Page 3

SAWYER

Of all the days for my hair tie to break.

It had to be the same day that my little sedan’s air conditioning also breaks.

You know, on the hottest day Georgia has had all summer.

Because…of course.

I gather my hair behind my neck, twisting it, trying to get it up off my skin to give me some respite, but nothing.

The complete lack of breeze in the afternoon heat isn’t helping anything.

Neither is the too good-looking for his own good fruit-stand guy who is now eyeing me like I just told him we’d be costarring in a snowed-in, one-bed rom-com.

So help me…

“And what brings you to Hickory Hills?”

He smirks, and for a second, my knees think about wobbling. Because in another life—like that snowed-in, one-bed rom-com—that thing would be lethal.

“None of your business.”

My answer is frostier than I intended. Hell, it’s frostier than I thought possible given that it’s five degrees away from hell out here. Such a tone should have melted in an instant given this heat and humidity.

Either way, my answer stands. My purpose for visiting the itty-bitty town of Hickory Hills, in the middle of rural Georgia, is none of his business. And I really do mean my business , since that’s the purpose of my visit.

Flicking my eyes over to the fruit stand again, I scan it once more, trying to find any kind of identification, to know whether I’m talking to friend or foe. For all I know, I picked a rival farm to ask for directions. And we can’t have that.

“A left you said?” I try to confirm, peeling my hair off my neck again.

Too good-looking for his own good fruit-stand guy nods, his mouth still quirked to one side in a crooked smile. “Yup. Just follow this road and it’ll lead you straight into downtown. Can’t miss it. And, if for some reason you do, just turn back around. I’ll be right here waitin’.”

“I have no doubt.”

He huffs out a cocky laugh as I turn back toward my car, not waiting on any more of a response.

I may have built plenty of time into my trek to Hickory Hills from Atlanta—I technically don’t have to be here until Monday morning—but that doesn’t mean I want to waste it on the side of the road.

Nope. That was the whole point of coming down a couple of days early.

So I could get settled in town and figure out a plan.

Because this is my chance.

I’m back in the car and on the road again minutes later, hot summer air whipping through the open windows, tangling my hair.

Seriously, I would kill for a hair tie right now.

The heavy, humid air does little to cool my skin, sweat still trickling down the back of my neck, but at least it’s something.

Being from Alabama, I’m used to heat and humidity. Then again, my small town of Hurricane Shoals is on the coast and blessed most days with a sea breeze that helps you not feel like you’re choking on the thick air.

Glancing down at my phone, I curse under my breath. The little blue dot in the directions app is still frozen in place, the image still of a location miles back. At least I know that I’m headed in the right direction. My little pit stop was good for something.

The screen flips before my eyes, my best friend’s face appearing on the screen, making my heart leap.

“Hi!” I greet Eliza Wallens, my best friend, way too enthusiastically, overjoyed that I finally have enough service for technology to work.

“Oh, my, God…is this Sawyer Brown? The Dirt Doctor? Who is next to impossible to get ahold of and is horrible at returning calls because she lives in her lab? Well, as I live and breathe…”

“It is I…” I answer, shouting to be heard over the wind. “And for the millionth time, the dirt doctor sounds like a vacuum.”

Despite my protest, I know she’ll never stop.

She’s called me that since the day I graduated with my PhD in Crops and Soil Sciences from UGA.

Even went as far as having a little cartoon of a vacuum in a graduation cap drawn up after I made the joke the first time.

My copy sits on my desk in the lab, while hers is framed along with a photo of the two of us, hanging in the bar she helps run back in Hurricane Shoals with her brother and grandfather.

That’s how I know she’s proud of me; I made the wall of fame at Wall Bangers.

“You sound like you’re stuck in a vacuum. Where are you?”

“Hold on…” I reluctantly roll up the driver’s side window, cutting off the flow of fresh air and immediately regretting it.

I don’t dare touch the passenger window, or this little sedan wi ll become an oven on wheels.

“That better? I’m on my way to that research gig I told you about and my AC stopped working, so I’m having to drive with the windows down. It sucks.”

“What research gig? You told me no such thing. Again, please refer to comment about she who does not answer her phone …”

Touché…

“No, I know I told you about this.” I think…maybe. Maybe not. “Remember how I accidentally became… friendly …with Cary Adler, the chief horticulturist for Hayes Industries, via email?”

“The guy you very nerd-ily emailed, basically fangirling over a piece he wrote in some journal and he responded?”

That was not how it went down. Not even close.

I don’t bother correcting Eliza though. Because despite how many times I’ve told her the story, it always gets summed up like this.

The fact that I reached out to Dr. Adler asking if he would like to contribute to the State of Georgia’s Agricultural Department’s annual review with an article on what Hayes was working on—and happened to include a personal note about how much I enjoyed his paper on crop rotation in the Journal of Agriculture and Food Research—is not quite the same as “fangirling.” At least in my mind.

Fangirling, however, might have been what happened when he wrote back, not only accepting the invitation to contribute to the annual review, but continuing the conversation I’d started regarding his paper.

And then kept the conversation going, the two of us building a rapport over the last two years.

He is the chief horticulturist for Hayes Industries, after all. I might be the state’s leading research expert in all things soil for the state of Georgia, but there’s still a lot a girl can learn from a company like Hayes Industries .

“Yes, that one,” I acquiesce. “So, fun fact for you, thanks to a hard freeze back in April, this is the worst peach season since 1954. Like, farmers are getting a fraction of their normal crop. I sent Dr. Adler an email asking how their harvest was going and what their yield was looking like, since I’m working on this soil regeneration project, and he invited me to come down and spend some time working with Hayes.

Gives me a chance to test out some of my theories and collect some data in a real-life environment, plus it gives Hayes access to some state resources. ”

“Holy shit, Sawyer! That’s huge!”

I nod, gripping the wheel tighter, trying to keep my excitement at bay. It is huge. So huge. Maybe bigger than huge. Like, career changing huge.

“I’m hoping it’s what I need to tip the scales in my favor for…

” I pause, considering for a second if I should say it out loud.

As if uttering the words would put a jinx on it, like some Harry Potter spell.

You know what? Screw it. “I’m hoping it’s what I need to be named Lead Soil Research and Development Manager. ”

Because damn, do I want that job.

So bad I can taste it.

The thing is, so does Will Nedens, the other senior researcher in my department. What I’m not supposed to know is that, as far as internal candidates go, it’s down to the two of us. And the head of R&D has said he would prefer to hire an internal candidate.

Both of us are perfectly qualified for the position and have been working for the state for years. On paper, we’re about as neck and neck as can be. With one exception— Will has experience in the field. I’m basically a lab rat.

“And this could do it?” Eliza asks.

“I think so. It certainly won’t hurt. Experience not only in the field, but with one of the largest ag firms in the state? That stands out on the resume. So off to Hickory Hills I go!”

“Wait, did you say Hickory Hills?!” Her voice is shrill, like she’s a cat and someone just yanked on her tail. I snicker, knowing exactly where she’s going with this. “As in, home of Dustin Wild?”

Because yes, this itty-bitty little town in the middle of nowhere Georgia is not only home to one of the biggest ag firms slash Fortune 500 companies in this state, but is also home to one of the biggest country stars in the world.

And somehow, GPS still doesn’t work around here.

Keeping my eyes peeled, I look around, wondering how much farther said town is. Based on the directions I was given, it shouldn’t be too much longer. Although this long and winding road doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to end—or lead anywhere.

“I packed the few things I have, just in case I happen upon him,” I tell her, my voice even, trying to keep her calm.

It’s no use though. Eliza’s excitement is palpable, even hundreds of miles away and over a cell phone connection. I did just say the magic words—Dustin Wild. Or well, she said the magic words. I simply named his hometown.

Eliza is possibly his biggest fan. Made even more potent by the fact that Dustin was discovered while singing karaoke at Wall Bangers, the bar her grandfather owns, during a spring break trip to Hurricane Shoals.

They went from obscure hole-in-the-wall to classy dive bar thanks to all the new attention they received after Dustin name-dropped them during an interview with Rolling Stone a couple of years ago.

“Do you have the Rolling Stone cover? Both of them, actually?” she asks, and I can practically hear her heart beating in her voice. “Where are you staying? I’ll ship you some. I have this whole idea of how I want to frame them for behind the karaoke stage and?—”

“Liza, I don’t even know if I’ll see him. I’m here for less than two months, and doesn’t he have some big summer tour?”

“His wife is the town librarian.”

She says it so matter-of-factly she might as well be telling me that the sky is blue or the grass is green.

As if I’m going to march my ass right into the library and ask a woman I’ve never met if her country star husband will autograph a bunch of items for the bar he was discovered in. Because that’s not rude.

Or completely out of character for me.

In order to be able to pull something like that off, one has to be a people person. And I am not a people person.

That might be the other area where Will has a one-up on me. He is most definitely a people person. Annoyingly so.

I am a numbers person. A data person. I like science and all the things it tells us. Soil and crops and weather. That’s my thing.

That was the whole reason I left Hurricane Shoals.

After spending my childhood helping raise my two younger brothers, because our parents were too busy running the family business—Hull of a Good Time Cruises, in our beach resort town—I wanted away from people.

I wanted to study science and live a life that didn’t include being around the public all day long.

Hence why I’ve spent most—okay, all—of my career in the lab. Away from people.

“That’s not stalkerish or anything,” I comment. I can see it now—walking into the library and completely freaking out the woman behind the desk because I know all about who she’s married to .

Sure, it’s a small town, but I’m not from said small town. So that makes it weird.

“It’s a public library!”

“We’ll see.”

Rounding a corner, I take my foot off the gas as a set of old brick buildings comes into view.

Sure enough, Hickory Hills is impossible to miss.

Eliza’s voice fades into the background as I take it all in, the scene feeling like something out of Southern Living magazine, the small-town charm dripping from every inch of it.

I smile, unable to hold it back, falling in love more and more with each tire rotation.

And sure enough, just like Mr. Too good-looking for his own good fruit-stand guy said, A Noble Mechanic is right there.

“Eliza, I gotta go. I’m here and I need to have my AC checked so I do not melt.”

“Fine, but I expect a text every day with an update.”

I pull into the lot, putting my car in park and killing the engine. “You care that much about soil regeneration and peach tree rotation?”

I don’t hold back on the sarcasm, waiting to be hit with the perfect response.

“Sure, you can update me on that too,” she answers, not skipping a beat.

There it is.

We say our goodbyes, with me promising at least twice more that I will do everything I can to try and get her the autographs she needs. And I will. But right now, my focus is on getting this AC fixed.

Pronto.