Page 9

My mind tries to drift to Noel, but I catch it. Hooking up, especially with my best friend’s little sister, is not why I came to this tiny town.

“Nobody should mess with your stuff, but just in case.” His tosses me a set of keys. “Come to the loading dock when you’re done, and I’ll show you how to use the forklift.”

With that, he’s gone, and I give the place a quick scan. It’s small, but a double bed is in the corner with a nightstand and lamp beside it. A few books are on the shelf—both look like cowboy novels. Across the room, a mini fridge is on a counter with a coffee maker beside it.

Blinds cover the windows, and the chair where I dropped my bag is positioned in front of a small, flat screen television. I look at my phone—still no service.

“Whatever.” I’ve checked in with the only people I care about in Nashville.

It takes me five minutes to unpack, hang my few belongings in the closet and place my toiletries in the bathroom before I head out again, leaving the keys on the small table by the door.

Noel’s got a group of teenagers in the enormous peach shed, and I watch as she uses a basket of tennis balls to demonstrate sorting. It’s a good mix of boys and girls, and she’s encouraging but strict as she guides them through the process of finding the yellow balls with black lines down the sides and sorting them into baskets while stacking the all-yellow ones into crates.

“You need to move fast, but not so fast you miss bad ones.” She helps a petite blonde girl turn one of the balls over before sorting it into a waiting crate. “That’s a good one.”

The next ball bounces off the Lazy Susan and rolls to where I’m standing. The girl beside Noel wails, “I busted that one!”

Noel only laughs. “It’s okay! Actual peaches don’t get away from you that easy. You’re doing good!”

Our eyes catch and she smiles as she walks to where I’m standing holding the escaped fake peach. My stomach tightens, but I push those feelings down, reminding myself why I’m here.

Still, my eyes drink her in as she approaches. The cutoffs she’s wearing put her tanned legs on full display, down to the calf-high cowboy boots she’s wearing, and her dark hair is still piled in a messy bun on top of her head. She smiles—full, natural lips parting over straight white teeth, and damn, she’s gorgeous.

“Betsy lost her peach.”

I can’t resist. “That’s the pits.”

She blinks at me.

For a moment, she doesn’t say a word, and I picture a plane crashing and burning…

Until I see the twinkle in her eye.

Her lips press together, and she holds out her hand. “She’s a little fuzzy on the details.”

My lips tighten, and I hold out the tennis ball. “She seemed speachless.”

“She needs to practice what I peach.”

I can’t hold back a chuckle, and I shake my head. “You got me.”

Her eyebrow arches and she takes the tennis ball, turning on her heel and walking away victorious. “Pitty.”

That makes me laugh out loud, and she spins back, laughing. A small dimple is right at the corner of her bottom lip, and I shake my head. This girl.

“Hey!” Sawyer’s sharp voice snatches my attention. “We need to get these palettes over to the loading dock now.”

I follow him out the back entrance, and we spend the rest of the morning lifting and carrying wooden crates across a concrete lot. After a while, they feel like they weigh five hundred pounds each, and I get why Sawyer sailed through basic training.

Sweat rolls down my sides, and my tee is soaking wet and sticking to me when Leon appears with a cooler in his hand.

“Thanks.” I reach for a water bottle, and he digs out sandwiches and cokes.

“Noel said there’s plenty more if you want it.”

I’m unwrapping what looks like chicken salad.

Sawyer has already finished his first sandwich and is tearing the wrapping off a second as he fishes out his truck keys. “I’m heading to town to pick up the last of the crates. I’ll back in an hour.”