What the hell is going on with these men? And why are they treating my patch like it’s a dating app.
I can only imagine what lines he’s pitching or how he’s offering to show her around town since she’s new in town.
I know that language. It’s the same kind of talk Huck’s father used in the beginning.
That kind of smooth talk comes cheap.
I step between them and kneel down.
“How’s the tiger?” I ask, and the dad takes the cue and drifts away, his grin thin. “Working on your growl?”
“Yeah!” The boy shouts. Then, turning to his dad and roars in his face.
He jumps back, out of her personal space. Tricia thanks me with her eyes. For half a beat, I think about pulling her into my arms.
For the other half, I think she might let me.
As she stands in line to get her lunch, she chats with Chase like they’ve been friends for years.
A man behind her tries to start a conversation and she answers politely. He slips her a number on a napkin before he leaves. “Call me if you want to see the town sometime.”
She smiles politely and tucks it into her pocket. The rage brewing inside me threatens to boil over.
I wish I could say it ended there. But nearly every damn time I see Tricia, she’s being chatted up by some guy. The sharks are circling, and she’s their prey.
I don’t like it. I don’t like other men talking to her like it’s their right.
By Saturday evening, the temperature—and crowds—cool. The last of the guests filter out. Our cleans up. Lanie is in the office doing the deposits. Pumpkin is curled on the porch like a croissant.
I find Tricia at the blackboard again, making small adjustments to next week’s schedule. When she looks up andsees me, there’s that slow smile, the one that makes my teeth ache.
“You staying late?” she asks.
“We’re never really off,” I say. “You?”
“Same. I need to finalize a few new graphics for the map. Then I’ll sync with the site.”
I grab a broom and start helping with the last of the clean-up, but I’m a poor broom partner. I find reasons to be where she is—by the office door, the snack shack, the tool shed—anything to keep her in my line of sight.
It’s ridiculous. It’s controlling.
It’s a side of myself I’ve never seen before.
When she finally tucks her tablet into her bag and shoulders the straps, I step forward.
“You going to take the ATV back to the staff lot?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’ll walk. The air’s nice.”
I can’t let her walk alone. Not tonight. Not when one of the other seasonal workers could lean on his charm.
“Get in my truck,” I say. “I’ll take you.”
She pauses, eyes flicking to my face. Then she slides into the passenger seat without argument, leaving a faint scent of chalk and cinnamon that hits me hard.
The ride over is quiet, almost tense. Neither of us speaks much. I drive the long way, around to avoid driving over the fresh mulch we just spread out near the hay maze.
About halfway to the employee lot, the truck dips and the headlights slice across the fence. I slow the engine and pull to the side behind a stand of pines. My heart is too loud. I can feel the pressure in my chest like a fist.
