“Hello?” I answer.
“Good afternoon, Mason!” the cheerful voice of Sadie, the photographer and mastermind behind today’s little session, rings through the line. I can’t help but smile at her cheerful disposition.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” I reply.
“Gosh,” she gushes. “That accent reminds me of home,” she says wistfully, prompting my next question.
“And where is that, ma’am?”
“North Carolina.”
“Nice place. Looks a lot like this state,” I chuckle.
“Are you ready for today’s shoot?” she asks, changing the subject.
“I reckon I’m as ready as I can be,” I tell her honestly.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Could you, uh, tell me again what to expect?” I ask, knowing I’ve forgotten most of the details by now.
“Of course! I’m going to keep you and our other participant back-to-back for the first few photos. I want you to close your eyes and use your other senses to discover who he is. I’ll be watching all the subtle signs to make sure you two are comfortable, and then I’ll have you turn around. Once you lay eyes on each other, I’ll know a lot more about the direction this shoot will take. And if at any time, you’re no longer comfortable or I ask you to do something you don’t feel sure about, we’ll stop. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you there. I’ll meet you in the visitor’s lot. I’ll get you in position before the other participant joins us.”
After ending the call, I send a quick text to Joelle asking her to wish me luck, and then I’m off.
I’m about two miles from my destination when I see a tractor broken down on the side of the road, which is something you don’t see often in these parts because everyone who owns a tractor out here also knows how to fix it.
The plume of smoke coming from under the hood—and the way the man is pacing with his hands on his head—tells me this must’ve just happened,andthis guy doesn’t know how to fix it.
I don’t want to be late for my little social experiment today, but leaving someone stranded isn’t my style, either.
Pulling my truck in behind the tractor, I roll my window down.
“Need some help?” I ask, already climbing out.
My boots crunch on the gravel of the shoulder as the man turns to face me.
Oh, fuck.
I don’t recognize him, but he’s hotter than the sun. A long-sleeved black T-shirt stretches across well-defined pecs, and his jeans hug an ass I’d like to sink my teeth into. His cowboy hat’s clearly for show since he obviously doesn’t know where to begin with this tractor issue, but it sure looks good on him.
“Um, yeah,” he responds in a deep voice. “If you’ve got a second to take a look, or know who I should call, I’d really appreciate it.”
“Happy to. The tractor I use is the same brand. The farmer I work for refuses to use anything else,” I say, making small talk while I pop the hood.
As soon as it’s open, I spot the problem.
“Well, shit. Water pump’s bad. You’ve got about two gallons of coolant dumped all over everything, which is why you’re smoking so badly.”
The man looks at his watch and mumbles, “Shit,” under his breath.
I lean over the side, trying to get a feel for how much damage has been done.
“How long did you drive it after you realized something was wrong?” I ask, looking over my shoulder. “My biggest concern is the possibility of a cracked head gasket.”
