CHAPTER THREE
Eli walked down the aisle in the horse barn with an apple in one hand and a plastic gallon jug of water in the other. Compared with yesterday evening’s near brawl with his brother and mouthy throwdown with Greyson freaking Whittaker, today had been pretty quiet, although a large part of that was probably owed to the fact that Owen, their old man, and two of their farmhands had left for the farmers’ market in Camden Valley at the whip-crack of dawn. The Cross men usually rotated farmers’ market duty between among the four of them, but Owen had been so gung ho about specialty produce lately that he’d been taking Eli’s turn more often than not. I just want to keep my finger on the pulse of the competition and make sure we’re offering the very best of the best, had been the excuse du jour.
Of course, while Eli might be a lot of things, a dumbass wasn’t one of them. He heard the translation as loud and clear as the Fourth of July fireworks over Willow Park.
I don’t trust you to know or care about farming trends the way the rest of us do.
Eli shook his head, loosening the twinge of tension that went with the thought. Owen’s disdain wasn’t exactly a news flash, and in truth, Eli was more fine than not with taking a pass on the farmers’ market. It allowed him a whole hour to write on Saturday mornings; plus, he was used to odds-and-ends duty around Cross Creek. No sense in thumbing his nose at what worked.
Speaking of which. He brought his boots to a stop on the hard-packed dirt floor in front of the horse barn’s last—and biggest—stall, sending his gaze over the one animal in the entire structure who, ironically, wasn’t a horse.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Eli said, the sight of Clarabelle, his fourteen-year-old Jersey brown cow, making the corners of his mouth edge up into a grin. “Sorry it took so long for me to get to you today. I’ve been playing catch-up since I got up.”
He stepped into the stall and offered up part of the apple he’d halved before heading down here, the muscles in his back throbbing with the threat of a labor strike. He’d run the gamut with scut work today, from mending fences in the east fields to hauling hay down to the back half of the farm where they kept their cattle, to site-mapping the corn maze they’d be putting together in the next couple of weeks as part of the agritourism side of their business, complete with apple and pumpkin picking as the weather turned. While he put in the work because he had to, the nine hours of manual labor in the dropdown heat was putting his body to the test.
The feeling of unease that had been sinking hooks in his gut all too easily lately? Definitely wasn’t doing him any favors in the chill department, either. All the Shakespeare in the galaxy couldn’t change the fact that sooner or later, this roller-coaster ride with Owen was going to go off the rails.
And when it did, Eli had no idea where he’d be left standing.
The thought brought his chin up with a snap, his awkward laugh bouncing through the dusty, musty space of the horse barn. Damn, this heat must really be getting to him if he was getting all torqued up over yet another stupid fight with his brother. He needed to shake it off and cover it up with a cocky smile and an even cockier “whatever” just like he always did so he could get back to normal.
Blowing out a breath, Eli rolled his aching shoulders beneath his T-shirt. His muscles began to loosen as he fed Clarabelle the other half of the apple, double-checking to make sure she had enough feed and clean hay before pouring some of the water over her back.
“Feels good, huh?” he asked, his grin growing in both size and intensity when Clarabelle chuffed in reply. “I know. It’s hell-hot out here.” He paused to rub the cool water into the silky hair on Clarabelle’s back and sides, inhaling the earthy, slightly sweet scents of fresh hay and sunbaked barn boards. “That’s August for ya. But don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.”
Eli continued Clarabelle’s rubdown, which was no small feat seeing as how the old girl was pushing twelve hundred pounds. He’d no sooner upended the last of the water over her butterscotch-colored back than the two-way radio clipped to the waistband of his Levi’s let out a staticky crackle.
“Eli, what’s your location?” Hunter’s normally laid-back voice carried a thread of seriousness that slid right between Eli’s ribs.
“Just finished up in the horse barn. Everything alright?” His pulse picked up the pace against his throat. God, ever since their father had gone and had that scare with heat exhaustion, every call on the two-way gave Eli the fucking shakes.
“Yeah,” Hunter said slowly, allowing Eli to let go of the breath that had been trapped in his lungs. “But if you’re done in the barn, can you come on up to the main house?”
Eli stuck his head out of Clarabelle’s stall, examining the angle of the sun through the barn’s double-wide entryway. While there was no such thing as a Saturday off in the busy season, they usually managed to start early and finish early, giving all four men the opportunity to carry on the Cross family tradition of a weekly supper together. It was still a little early to chow down, but Hunter probably just wanted a hand in the kitchen to prep.
“Roger that,” Eli said into the two-way. “I’ll see you in a few.”
Hooking the radio back over the faded denim at his hip, he stepped out of Clarabelle’s stall, triple-checking the latch on the chest-high swinging door before heading toward the exit at the far end of the barn. Although the sun was starting to drop lower in the cloudless blue sky, the heat still hit him like a wrecking ball gone bad, and by the time he’d finished the five-minute walk to the white, two-story Colonial that served as his father’s residence and Cross Creek’s central hub, he’d broken his four hundredth sweat of the day.
Eli turned the corner from the side of the house, a pop of surprise working its way up his spine as he caught sight of his brother standing on the wide-planked porch steps.
“Oh, hey, Hunt. Did you want some help getting some stuff together for dinner, or . . .”
The rest of Eli’s question met a quick end in his throat as he realized both Owen and their father stood two steps up on either side of Hunter, and when the hell had they even gotten back from Camden Valley?
More importantly, why did Owen look like that vein in his forehead was about to go ground zero?
As usual, his brother didn’t dispense with any pleasantries. “You bet Greyson Whittaker five thousand dollars we’d bring in more revenue than Whittaker Hollow by Fall Fling? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Eli blinked, his brain tilting in an effort to catch up with Owen’s obvious anger. “Who told you that?” Christ, that stupid wager wasn’t even twenty-four hours old, and not that big a deal, to boot.
“Well, let’s see.” Owen lifted a hand to start ticking off his list, finger by finger. “Daisy Halstead was first, followed by Harley Martin and Mrs. Ellersby and—oh, right. Can’t forget Moonpie Porter. By about noon, I’m pretty sure every damned vendor at the farmers’ market—along with more than half the regular patrons from both Millhaven and Camden Valley—had heard all the gory details, because guess what? Amber Cassidy posted them all over her Facebook page. At this point, I’d be shocked if there’s anyone left in the county who doesn’t know all about this high-dollar, higher-profile bet you seem to have made . . . except for me and Hunter and Dad.”
Oh. Shit.
Eli’s gut dropped like a stone in still water before tightening in defense. “Greyson was being a total dick yesterday at the co-op, giving me a raft of crap because we’d maxed our line of credit without paying the balance.”
“What?” Hunter asked, his brown brows winging upward. “I dropped that payment off yesterday morning.”
“Yeah, well I didn’t know that when Greyson was all up in my grill, jawing about how Cross Creek was going under.” Of course, getting to the bottom of the payment mix-up had been Item Number One on Eli’s to-do list this morning. Not that knowing there’d been a lag in processing the payment helped him now. “Anyway, he’s the one who popped off with the bet. Not me.”
“But you accepted,” Owen said, the words slipping between his teeth as he stood straighter on the porch boards. “Jesus, Eli. You and Greyson have been at each other since grade school. How could you take that kind of bait again?”
Anger flashed, hot and reckless in his chest. “Right. Because I’m sure if Greyson had been in your face, mouthing off at you with a bunch of horse shit about how Whittaker Hollow’s so much better than Cross Creek, you’d have given him your prettiest smile and told him to have a right nice day.”
“No, but I damn sure wouldn’t have bet him our entire co-op tab that we’d do more business than him, either!”
Eli fought the urge to roll his eyes, choosing instead to shoot a glance at their old man. He stood a half step behind Owen, his expression as readable as the Great Wall of China as he took in the argument wordlessly, per usual. Their father was the sort of man who watched and listened about four times as much as he spoke. But whether he was waiting for Owen to get all the pissiness out of his system before stepping in to mediate or biding his time to dish out his own verbal ass-whupping, Eli couldn’t quite be sure, so he dialed up a cover-everything-including-your-ass smile and returned his attention to his brothers.
“Look, this isn’t that big of a deal. Greyson and I talk smack all the time.” Okay, so this particular brand of shit slinging was a pretty amped-up version of the norm, but still. This bet was hardly anything to shit crab apples over.
Hunter crossed his arms over the front of his T-shirt, the frown taking over every feature on his stubbled face marking his disagreement. “This hardly sounds like a little smack talk, E. You really bet him the whole five grand we’d bring in more revenue?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Eli asked, incredulous. “Not defend the farm?”
Hunter tipped his head in a nonverbal okay, decent point. “Still. You’ve got to admit, taking a bet that big when business has been iffy at best? In front of Billy Masterson? That was a pretty dumb-shit move.”
“Wait . . .” The sweat trickling between Eli’s shoulder blades grew cold as realization slammed into him without remorse. “You’re seriously going to side with Owen on this? Are you kidding me? It’s just a stupid bet!”
“I’m not siding with anybody,” Hunter answered, although his voice held an edge that sure said otherwise. “All I’m saying is—”
“That you’re siding with him,” Eli snapped past the hammer of his heartbeat. Un-be-fucking-lievable.
But funny, Hunter had no problem snapping right back. “I’m not siding with anyone, you ass. But we’ve had our backs in the corner all damn year, fighting to get out, and Emerson’s been workin’ real hard on getting us right side up with our marketing. So, yeah. You making a stupid, trash-talking, potentially expensive-as-shit bet that puts all those long, hard hours in jeopardy? I’m not doing fucking cartwheels, Eli.”
The mention of Hunter’s girlfriend, who happened to be one of the nicest people going, and, oh by the way, also just happened to have multiple sclerosis but helped them out with PR in her spare time anyway, tagged Eli right in the solar plexus. “It was just a bunch of lip service, Hunt. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal?” Owen repeated, his voice pinching in disbelief. “First of all, this bet is bound to churn up no less than ten tons of drama and gossip, none of which will have anything to do with what matters—namely, farming. It’s a public-relations nightmare.”
Okay, so Millhaven was small, and people around here tended to live in each other’s pockets more often than not. Still . . . “Come on. Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little bit?” Eli asked.
But Owen barreled right on over his protest, so, yeah, guess that was a solid no. “Secondly, there’s the money. I’m assuming you don’t have five grand tucked away to cover the tab of your runaway mouth.”
The temptation to remind his brother what happened to people who made assumptions burned brightly on Eli’s tongue. But since he couldn’t exactly ’fess up to the fact that he’d funneled damn near every dime of his savings into secretly getting his undergraduate degree online in a field that had nothing to do with their family business, he held back on the urge to let the insult fly. “No. I don’t have the five grand.”
“Right,” Owen barreled on. “Another thing you don’t have is any idea what sort of business Whittaker Hollow has been doing this season. For all we know, between their local produce contracts, the business they bring in with the farmers’ market and their roadside stands, plus their pick-your-own, they could be out-earning us already.”
Eli let out a snort. At least this part was a no-brainer. “Whittaker Hollow is over a hundred acres smaller than Cross Creek, and our roadside stands have always been better than theirs. Plus, they’ve been dealing with the same terrible weather we have.”
“But not the same staffing setbacks,” Hunter interjected.
“Or the same soil compositions and planting ratios,” Owen added.
“Or the same field rotations,” Hunter said, and something deep in Eli’s belly snapped in two.
“For fuck’s sake! Can I get you some pom-poms to go with that? Since when did you two become Whittaker Hollow’s biggest cheerleaders?”
“Since your common sense went on a complete goddamn walkabout, that’s when!” Owen jammed his hands over his denim-covered hips. “This isn’t something you can fix with a cocky smile and that half-assed attitude of yours. Christ, Eli. When are you going to get your head out of your ass and use the thing for actual thinking?”
The words sent Eli’s blood racing even faster through his veins, prompting him to take a swift step forward over the stone pavers leading up to the porch.
“I was thinking just fine—”
“You never think—”
“It was a stupid move, Eli—”
“Oh, screw both of you—”
“That’s enough!”
Their father’s voice cracked through all three arguments, his boots thumping over the porch boards as he descended the stairs to spear Eli and both of his brothers with a steely stare chock-full of shut up and listen. “All this bickering ain’t gonna change the fact that Eli made the bet and everyone in town knows about it.”
Eli scraped for a deep breath before meeting his father’s gaze head-on. “I thought Greyson was just being Greyson.” God, the guy was such a douche canoe! He’d probably had all that crap preloaded and ready to launch the second Eli had walked into the damned co-op. “I didn’t know Billy Masterson would flap his gums so hard, or that the bet would turn into such a production.”
“Hate to say so, son, but that don’t change the fact that it did. The money part is bad enough.” His father paused, his wince sending a fresh flare of unease through Eli’s gut. “But your brothers are right. This bet is a bigger deal than you bargained for. Putting a good spin on it with the gossips in town is gonna be a tough row to hoe.”
“Not when we win,” Eli pointed out. That’d earn them bragging rights until pretty much the end of time. Slam, meet dunk.
“And what if we don’t?”
Shock forced Eli’s feet into a step back. “What?”
A small, irony-laden smile moved over his father’s sun-weathered face. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t think Cross Creek is the better farm. But that’s not what you bet Greyson, now is it?”
Eli’s pulse stuttered, and his words followed suit. “No. I, ah . . .” Shit. Shit. “No.”
“Truth is, as far as this bet goes, we don’t know what we’re up against,” his father said. “We don’t know what kind of resources the Whittakers have got, and we don’t know how they’re planning to use ’em for the final harvest. Yes, every farm in the county has had to deal with the same weather, but this is the hardest season Cross Creek has seen in decades. Losing a bet like this, with odds we can’t predict, when we’re already strugglin’? That could hurt more than the win would help.”
Ah hell. “I was just trying to stick up for Cross Creek,” Eli said, his shoulders growing heavy as his father’s words sank in, nice and deep. “I didn’t think of things that way.”
His old man lifted a hand, presumably to defuse the statement Owen looked to be working up. And thank God for that, because seriously, Eli’d had enough of Saint Owen to last till he was 104.
“Don’t reckon you did. This bet still has us in a jam, though, and it ain’t a small one.”
Ever the problem solver, Hunter said, “Okay, Pop. So how do we fix it?”
“Well.” Their father swung his gaze from Hunter to Eli, not even squinting in the intense late-afternoon sunlight. “Come hell or high tide, I guess we’re gonna have to win us a bet.”
Eli ran a palm over his crew cut, letting his hand rest on the back of his neck. Okay, so maybe this bet had gotten bigger than he’d expected, and definitely he was going to have to work his boots into the ground for the next four weeks in order to be sure they won. But he couldn’t let Greyson Whittaker get the last word. Cross Creek was the better farm.
He owed it to his old man to do whatever it took to prove that.
“Okay,” Eli said, punctuating the word with a nod as he nailed his resolve into place. “Our contracts with suppliers are already set, so we’re going to have to do a lot of local business with our farm stands and the agritourism stuff, like pick-your-own, in order to win. I guess we’ll need a strategy to bring as many people out here as possible between now and Fall Fling.”
“You think?” Owen sent his gray stare skyward. “You’re going to have to come up with something more than that. Hunter and I have been strategizing all summer. Yeah, we’re bouncing back a little with things like the farmers’ market, but rebuilding after a bad season takes time.”
“Unless some kind of miracle falls into your lap,” Hunter pointed out, and great—they were already reduced to hoping for miracles.
Frustration sent a flare of heat up the back of Eli’s neck. “I was kinda hoping for something tangible.”
The sound Owen let out was part sarcasm, part snort. “Probably you should’ve thought of that before opening your yap.”
“I’m trying to figure out a way to fix this,” Eli grated. But before he could tack on the “you great big freaking jackass” that Owen truly deserved, he was interrupted by the clatter of footsteps on the porch boards and a familiar, feminine voice loaded with excitement.
“There you all are!” Emerson broke into a grin, her curl-filled ponytail swishing over the shoulder of her pale-pink top as she descended the porch steps to meet the four of them on the pavers with their family’s black-and-white mutt, Lucy, hot on her heels. “You’ll never believe this! I’m not even sure I believe it yet, but I . . .” She trailed off suddenly, her gaze moving from Owen to Eli to their father before settling in on Hunter’s and going wide. “Seem to be totally interrupting. I apologize.”
“No.” Hunter speared both Eli and Owen with warning stares that proved that while he might be laid back about nearly everything else, he was 100 percent fierce when it came to Emerson. “We could use a break in the conversation. What’s up?”
The tiny “V” between her coppery brows broadcast her doubt at Hunter’s claim, but then her excitement reappeared to cancel it out. “I just got off the phone with Mallory Parsons.”
Mallory Parsons, Mallory Parsons, Mallory . . . Eli searched his mental batch files, all to the tune of nada.
Fortunately, Hunter didn’t come up so empty. “The editor of that online food magazine based in New York City?”
“That’s her!” Emerson said gleefully. “She was really enthusiastic about our invitation to visit the farm for an article.”
All at once, the dots connected in Eli’s head with a snap. Hunter and Emerson had talked about reaching out to a bunch of newspapers and magazines when they’d done their business rundown over Saturday supper a couple of weeks ago. At the time, Eli had thought the idea had been a Hail Mary with a whole lot of long shot on top, especially given how tough it was to get so much as a toe in the door with most publications. That fact was the first thing he’d learned when earning his degree in journalism . . . not that he could fork over that little gem.
Apparently, he’d have done well to remember that tough wasn’t synonymous with impossible. “So does this woman want to publish an article featuring Cross Creek?”
Emerson’s smile went for broke. “Even better. She wants to publish a whole series of them!”
“Are you serious?” Owen asked, clearly as gobsmacked as the rest of them.
“As a sledgehammer.” Emerson paused to cross her forefinger over her heart before continuing. “So Mallory’s online magazine is called FoodE—”
“Foodie?” Eli wrinkled his nose. It sounded a little fancy for their brand of farming. And by “a little,” he really meant “a fuck-ton.”
“Yes. It’s pronounced ‘foodie,’ but she spells it f-o-o-d-capital E,” Emerson said, and ugh, even better. “Anyway, she features a lot of organic food with a big focus on farm-to-table cooking and dining. Environmental sustainability, chic cuisine—”
“Chic what?” This was getting weirder by the second.
Emerson let out a laugh that was all humor. “Chic cuisine,” she repeated, not that it made any more sense the second time around. “It’s basically another way of saying ‘trendy food.’”
Now it was Eli’s turn to laugh, only his emerged with a heavy layer of doubt. “Cross Creek is hardly trendy.” Or chic, but hell if he could push the froufrou word past his lips.
“I don’t know,” Emerson politely disagreed. “There’s an increasing demand for good, natural, straight-from-the-earth food in a lot of consumer markets now. Mallory thought a lot of the specialty produce you’ve been growing in the greenhouses, plus some of the newer farming methods you’ve started to employ to make Cross Creek more eco-friendly, were all a great fit for an extended series of magazine features, including personal-interest pieces and online video blogs. Four weeks’ worth, to be exact.”
Owen’s jaw dropped, and funny, Eli knew just how his brother felt. “She wants to come here all the way from New York City to feature the farm on her site for four weeks?”
“She does! Well, her photographer does,” Emerson said. “Mallory has to stay in New York to run the magazine, but her photographer is going to work with us on this end to gather all the information and take the photos and videos, then Mallory will use the information to write the articles and publish them in biweekly installments. But that’s not even the best part!” Emerson paused to wave her hands in another burst of excitement, and good Christ. How could there be more?
“Okay,” Hunter prompted, and Emerson took the one-word lead and ran.
“Mallory wants to publish everything with as little lag time as possible, so Cross Creek will start getting online exposure almost immediately. In fact, she said our features would be her number-one priority.”
“Starting when?” Hunter asked, and Emerson’s smile faltered, her sandal scraping over the sun-warmed stone beneath it as she shifted her weight.
“So that’s the only catch. I guess she tried to call my cell a couple of times today, but you know how service is around here.” Emerson paused to make a face that looked as if she’d taken a big ol’ bite out of a lemon, and yeah, that pretty much summed up the quality of cellular service in Millhaven. “We played a bit of phone tag before finally connecting just now, and her photographer is really excited to go ahead and get started on the project. Apparently, she’s one of the most well-known photographers in the Northeast.”
“Sounds pretty highbrow.” Eli looked down at his very favorite pair of Levi’s, which were currently streaked with dirt and likely smelled like the horse barn.
Nothing about this could end well.
“Well, she’s definitely ambitious,” Emerson ventured. “Also, she’s, ah. Going to be here soon. Tonight, actually.”
Eli exhaled in a hard burst of you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me. “Tonight?”
Emerson nodded, shifting her gaze from Eli to his father. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cross. I know the short notice isn’t ideal. But landing a four-week magazine spread with a photographer of this caliber is like winning the lottery. I was worried if I said we needed more time, Mallory would reconsider.”
“No, no. You did the right thing, telling her to come on out now, darlin’.”
His old man’s words—coupled with the pair of nods Owen and Eli were giving up—sent Eli’s shock straight over the line into disbelief.
“You want to let some fancy-pants photographer from New York City come in here and have her way with Cross Creek for an entire month while we do the final harvest of the season?” Eli asked.
Hunter shot Eli a look that clearly questioned his sanity. “If it’ll get us the exposure we need to get business booming? In a word, yes.”
Still, Eli was unconvinced. “Millhaven’s hardly a luxury destination. Where on earth will this woman even stay?” The closest lodgings that didn’t have the words “Motel” or “Economy” attached to them were a good hour and a half away in Lockridge, for cripes’ sake.
“I still have three months left on my lease at the Twin Pines,” Emerson said, half-question, half-offer. “All my personal stuff is at the cottage now that I’ve moved in with Hunter, but the apartment is mostly furnished. You’re welcome to use it.”
The Twin Pines was the only apartment complex in Millhaven, although calling the place a “complex” was a gift and a half. It was more like thirty-two units better suited for Matchbox cars than people. Eli knew, because he’d lived there for a decade.
“That’s awful kind of you, Emerson,” Owen said. Turning to look at Eli, he added, “Anything else you wanted to argue, here?”
“I’m not trying to argue,” Eli . . . well, argued. But come on. They might need a strategy for bringing in business, but a photographer they’d never even met, from the largest city on the Eastern Seaboard, who wanted to get all up in their business with intrusive photo sessions and video blogs? No fucking thank you. Especially not now that they’d be busting their asses times ten to get ahead of this bet.
Eli shook his head to nail down the thought. “All I’m sayin’ is maybe we should think this photographer thing through. What if she doesn’t even like the place?”
“What’s not to like?” Owen asked, his genuine confusion at the question and Hunter’s expression that matched it sending a hard twist through Eli’s gut. Of course, not wanting to spend forever and ever, amen on the farm had never occurred to either of them. But Lord knew a woman who was used to enjoying her “chic cuisine” in the concrete jungle was going to stick out a country mile around Millhaven. Shit, he gave her three days—four, tops—before she took off running.
But hell if that opinion didn’t make Eli the odd man out at Cross Creek yet again, so the best thing to do—the only thing, really—was the thing he did best.
Deflect. Slap on a cocky grin. And forget about it.
Eli lifted his hands, forcing his shoulders into a shrug and his mouth into a smile even though both moves took more than a little effort. “Whatever y’all say. Far be it for me to step in the way if you think hosting this photographer will help bump up business.”
“Glad you feel that way,” his father said, pinning him with a no-bullshit stare. “Because someone’s going to have to show this woman around the place. Really sell her on Cross Creek.”
Unease collided with the shock pumping through Eli’s veins. No way. No way. He might be the closest thing the farm had to an extra, but this was outer limits. “You want me to babysit the city girl?”
“No.” His old man’s tone turned the answer into a warning. “You ain’t gonna babysit anybody. You’re going to work up all that charm of yours and be a good host.”
“For a month.” God, it was the ultimate damned grunt chore.
“You’ll have plenty to do around here besides,” his father said, tipping his head toward the fields in the distance. “We’ve got our work cut out for us, and we need all the manpower we can scrape up to get us to Fall Fling. But you got us into this tangle, needing good PR. You’re gonna be the one who gets us out.”
“Pop,” Owen started, clearly trying to choose his words with care. “Are you sure Eli’s the best, ah, choice for this?”
Well that figured. But for once, Eli agreed with his oldest brother wholeheartedly. “Owen’s right, Pop. He’d be way better at showing this woman the farm, and—”
“No.” Their old man’s tone brooked zero argument. “When that photographer arrives, anything she wants or needs is up to you, Eli. For the next four weeks, we’ll all play host, but as far as these articles and all this video stuff goes? You’re gonna make good and represent this farm. She’s on your hip.”
Eli’s mouth burned from the weight of the protest welling up from his chest. In front of a camera was the last place he wanted or needed to be, and really, the irony of him being the face of the farm? Yeah, it would’ve been laughable if it didn’t sting so bad. But dammit, with the way Hunter was nodding in agreement and the look of don’t-even-think-about-it tacked to his old man’s face, Eli would be shot down faster than a plastic target at the county fair if he let it loose.
Deflect. Slap on a cocky grin. And forget about it.
Letting out a slow exhale, he asked, “When’s she supposed to get here, exactly?”
The words had no sooner slipped past his lips when a bright-yellow Volkswagen convertible came whipping up the dirt path leading to the front of the house, rap music blaring from the speakers and a tattooed platinum blonde caterwauling along at the top of her lungs.