Page 19

ANTON

Saplings.

To the average person, saplings are just flimsy little trees—potentially expendable, depending on the circumstance—and not worth much more than a passing thought. Maybe they’ll grow. Maybe they won’t.

I am not your average person. I see potential. Future. Promise.

Sawyer Brown isn’t the average person either.

“Believe it or not, the soil isn’t in bad shape,” she says, running her hands through a pile of overturned earth.

She’s been down on all fours, crawling along the row where we lost the most trees, since I pulled up to the grove about fifteen minutes ago.

I’ve been silently watching her, standing just far enough behind her to hear what she’s saying, but not close enough for her to know I’m here.

For someone who hasn’t spent much time in the field, she’s clearly in her element, playing in the dirt, talking up all the soil properties, and taking readings and samples.

I don’t bother fighting my smile at how cute she is like this. It’s taking everything I have in me to remember my manners and not stare straight at her ass in those jeans. And I’m not doing a very good job.

I’m a man. Not a saint.

“The freeze didn’t affect the soil quite as much as it did the saplings, which is a good thing,” she continues.

“Not for the trees,” Ronald, one of our longtime workers, comments, his eyes glued firmly on her backside as well.

I snap my fingers at him, giving him a look letting him know that I caught him looking, and that I don’t approve. He shrugs, muttering something under his breath as he walks away. Something I’m sure was less than complimentary toward Sawyer.

“So…we can plant again?” I ask, letting my presence be known.

Sawyer startles, her quick movements forcing her to lose her balance, sending that cute little butt of hers into the dirt. Looking up at me, her eyes go wide. I smirk, the small flicker of want that quickly morphs into annoyance settling right in my chest.

“How long have you been standing there?”

It comes out as more of a demand than a question and I can’t help but laugh.

“Long enough to be pretty sure I just heard you say that I can plant again.”

I hold out a hand, offering to help her up. Sawyer thinks for a moment, then takes it, rising to her feet and starting to dust herself off. Being the gentleman that I am, I assist, sliding my hand around her waist and lowering it to her backside.

Sawyer slaps it away, looking around to see if any of the field crew are paying attention to us. I can tell without even looking from the muffled sounds floating through the air that they are well across the grove, focused on other things.

“Does anyone actually fall for that trick? ”

“Some girls do, Sawyer.” I smirk, chuckling. “Sawyer Brown.”

She glares at me, narrowing her eyes, and not for the first time, I think that if she could shoot daggers at me, they would go straight to my heart.

Planting her hands on her hips, she cocks them to the side. “What’s so funny?”

“Sawyer Brown, ‘Some Girls Do.’”

She narrows her eyes even more, as if that’s possible, shooting her daggers even more acutely.

I start to hum a few bars of the nineties country song as if she somehow wouldn’t recognize it, which I know she does.But fuck, if it isn’t fun to get under her skin.

“Yes, I get it. You’re not the first person to make that reference.”

“Well, you seem to act like you didn’t know,” I tease. Her unamused look is cemented in place, and I take that as my cue to change the subject. “You also didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

I step into her, closing the distance but keeping my hands to myself. They ache to touch her, hold her—to pick up where we left off last night. But this isn’t the time or place. That comes next. Once I get her out of here. Once it’s just us.

Because Sawyer is a very different person when it’s just us.

“You said the soil looked good. So…we can plant?”

“No.”

No?!

“I mean…maybe,” she acquiesces. “I want to run more tests first.”

“I’ll take maybe.” I nod, weaving my fingers into hers. Her skin is soft, even covered in gritty dirt, and I can feel the apprehension in her touch as a breeze rustles the leaves of the saplings still standing. “How ’bout you tell me about those tests over lunch?”

“Y-y-you still want to do that?”

The uncertainty in her voice makes my heart lurch. Apparently I need to up my game if Sawyer has any doubts that I want to spend more time with her.

Shifting my weight, I lean in, reaching up to tuck the rogue piece of hair into her French braid. I know it won’t stay, and that in five minutes I’ll be doing it all over again, gladly, but right now I’ll take any excuse to touch her.

“It’s the whole reason I’m here. I have a picnic basket loaded in my truck, and I’m going to steal you away.” Lowering my lips to her ear, I drop my voice, making sure that only she can hear this next part. “I want to continue what we started last night.”

Sawyer looks away, eyes heading straight for the ground. For a split second I start to worry, but the titter that escapes betrays her, making me soar. I lift her chin with my knuckle, her shy, sneaky smile almost as adorable as the blush coloring her cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Sawyer nods, cheeks still flushing. “Where are we going?”

“Get in the truck and you’ll see.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling through the old broken fence, slowly rolling over the uneven earth.

Despite the care I take trying to avoid the bumps, it’s impossible to miss them entirely, each new one jostling us almost to the point of discomfort.

And distraction. At least for me, since it’s more than enough to make Sawyer’s chest bounce under her shirt.

Throwing my truck in park, I climb out and race around the back, grabbing the picnic basket I stowed in the bed, making sure to get to the passenger side in time to open it for my girl. Her eyes sparkle, holding my gaze as her hand slips into mine, fingers interlacing.

“Welcome,” I say, stealing a chaste kiss as I slide her out of the truck.

Sawyer presses her lips together, almost looking embarrassed that she let me do that. “To a peach grove?”

“Not just any peach grove, darlin’,” I correct her. “The original Hayes peach grove.”

Keeping our fingers linked, I lead her down the way, weaving our way through the trees. The summer sun dances through the leaves, the breeze rustling the branches like back at the main groves. When we reach the clearing I know by heart, I stop, turning to face Sawyer.

“This is the spot of the first Hayes peach tree, as commemorated by the stump.”

I gesture to the awkward, gnarly, ancient piece of petrified wood, surrounded by a wrought iron fence and marked with a plaque. I manage to hold in my laughter, keeping my face as placid as possible.

“You have a commemorative stump?” Sawyer asks, not even bothering to hide her judgment.

“Sure do.”

“That’s…” she trails off. I wait for it, on pins and needles, wanting to know what she’s going to say. “Stupid. That’s stupid.”

I throw my head back, laughing.

She’s not wrong.

“It is a little silly. But I’m also not going to be the Hayes to get rid of it.”

“Fair.” She shrugs.

“Still,”—I take her hand again, loving the softness of her skin next to mine—“this is where it all started. Well, not all . When Augustus Hayes, our ancestor who had made all his money building rifles for the Confederates during the Civil War, married Rose Anton, her family was already in agriculture. But they were in peanuts. Anton House, very aptly named since it’s where I live now, is a few miles thataway, surrounded by peanut fields. ”

I gesture over in the direction of my place, keeping my focus on her rather than the details of where I live.

“Where is this grove in relation to the others?”

“The main groves are a couple of miles down the street. This is part of the Hayes estate, which is what Magnolia Manor sits on. So actually,”—I place my hands on her shoulders, turning her about ninety degrees—“just over that hill and down a bit is the house. Then up to the left is Gus’s cottage.

To the right is Hayes House, the monstrosity that Augustus built right after the war, that Auggie converted into employee housing, and then on the complete other side of the property is the very original home of the Hayes family and the barn that we turned into the bunkhouse. ”

“Wow.”

Silence overtakes us, the movement of nature the only thing filling the air. Shit…I killed the mood. Too much history. No one wants to be word vomited at with the history of the Hayes family estate.

I need to save this.

“Sit,” I say, panicking. I pull out the blanket I shoved into the basket, fumbling as I try to lay it onto the ground one-handed. Smooth, Anton, real smooth. “I brought us lunch. Dolly said you liked the BLT, so I grabbed us a couple of those.”

“Her BLT might be the best one I’ve ever had.”

The smile I get is the perfect reward. It’s easy, happy, and bright. Fuck, does it light me up like a pinball machine. Whatever I need to do to earn more of those, I will.

I kneel down to unload the basket, then think better of it. Popping back up to my feet, I run over to one of the trees, plucking two peaches straight from the branch.

“Complete with fresh peaches!” I toss one up, catching it and then taking a bite. “Although, these are still kinda hard.”

“I actually like it hard.”

Errr…what?!

Sawyer says it so straight-faced at first I’m not sure I hear her right. But there’s no mistaking it.

She went there.

I smirk, unable to help myself. Because that’s what she said. Literally.

“Do you now?” I wink, sinking back down onto the blanket. “Good to know.”

It takes her a second, but as soon as it hits her, the daggers are back.

“Seriously? Why do you do that?”

I laugh, unable to help myself. Only, she’s not laughing with me. Shit.

“Sorry.” I straighten myself out. “Sorry, teasing and pushing buttons is my go-to.”

“Why?”