Page 64 of Saltwater Cowboy

I shot him a look. “Don’t get cocky.”

His grin widened. “Too late.”

I shook my head, turning back toward the house. “Next time, I’m wearing knee pads.”

Wells’ laughter followed me all the way to the porch.

“Are we done for the day? Blythe swore I wouldn’t have to do manual labor, and I’ve already done more outdoorsy things than I ever planned on.”

Wells swiped his arm across his forehead, checking his watch. “I love her dearly, but Blythe was wrong.” His lips quirked. “You hungry?”

I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. “Depends. Are we talking actual food, or is this another one of your cowboy initiation tests?”

He chuckled, pushing off the fence. “Actual food. I was thinking sandwiches.”

I considered it for a second, then shrugged. “Alright. But if you try to serve me goat milk or something, I’m out.”

Wells grinned. “Noted.”

We ate in comfortable silence at the table on the porch—he tapped out messages on his phone while I was immersed myself in a book. The occasional rustle of wind through the trees and the distant bleating of goats made for an oddly peaceful setting.

After a while, Wells leaned back in his chair. “Ready to head out to the fields?”

“No.” I didn’t look up. “I just hit a plot twist.”

I caught the smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s like I’m dealing with Wren. Five more minutes.”

I didn’t answer, eyes glued to the page.

“Your five minutes are up,” Wells announced, standing. He gathered our plates, rinsed them, and loaded them straight into the dishwasher without a second thought.

I raised a brow. “You’re neat.”

“Or maybe you’re just messy.”

I scoffed. “I prefer ‘selectively organized.’”

Wells shook his head, drying his hands. “C’mon. Don’t forget your sunglasses this time. Unless you wanna wear a hat.”

“Hell no.” I shot up from my chair. “Let me grab my sunglasses.”

I sprinted upstairs, snatched them off my chest of drawers, and paused just long enough to glance at my bed longingly. All I wanted was a nap. But instead, I sighed and trudged back downstairs, where Wells was waiting by the door.

We stepped outside into the late afternoon sun, the heat clinging to my skin as we crossed the yard toward a fenced-off section of land. Rows of vegetables stretched out in front of us, a mix of vibrant greens, deep reds, and pale yellows.

“You have vegetables,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses.

Wells nudged me lightly with his elbow. “That’s what a farm is, Sunshine.”

I rolled my eyes. “I figured you were all about the livestock—what little you do have.”

“Can’t have one without the other.” He reached down, plucked a ripe tomato from the vine, and tossed it my way. I caught it—barely.

“So, what’s the plan here?” I asked, eyeing the rows warily.

“You’re gonna help me pick vegetables for dinner.”

I made a face. “Manual labor. Again.”