Page 5 of Good Directions

2

SAWYER

Of all the days for my hair tie to break.

It had to be the same day that my little sedan’s air conditioning also breaks.

You know, on the hottest day Georgia has had all summer.

Because…of course.

I gather my hair behind my neck, twisting it, trying to get it up off my skin to give me some respite, but nothing. The complete lack of breeze in the afternoon heat isn’t helping anything. Neither is the too good-looking for his own good fruit-stand guy who is now eyeing me like I just told him we’d be costarring in a snowed-in, one-bed rom-com.

So help me…

“And what brings you to Hickory Hills?”

He smirks, and for a second, my knees think about wobbling. Because in another life—like that snowed-in, one-bed rom-com—that thing would be lethal.

“None of your business.”

My answer is frostier than I intended. Hell, it’s frostier than I thought possible given that it’s five degrees away from hell out here. Such a tone should have melted in an instant given this heat and humidity.

Either way, my answer stands. My purpose for visiting the itty-bitty town of Hickory Hills, in the middle of rural Georgia, is none of his business. And I really do mean my business, since that’s the purpose of my visit.

Flicking my eyes over to the fruit stand again, I scan it once more, trying to find any kind of identification, to know whether I’m talking to friend or foe. For all I know, I picked a rival farm to ask for directions. And we can’t have that.

“A left you said?” I try to confirm, peeling my hair off my neck again.

Too good-looking for his own good fruit-stand guy nods, his mouth still quirked to one side in a crooked smile. “Yup. Just follow this road and it’ll lead you straight into downtown. Can’t miss it. And, if for some reason you do, just turn back around. I’ll be right here waitin’.”

“I have no doubt.”

He huffs out a cocky laugh as I turn back toward my car, not waiting on any more of a response. I may have built plenty of time into my trek to Hickory Hills from Atlanta—I technically don’t have to be here until Monday morning—but that doesn’t mean I want to waste it on the side of the road. Nope. That was the whole point of coming down a couple of days early. So I could get settled in town and figure out a plan.

Because this is my chance.

I’m back in the car and on the road again minutes later, hot summer air whipping through the open windows, tangling my hair. Seriously, I would kill for a hair tie right now. The heavy, humid air does little to cool my skin, sweat still trickling down the back of my neck, but at least it’s something.

Being from Alabama, I’m used to heat and humidity. Then again, my small town of Hurricane Shoals is on the coast and blessed most days with a sea breeze that helps you not feel like you’re choking on the thick air.

Glancing down at my phone, I curse under my breath. The little blue dot in the directions app is still frozen in place, the image still of a location miles back. At least I know that I’m headed in the right direction. My little pit stop was good for something.

The screen flips before my eyes, my best friend’s face appearing on the screen, making my heart leap.

“Hi!” I greet Eliza Wallens, my best friend, way too enthusiastically, overjoyed that I finally have enough service for technology to work.

“Oh, my, God…is this Sawyer Brown? The Dirt Doctor? Who is next to impossible to get ahold of and is horrible at returning calls because she lives in her lab? Well, as I live and breathe…”

“It is I…” I answer, shouting to be heard over the wind. “And for the millionth time, the dirt doctor sounds like a vacuum.”

Despite my protest, I know she’ll never stop. She’s called me that since the day I graduated with my PhD in Crops and Soil Sciences from UGA. Even went as far as having a little cartoon of a vacuum in a graduation cap drawn up after I made the joke the first time. My copy sits on my desk in the lab, while hers is framed along with a photo of the two of us, hanging in the bar she helps run back in Hurricane Shoals with her brother and grandfather. That’s how I know she’s proud of me; I made the wall of fame at Wall Bangers.

“You sound like you’re stuck in a vacuum. Where are you?”

“Hold on…” I reluctantly roll up the driver’s side window, cutting off the flow of fresh air and immediately regretting it. I don’t dare touch the passenger window, or this little sedan will become an oven on wheels. “That better? I’m on my way to that research gig I told you about and my AC stopped working, so I’m having to drive with the windows down. It sucks.”

“What research gig? You told me no such thing. Again, please refer to comment about she who does not answer her phone…”