud with a horrible sucking sound and teeter on them while I slam the door closed. Dammit. A perfectly good pair of Luis Vuittons caked in country muck. At least I was smart enough not to wear the suede boots I almost put on this morning, dressing for my flight at the crack of dawn. These are leather—I have hope the mud will wash off.

I shoulder my purse once more, square my shoulders, and face the short walk to the porch.

Shit.

Now that I’m looking at the house head-on, it looks a lot more run-down than I remember. I didn’t stop by last time I was here—I just went straight to Mama’s hospital bed, and stayed in the hotel next door the whole visit. It’s been fifteen years since I last stood in this driveway. Since I hopped into my crappy pickup truck, just barely holding itself together long enough for one last road trip. Since I filled the truck bed with my every worldly possession, kissed Mama goodbye and drove three days straight to NYC. Since I stomped on that gas pedal and never looked back.

I take a halting step toward the house, my mind more full of images of the way it used to look than the dilapidated structure before my eyes. I spot the tire swing out front, the one Mama had our neighbor Beck hang for me. Shockingly, it's still there, the worn rope he used to hang it apparently a hell of a lot thicker and sturdier than it looked.

Past the tire swing, a few of the apple trees out front have sickened and died. They're still upright, hanging on just barely. I’ll need to cut those down, I know, before a storm passes through and sends them crashing down on their own, wreaking more havoc. At least I can chop up the wood, fill the wood shed out back and have more than enough to spare for winter, when the wood-burning stove in the kitchen eats pine by the belly-full.

Then I stop and shake myself. What am I talking about? I’m going to be back home by winter. Safe and snug in my apartment, rent paid, utilities included, any breaks or wear and tear the landlord’s problem, not mine.

I push open the rickety front gate, which shrieks on rusty metal hinges, and then shriek myself as I promptly fall in an ankle-deep hole. Luckily I catch myself on the gate before I hit the ground, but it's enough to make me grit my teeth in frustration, reach down and, despite the early fall chill in the dirt, yank off my heels, one after the other.

That's quite enough of that.

Heels in hand, I stretch my ankle — feels fine, thank goodness — and step around the gate, eyes now warily fixed on the ground. There are holes everywhere — something burrowing has taken up residence in what used to be our front walk.

Something like guilt tugs at me. I probably shouldn't have left this place so long untended. I should have come down to take care of selling it off the moment Mama passed away, instead of letting it sit around waiting for me.

Regardless of the guilt, though, what rises faster and starker in my mind is revulsion. I hate it here. Always have, always will. Everything from that ugly tire swing to the stupid gate to the sagging porch out front and the weather-worn paint on the windows in a color that used to be cheery but is now just another depressing reminder of how dead this farm is.

It died with Mama, and along with her died any last reason I might ever have had to feel sentimental about this grubby old shack.

I cross to the porch, planning to go inside — might as well get the worst over with. That's when I hear a deafening cracking sound, followed by two wooden clatters. After a pause, I hear it again, and it resolves into a familiar noise.

Someone is chopping wood out back.

I frown. Not exactly the type of activity I expect to find my property assessor engaged in. Then again, country folk are strange. Maybe he wanted to take home some bits of one of the dead trees as a souvenir.

I abandon the front door for now and follow the hole-pitted path around back, ignoring the way the semi-hard mud squishes underneath my toes and the occasional rock that jabs against my bare soles. I used to have tough feet, the kind I could run straight across gravel with. Now I’m a tenderfoot again, wincing at every stray pebble.

It only makes my resentment grow. I’ve grown strong in other ways since I left this farm. I built a life for myself, a career I'm proud of. A career that keeps me up all night and then again first thing in the morning, burning the candle at both ends, but still.

I round the edge of the house and stop dead on the path, forgetting for a moment about my rage. Hell, even about the pebbles I'm standing on.

In front of me, shirtless and sheened in sweat, is the most perfectly sculpted man I have ever seen.

He could be made of bronze the way he's posing now, weighing the axe over his shoulder as he eyes the stack of wood in front of him, balanced on the same tree stump where my Mama used to chop her own wood years ago. I can count every single muscle on his chest, from his pecs down his washboard abs to the perfect V that points like an arrow straight down, to a faint line of dark hair that I can't help tracing to the fly of his jeans.

Damn jeans.

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to drool when he swings the axe all over again, distracting me with the surge and flow of his biceps, the way even his back ripples with strength. He's got longer hair than I'm typically into, bound in a tight bun at the nape of his neck, dark and curly, to judge by the few flyaways that have escaped the hair tie.

I'm still gawking when he turns to look at me.

Holy shit. No way.

My jaw threatens to drop completely open because I realize—only when he looks straight at me head—I know this guy.

Grant Werther. The formerly scrawny kid who used to chase me around this lawn every summer while our parents talked shop. His dad owned a farm up the road, had the same business problems to deal with as Mom.

I have to say, he’s filled out nicely. His face, which used to be all thin angles, now features sharp cheekbones, a cut jaw and a fine nose. His eyes are dark too, piercing where they catch mine and lock, and his dark, full beard only accentuates his looks.

I swallow so hard I nearly gulp down my tongue in the process.

As for him, he shows no signs of recognizing me at all. Fine, if he wants to play at that game. “What are you doing here?” I manage to ask, finally recovering my wits.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He runs a hand over his hair, taming a few of those wisps, and narrows his eyes. “This is private property, Miss.”

Miss. So he really doesn’t recognize me. How is that possible? We hung out every summer until we hit high school. Until he started hanging with the cool athletic crowd and left me in the dust.

He keeps his voice cold and formal, but I don't miss the way his gaze drops over my body, lingering on my chest and my hips. I dressed the same way I do every day this morning — to kill. The tight pencil skirt and the designer top that hugs me just close enough to display a hint of my curves isn't the worst thing I could be caught wearing by a handsome blast from the past. Serves him right for not putting the pieces together. If he’s on this farm, he has to have some inkling of my identity. Doesn’t he?

I shake myself back to reality. What am I thinking? This jerk is trying to order me off my own lawn. I don't give a damn if he remembers me or finds me attractive.

“No shit it is,” I reply, shifting my hands to my hips and drawing myself up to my full height. I'd be taller with the damned heels on, but... “It's my private property, so I'll ask you again. What are you doing here?”

“I have just as much rights to this land as you do, Sasha.”

The sound of my name stuns me silent for a second. Okay. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he does still have a few fond memories of me.

Then he keeps talking and spoils the illusion. “That is who you are, right? Sasha Bluebell, only ungrateful daughter of Maryanne Bluebell?”

Okay. That does it. I ball my fists. “Listen, Mister —“

“Grant Werther,” he answers, butting across me.

I laugh that off. He thinks I’m as forgetful as him? Fine. “You can’t just come storming in here acting like you own the place. I have the deed to this land —“

“And half of that deed belongs to me, you’ll find.”

That draws me up short. I finally process what he said earlier, before my name. I have just as much rights to this land as you do. What does that mean?

Grant wipes his palms on his jeans and reaches into his back pocket. There's a rustle as he unfolds a piece of paper, then crosses the grass to my side, paper extended before him.

I accept it with a pointed glare.

“My father loaned your mother money seventeen years ago,” he's saying. “In exchange for 50% ownership of the farm.”

I ignore him and skim the paper instead. Dealing with Mama’s accounts has left me better versed in legalese than I'd like to be. But unfortunately, the contract in front of me, signed and notarized in Mama’s unique handwriting, agrees with everything he's saying.

“Pop left me his share when he passed,” Grant is saying, his tone irritatingly arrogant. “Which means I own his half.”

I refold the paper, mouth pressed into a thin line. I don't want to admit he's right. I don't want to concede defeat. So I just pass him back the paper and fix him with another long glare. “Fine. So we’re both part owners. That doesn't mean you can stand here on the lawn where I grew up and insinuate things about my relationship with my Mama or act like you know the first damned thing about me.”

His eyebrows rise, just a little.

“Ungrateful daughter,” I say, for emphasis, in case he forgot the insult.

But far from looking reprimanded or taught his place, he only seems to look more… amused. “That's me told, then,” is all Grant says.

For some reason, that irritates me even more. I cross my arms and lean on one leg, heels still dangling from one hand. His gaze darts to the shoes in my fist, then my bare feet, but if he has anything to remark about my state, at least he keeps it to himself. “What's your intention with your half of the share?” I ask. “Because my plan is to clean the place up as best I can, as fast as I can, and then sell it for whatever I can get.”

He tears his gaze from me at last — an event that both relieves and frustrates me at the same time, for reasons I don't want to think too hard about — and eyes the house behind me. For a moment, it seems like there’s something else in his expression. A cloud I can’t quite read or understand. Then he shakes his head. “Clean the place up. Sell it for whatever we can get, once we’re ready. Sounds good to me.”

I press my mouth into a thin line, even as relief floods me. At least he wants the same thing I do. “Good,” I reply. “Then we’re agreed. We have the same goal, make this place look as good as she possibly can, and sell her to the highest bidder. Equal split to both of us for whatever we make.”

He nods.

“That makes us partners, then,” I continue. “We should work together.”

A short, cursory laugh escapes him then. He glances at me once more, but this time his gaze lingers on my heels, my skirt, my bare, pale feet which haven't seen sunlight since my last beach trip, way back at the beginning of the summer because I never found time to go again. “I doubt you can do much work at all,” he replies, smirking.

I toss my head, shoulders squared. “Oh? And you're basing this opinion of me on what, exactly? Whatever bullshit town gossip you've clearly swallowed hook line and sinker?”

He shrugs, not bothering to deny it. “Generally when enough people believe something, they have a decent reason.”

“So you just always believe the mob mentality about a new person, no matter what it is?” Or even a person you used to know?

“People around here always said you looked down on us. Hated the country life, and not just the life, but also anyone who wanted that life for themselves. They say you thought you were too good for this town and everyone in it — that's why you turned heel and never once looked back.”

I laugh once, soft and bitter. “Who knows? Maybe they're right after all,” I mutter. “I certainly am too good for this,” I add with a glance at my now mud-spattered feet.

“If the golden shoe fits…” Grant shrugs again.

“I earned that shoe, I’ll have you know,” I snap.

“Never meant to imply you didn't,” he replies easily, yet somehow it feels like another snub. I side-eye him as he bends down to collect the wood he's chopped — a small, tidy pile that’ll be just enough for the stove to last a day or two. When he straightens again, wood cradled in his arms, he raises a single eloquent eyebrow. “Well? You want to see the interior?”

I grimace. “Depends. Is it as shabby as this yard?”

His mouth flat lines again. “It’s just a little overgrowth.”

“Are you kidding?” I blurt, flinging my arms wide. “There's at least three dead trees out front, potholes everywhere, the gate’s rusting down, that tire swing could probably kill anyone unlucky enough to set foot on it…”

“Superficial,” he contradicts. “Won't take more than a week to clear.”

“It better not. I want to be out of this hellhole by next weekend, not a minute later.”

Any potential friendship I might have noticed budding in his expression dies out again. “And you wonder why people think you’re stuck-up, Sasha,” he mutters. Yet he glances sidelong at me as he says it, his eyes lingering just a little too long on my chest to be excusable. He’s into me. It’s obvious.

And to my surprise, despite my annoyance at him — no, more than annoyance, it's borderline anger now —I realize that my gaze keeps doing the same. Tracing those biceps, that flat plane of stomach, now pressed against the bundle of wood he's holding. Oh, to be that pile of wood…

I shake myself. That's insane. And he's not my type anyway. He's way too big, in every sense of the word. Big muscled, big as in way taller than me — probably has a big dick, my mind unhelpfully points out.

But he's also got an incurable case of huge ego. So, no, thank you.

“I don't wonder,” I respond with a toss of my hair. “I know.” It's easy to play the villain they all believe me to be. The jerk city girl who’s come to laugh at all the farm kids. It's easy because I've been in their shoes. I know how much I hated it. I've made myself a different life, and I'm not ashamed of it. These country folk aren't going to make me feel that way, either. No matter how many rumors they start.

Grant casts one last long, searching look at me, then scoffs deep in the back of his throat. Disapproving. Dismissing. He shakes his head and storms past me. I watch his back as he climbs the back steps into the house and shoulders open the door. Annoyed as I am, I can't help admitting that I like the view as he goes.

As soon as the door slams between us, I exhale in relief. Well. That was unexpected.

Unexpected, unpleasant. This town is already living up to my memories and then some.

Right, I remind myself. I'm here because I have a job to do. So, first things first, I'm going to accomplish that job.

I turn my back on the house for now. First things first means securing myself a bed to sleep in tonight that won't feature moth-eaten bedding and a moldy mattress. As I climb back into the car, though, I can't help glancing back at the house one last time. I notice a twitch in the living room curtains.

Grant, no doubt, watching me drive away again. Well, good. Let him sit in there and stew. Hopefully by the time I get back, he’ll have a better attitude about this whole mess.

* * *

“Yes, a room for one,” I repeat.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Bluebell. We simply don't have space.” The hotel clerk stares at me blandly across the desk.

Calling him a clerk seems a little much. He's the lone employee at the only hotel in town, a three story building next to the hospital, the same one I stayed in while I was visiting Mama.

I check for a name tag so I can plead with him on a first name basis. But he's not wearing one. Dammit. What was his name? I'm not used to having to remember those sorts of details. Not anymore. Did it start with an M? R?

“I'll take any size. Double or triple, I'll pay the extra, I don't mind.”

“We don't have any rooms available, I'm afraid.”

“Really, this is just…” I fling my hands up. “The sign out front says Vacancy. That's false advertising if there isn't a room.”

“You'll have to take that up with the owner,” he replies with a bland smile. His eyes, though, burn bright with mockery.

I have a sinking, suspicious feeling that he is the owner. But, of course, I can't call him on it. Because I don't remember — I blocked out every detail of this damn town as fast as possible. So I just have to grimace and heave a sigh. “Thanks anyway,” I mumble as I turn tail, defeated.

“Best of luck,” he replies in a bubbly, friendly way that makes it sound exactly like go fuck yourself.

“You too,” I call back, bright and bubbly. Hope he takes the same meaning from my words, too.

I checked all the online rental sites — no response to the three Airbnb requests I sent out, but if this hotel counter guy is anything to judge by, all three of those owners will have the same answer for me.

The next closest hotel is a two-hour drive out of town. Way too far for me to make every day this week if I want to make serious headway on the house.

There's nothing left for it. I climb back into my rental car and turn back toward the farm.