“Yeah. Just one…and a backpack,” I manage to say. I pull out my keys and use the fob to pop the trunk.
Wordlessly, Noah moves around the car and retrieves my bags, then carries them to his truck, sliding them into the extended cab. He leaves the door open and turns to face me.
I’m still standing beside my car in the triangle of light pooling out of the open passenger door.
“Are you coming?” he asks. “You’re getting snow in your car.”
I turn and stare at the snow gathering along the edge of the seat like I’m surprised this is happening. Butof coursethere’s snow in my car.It’s snowing.And I left the door wide open.“Oh,” I say, stupidly. “You’re right.”
What is wrong with me? I have no idea why this man has me so out of sorts. But the way he’s glaring, I can’t tell if he’s bugged he had to come pick me up or simply annoyed I exist at all.
He has the look of a man annoyed thatanyoneexists. Like all he wants is to go back to his cabin in the forest where he can chop wood and eat beans out of a can and bask in his own solitude.
Either way, he’s my ride, so I quickly shut the car door and make my way toward his truck.
Noah waits by the passenger door and watches, his expression almost bored. He offers me another hand, and I almost take it—the truck is very high off the ground—but I’m feeling a little salty over his less-than-friendly greeting, so I ignore it and use the frame of the door to give myself a boost.
Noah tilts his head, eyebrows lifting, and for a second, he almost looks impressed.
See, Mr. Mountain Man? I’m not as helpless as you think I am.
Noah shuts the passenger side door without a word and makes his way around the truck. I breathe deeply while he’s gone, an attempt to calm myself and gather some sense of composure, but it backfires, because the inside of the truck smells manly and a little spicy and I’m pretty sure that has everything to do with the man driving it.
I glance his way as he climbs behind the wheel, then force myself to focus on the road ahead. Otherwise, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself from staring. This is ridiculous. It’s not like I’ve never seen men this handsome. I’vedatedmen this handsome. But Noah is—I have no idea what Noah is. Or why sitting beside him makes me feel like my mouth is full of gravel.
“I’ll come back for your car tomorrow,” he says as he slowly eases the truck forward, windshield wipers fighting against the snow. “The weather will have cleared by then.”
I lift my fingers to touch the tip of my very cold nose. “Thank you,” I manage to say. “And I’m sorry you had to come rescue me in the first place.”
He grunts. “It happens.”
His icy delivery gives me little reassurance, but I decide to take his words at face value and push on with the conversation.
“So,” I say, a little too brightly, “you work at Stonebrook Farm?” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth.Of coursehe works at Stonebrook Farm. That’s why he’s here. Driving a truck with a big“Stonebrook Farm”logo on the side. “I mean, of course you work at the farm,” I add before he can answer. “That was a dumb question. I meant to ask what youdoat the farm.”
I’m itching to look at him, to read his expression, but I won’t let myself do it. Instead, I lift my eyes upward and stare at the ceiling of the truck, a question suddenly popping into my mind. If the Hawthorne family already has a cousin living on the farm, why do they need me? It’s not like they’ve asked me to do anything particularly difficult. If Noah Hawthorne is capable of driving through the snow to retrieve me, he’s capable of answering phones and making sure the Peterson family has enough spiced eggnog for their family reunion.
Noah’s quiet for a second, but I feel his gaze on me, and it’s all I can do not to look over. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Whatever they need me to do. Mend fences, tend animals, muck stalls.”
Ah.Well, that answers my question, at least. Noah is doingoutsidework. And they brought me on to cover theinsidework.
“Right. That makes sense.” I tug my coat a little tighter around me, then lift my chilled fingers to the warm air blowing from the vents.
“Why does that make sense?” Noah says. “I look like a farmhand?”
“No!” I quickly say. “Not at all. I mean, youcouldlook like a farmhand. I don’t think there’s any kind of rule that says farmhands can’t also be h—” I swallow the end of my sentence before I let Noah hear me call himhot,but I doubt he’s an idiot. He has to know where I was headed. I finally shift my gaze across the truck and see a tiny smirk playing around his lips.
Okay, hedefinitelyknows.
I narrow my eyes. Did he do that on purpose? Set me up to say something about his appearance?
The cocky jerk.
“What Imeantwas that it makes sense you’re doing farmwork because they hiredmeto watch the desk and take care of thingsinsidethe farmhouse. Which, they made it seem like there wouldn’t really be anyone else around, so I was just acknowledging that if you were doing that sort of thing, they wouldn’t need me, so it makes sense that youaren’t. You’re doing outside work instead.”
Noah slows and turns onto a wide drive, easing the truck between two massive stone pillars that I assume mark the entrance to the farm. I see a sign, but it’s difficult to make it out through the falling snow. “It’s a five-hundred-acre commercial operation,” he says. “Did you think you were going to be the onlyone here?”
Five hundred acres? I’m not sure I realized Stonebrook was quite so large.
