Page 21 of That Conflicted Feeling

Ireach around him to unlock the door, and this time he steps aside to give me a wide berth.

Thebell almost flies off its hook asIsweep the door open and point to the street. “Butyou are.Goodbye.”

Heholds his palms up at me.Thesmile is gone.Someonewho hadn’t seen this all before might think he looks genuinely remorseful. “Okay.Iapologize.Ididn’t mean to offend you.I’msorry ifIcame on a bit strong.Let’ssit down and talk it through quietly.Ican explain.”

There’sno way in hellI’mgiving in.ButIknow my dad would have told meIdon’t have to shout and stomp.SoItake a deep breath.

“Nota chance.Mom’snot feeling great.Ineed to get home to help with the goats.”

“Howabout later?Icould take you to dinner.”

Christ, get the message,Mr.Twinkles.Letit go. “Youcan’t buy me with dinner, either.”

“Well, when would work for you?Fitme in whenever you like.I’mflexible.”

Withanother deep breath, my heart rate comes down a little, and the fog of fury starts to clear from my brain.Hethinks he can sweet-talk me around, does he?

Ilook him over—from the perfectly styled hair to his perfect stubble, his perfect white shirt, perfect expensive suit, and perfectly shiny shoes.Theseare not the signs of an outdoorsy type.Oranyone who’s ever carried a goat feed bucket in their lives.

Anaura of calm wraps around me. “Actually, you know what.Maybenowwouldwork.”

Hesmiles again. “Well, that’s great.”

“Ihave chores to do, but you’re welcome to talk to me whileIdo them.”Thehose leaked yesterday, and the goat enclosure hasn’t dried out yet. “Yeah, now might be the perfect time.”

“Great.”Herubs his hands together. “Let’sgo.”

7

MAX

Thedoor to thePolly’sProduceoldVWbus creaks asIget in and slam it shut.

Ipick a few bits of unidentifiable greenery off my seat and take a deep breath. “GoodGod.Thisthing smells like the inside of a plant pot.”

Ofall the thingsIthoughtImight do for the sake of my company, riding in a produce bus to watch a cute woman in overalls tend to her goats was never on my list.

Pollyleans toward me as she clicks her seatbelt in place.It’sthe first timeI’vebeen close enough to notice the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

“Iguess it must be a step down from a chauffeured limo,” she says.

“It’snot a limo.AndGeorgeis not a chauffeur.”Itwist around to take in the debris littering the back.There’sa bunch of crates, all empty apart from one containing chilis, some sacks, and various leftover leafy bits. “Mycar does smell better than this though.BywhichImean, it doesn’t smell.”

Hermouth curves into a wry smile, as if me not liking the van makes her happy.Butit’s not thatIdon’t like it—it fitsPolly’spersonality, or at least whatIknow of it so far, perfectly.

Hersmall, delicate fingers turn the key in the ignition and, remarkably, the old thing clatters to life. “Itransport way more plants and fruit and veggies in here than people.”

“Doyou prefer their company?”

Sheturns her head in slow motion to look right at me. “Dependson the person.”

Ihaven’t seen fire like that in someone’s eyes since my mom told my dad there was nothing to be ashamed of in letting their kids buy them a big house.

Pollyholds my gaze for a microsecond too long.Justlong enough to quicken my pulse.Thenturns away and checks over her shoulder before pulling out into the street behind the shop.

“Tome, it’s a fresh, natural aroma,” she says.

Itake a deep breath to try to slow my misbehaving pulse, not to ingest more of the “aroma.”