Page 7

SAWYER

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Anton stops, looking up at me like I just slapped his hand away from taking the cherry off the top of a sundae.

“Do what?”

“The way you’re leaning in your chair. It’s not only bad for your posture, but you’re going to fall over.”

He snorts out a huff, like a disgruntled dragon, turning back to whatever he’s reading on his phone. At least I think he’s reading. The rate his thumb is gliding over the screen leads one to believe that it’s more than just doomscrolling.

I turn back to the reports in front of me, digging through the numbers and graphs that Cary gave me.

There’s a lot here—he’s been meticulous in his recordkeeping—and it’s going to take some effort to digest it all before I can really start to test out my theories.

Knowing exactly what the history is of their soil samples after each peach season is incredibly helpful to the process. It also makes for very dense reading.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense movement again, and I fight the urge to look over. As much as I want to fully witness Anton’s clownish ass end up on the floor, staring would be rude. Even if he does deserve it.

He might have introduced himself as “doctor,” but based on the behavior I’ve seen of his today, I’m not sure I actually believe that someone with his maturity level—or lack thereof—really obtained a PhD.

After spending most of the morning fiddling with his contraption around the lab, making more than enough noise to distract anyone but certainly enough that Cary had to shout to be heard, he disappeared for hours.

Only to return and sit here, playing on his phone.

Very productive for the vice president of the department.

Nepotism at its best, I suppose.

I shake my head, trying to clear that thought from my mind. For all I know he does have some qualifications. Maybe today is just an off day.

“Holy shit,” Anton half mutters, half exclaims. “Landon busted his hand.”

“What?” Cary asks.

He stole the question right out of my brain. Only he wasn’t asking because the statement didn’t make any sense. Oh, no. His tone was full of wonder and excitement, as if that four word sentence had been “you won the lottery.” He understood exactly what Anton said.

“That’s all Hux said.” Anton’s up and out of his seat so fast he sends it flying behind him, holding out the phone so Cary can see. “Landon busted his hand. And frankly, I don’t care about the details, because you know what that means?”

He punches his fist through the air, his ha ha nearly lifting him off the ground. The little dance he starts to do, twisting his hips from side to side, his feet planted in place, makes him look ridiculous. Even more so when he adds in the air guitar.

“There’s still the other three,” Cary says, his voice cautionary .

“But they aren’t going to find a replacement of that caliber in time.” Cary starts to respond, but Anton cuts him off. “Nash is a Hayes now, remember?”

“Then this almost feels like cheating.”

The two high-five like schoolboys on the playground, smug smiles pinned firmly in place. I wait for either one to offer up an explanation, but neither does.

Fine, I’ll do it then.

“And we’re happy that this person hurt themselves because…” I prompt.

“Tug.”

Anton shrugs like it’s the easiest, most obvious answer in the world. Tug. That’s it. Just the one word. Tug.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

“Tug?”

“Tug-o-war. It’s the kickoff of the Fourth of July picnic.”

Right, the Fourth of July. That is in a couple of days. Forgot about that.

Makes sense that Hickory Hills would go all out for such an event. Small town in the south—I’m sure everyone turns out. That’s how it goes down in Hurricane Shoals.

“We compete against the boy cousins as the first match. And we have a title to defend…”

Boy cousins?

I blink, my mind going fuzzy as Anton continues to ramble on in small-town code about God knows what. Not anything that makes sense. His excitement is palpable though, his smile electric, making my insides feel funny.

And that’s the last thing I want when it comes to Anton Hayes—for my insides to feel funny.

“Pancake breakfast is really the kickoff,” Cary corrects him, cutting off his nonsensical ramble and pulling my attention back.

“Best damn pancakes you’ll ever have, Sawyer.

Dolly usually makes at least three different types.

And we’re not talking little silver-dollar pancakes.

Nope, these suckers are big, fluffy, and thick.

The real deal. Thinking of, we should consider pulling some pecans for her, since we don’t have excess peaches. ”

Pecan pancakes? Those sound delicious. Having experienced the magic that Dolly—assuming it’s the same Dolly—worked with a BLT, I can only imagine what she does with a pancake. Town events have never been my thing, but that might be enough to make me change my mind.

“Go for it. Although I had been thinking about trying to turn the batter purple or something, but Dolly might slit my throat.” Anton laughs.

I cut my eyes to him, unable to tell if he’s being serious. What kind of juvenile?—

“I’d be more afraid of Hux,” Cary comments.

Okay, he was serious. He really was thinking about tampering with the batter. Like a thirteen-year-old boy. Good to know he’s the one running the show.

The lab darkens slightly, the natural light streaming through the large greenhouse windows muting itself as a cloud rolls in front of the sun.

I turn my attention away from the boys, looking at the skies.

The crystal-clear blue from this morning is gone, giving way to a darker shade, with large, bulbous clouds building in the distance.

“Tut, tut…” Anton comments, twisting his head to look to the skies.

“It looks like rain.”

I finish the phrase without thinking, Winnie the Pooh’s words so engrained in my memory that they flow out like water.

Anton turns to me, smiling, bright blue eyes sparkling.

For a split second our gazes connect, the shared expression connecting us like we’re the only two on the planet who remember the silly old bear and his request to Christopher Robin.

My tummy flutters, the tickle of a thousand butterfly wings skimming through me.

As quickly as it’s there, it’s gone though. As fleeting as a whisper.

“D’we wanna call over and see where they are and if we can spray before it hits?” Cary asks.

“Nah,” Anton replies, turning back to the skies. “By the looks of it, it’ll be quick. We’ll want to make sure they hit it today though. The dew point is pretty high, and I don’t want to risk mold taking over in the night.”

“What? Are you the weather whisperer?”

My question is meant as a joke. Something to tease him with. To try and see if that incredibly brief connection a second ago was a thing. But my tone is harsher than I intend.

“I’m decent at it.” Anton shrugs.

“He’s better than decent. He’s like a human barometer,” Cary says, typing away at his phone. “I tried to get him to major in meteorology, thinking we’d be an unstoppable team if one of us knew ag and the other weather, but he wasn’t having it.”

Anton ignores him, instead craning his neck to follow a cloud as it moves. “Tell them not to spray the saplings. If we’re going to replant, we should limit the sulfur exposure to the field.”

“Already did.”

I nod, enjoying the heck out of getting to witness this firsthand.

Getting to see how a company looks at its data and treats its fields as situations arise.

Knowing that Hayes takes such good care is going to be a big help in proving my hypothesis.

If we’re able to lower the pH levels even a little bit this summer, that will go a long way in helping reduce cycle time.

And them being cognizant of when they spray?—

Wait…

“Did you say sulfur?” I question. This time I know my voice is harsh, and that’s on purpose. Because sulfur is the wrong answer.

“Yes,” they say almost in unison.

“You use a sulfur-based spray?”

No. No. There’s no way.

Cary nods. “Yup. Standard practice when it rains. Keeps the rot out.”

Nodding again, he taps his phone and raises it to his ear, turning to go. His voice starts to fade into the distance as he walks out of the lab, leaving me with Anton and my racing thoughts. Thoughts all about how they need to stop this practice. Now.

“You need to stop that.”

“No.”

He doesn’t even blink. His answer is out so fast I’m not entirely sure he even hears my words.

“Sulfur dries out the soil. It screws with your pH levels.”

“I am aware of how it works.”

“So stop using it!”

“Again, no.” Turning to face me, he crosses his arms against his chest. Those tan, muscular arms strain against the cotton of his T-shirt, almost like they are just as frustrated as I am in this moment. “Are you always this bossy?”

What did he just say?!

Oh, he did not.

I stomp my foot, planting my hands on my hips. I don’t care if he is the Hayes, he does not get to call me that.

“You’re risking damage to your soil and drying it out even faster by adding sulfur to the environment. It’s irresponsible.”

Anton reels back, balking. “This is the problem with you lab rats. All data and facts, but no actual knowledge.”

His comeback stings. I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t.

It’s also not the first time I’ve heard this.

My lack of in-the-field experience is exactly what brought me here, because my boss told me it would be what held me back from getting the promotion.

That it was my biggest weakness. Apparently it’s also my most obvious one.

Anton takes a couple of large steps, closing the gap between us. My pulse kicks up, moving faster the closer he gets. My brain says move, but my legs defy its order, planting themselves in place, letting him get close enough to touch.

“You don’t want to be using sulfur,” I try again, my voice holding on and not betraying my fraying insides.

“I don’t want my peaches to rot even more,” Anton tosses back.

“Especially when I’m only getting a fraction of what I’m supposed to.

And if you actually took the time to learn anything about how this actually works, you’d know that we don’t spray regularly.

Only when it rains, again, to keep the fruit from rotting.

And we continually measure the pH to make sure we’re not oversaturating.

Check the numbers Cary gave you. They’re all in there. ”

Anton smirks. It’s the shit-eating grin of a man who knows he’s right and that there isn’t anything that anyone can do about it. Annoyance boils up in me. Because based on what I’ve looked at so far today, he is right. I’m sure that as I keep reading, I’ll find more of the same too. Damn it.

“I don’t like you,” I mutter. It’s not the most mature thing I could say. Hell, it will probably also get me uninvited from working with Hayes this summer. But I can’t hold back.

He’s managed to push every one of my buttons in the last five minutes. And he’s still too damn good-looking for his own good.

“I’m not for everyone.” He winks, lifting a single shoulder so casually it almost seems subconscious, as he moves around me. “But some girls do.”

And now he’s really on my shit list.