Page 2

Hopping up on the flatbed of my truck, I grab the bag of pork rinds from an empty peach crate and pop one into my mouth, surveying the stand. Or what’s left of it .

True to my word, we’re pretty cleaned out.

Enough so that I can probably leave Jackson to finish up on his own.

The hot summer sun is out in full force, which means that the seasonal workers that we’ve brought in to help with the peach picking are likely on their lunch.

This would be a great time to head to the processing plant to see how the day’s operation is going.

No rest for the wicked. At least not during peach season.

Checking my phone, I shoot Cary Adler a text, letting him know my plans. As chief horticulturist for Hayes, and my best friend since we were kids literally playing in the dirt, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already there. Or out in the groves checking on how the trees are looking.

Cary

Headed there now.

That sounds like a plan to me. I slip my phone back in my pocket, digging back into the pork rind bag for another quick bite before I go, until the sound of gravel crunching under tires makes my ears perk up.

It’s a noise I hear every day. One that is not out of the norm in any way. And yet, something about this crunch, under these tires, steals my attention.

The white sedan is dusty, a thick coat of red Georgia dirt caked to its side, making it look dingy. The engine whines as the car shuts off, the driver’s side door opening up and stealing my breath in the process.

For a second, I think the Georgia heat is starting to get to me, as I watch the disheveled chestnut-haired beauty in a Roll Tide T-shirt tumble out of her car, pulling her mussed-up hair into a bun on top of her head.

A sheen of sweat on her brow paired with her flushed skin lets me know that the rolled-down windows weren’t because she wanted to feel the breeze through her hair .

Holy hell…

My pulse leaps, and I am unable to take my eyes off her. I have no idea what brought her here, but damn, am I thankful it did. Now to find a way to keep her here. At least long enough to get her number.

I might not date, but that doesn’t mean I’m a hermit.

“Hey there. Need some help?” I ask, pushing off the flatbed.

Dusting off the back of my jeans, I flash her a smile, hoping that she’s going to like what she sees as much as I do.

And that I don’t come off like a creep. Or a jackass. Or worse, a creepy jackass.

“I, errr…” she mutters, clearly flustered. Tapping at her phone, she lets out a long, heavy sigh, still not bothering to look up. “I’m a little turned around…maybe. Been a long day in the car.”

“You from Atlanta?”

Her head whips up, eyes wide as she reels back. “I live there, yes.” Her answer is curt. Guarded. “How’d you?—”

“State of Georgia is kind like that,” I answer, still smiling like I’m the lead in some movie.

Apparently I’m not quite as charming as Glenn Powell.

He never seems to have this problem. He never comes off like a creepy jackass.

I step closer to her, nodding at her license plate.

“They put your county on your plate—lets all of us know who’s not from round here. ”

Spinning around, she looks at her car, nodding curtly again. Turning back to me, she pushes an errant strand of hair out of her face, her deep brown eyes locking on mine.

“Right. Well, my phone took me on a detour to avoid a crash on the interstate, but now this doesn’t seem to be working…”

She taps at it again, as if the harder she pushes, the more likely it’ll work. Like when my late grandfather used to slam his fist against the side of the TV, thinking that would make the channels come in better.

Didn’t work then, won’t work now.

“That fancy app isn’t gonna help you much. Service is spotty right here; basically enough to send a text. Maybe get in a quick call if you are lucky. Plus, the data they have in there is crap. Got half the roads round here all wrong.”

She huffs out another sigh, this one clearly more annoyed than distraught, and glares at me.

“Not helpful.”

“Then how can I be helpful?”

“Unless you can magically make my AC work again, I don’t know that you can,” she snips, swiping at that same lock of hair again.

My fingers itch to help—to gently tuck it behind her ear or weave it into the rest of her unruly messy bun. But I don’t. I keep my hands to myself, like a gentleman.

My mama would be proud.

“I’m damn good with my hands, but cars aren’t something I know a whole lot about. You need Ken Noble.”

Closing the gap between us, I drink her in, watching as she tugs her hair from her messy bun, trying to corral it.

That works for all of six seconds before the elastic breaks, flying wildly into the air.

Muttering a curse, she looks around for it, then turns back to me, twisting her hair in an attempt to get it off her neck.

She’s having a hell of a day, that much is clear, and is in desperate need of someone to help take her mind off all of this. As the saying goes, I volunteer as tribute.

“Who?”

“Ken Noble, best mechanic in Knox County, if not the whole of middle Georgia.”

Crossing her arms, she pushes up her boobs, and I have to fight the urge to look, made a little easier by the fact that Bama’s nonsensical mantra is scribbled across the fabric.

“And where do I find this Ken Noble?”

“Just up the way in Hickory Hills. Follow this road for a ways, and just past the caution light, there’s what looks like a little country store with an old-fashioned Coke sign.

That’s actually a diner, Dolly’s. Pretty sure Miss Belle is there today, so you should stop in there and ask her for some of her sweet tea. Mama’ll get you all hooked up.”

“How about that mechanic?”

“A Noble Mechanic is another block up. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

She turns to go, not giving me or the stand a second look. My stomach plummets, all my thoughts about a fun evening out with this girl flying out the window. Maybe there’s still time. One last line.

“And then, once you’re all fixed up, a left will get you back on route to the interstate. But, if you take a right, that’ll bring you right back here to me.”

That stops her in her tracks. Spinning on her heel, she locks eyes with me again, and this time, her look is determined and full of incredulity. Like she can’t believe that I just handed her that line.

I feel her gaze drag up and down my body, so I shift, squaring my shoulders so she can get a better look. Only, it doesn’t last long. A second later, she’s moved on to the fruit stand, giving it much the same once-over. Looking very unimpressed.

“That won’t be happening. Hickory Hills is where I’m headed.”