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His words swim in my ears with the noise of the shower. If it’s sweat you want, sweat I can give you. His hardened, unwavering eyes. His set, squared jaw. His obsessive focus on pleasing me, satisfying me, wanting my praise. If it’s sweat you want …
I wish those words didn’t sound as sexy as he made them.
Chapter 11
Hoyt
Work hard. Work tirelessly. Keep your head low.
Don’t keep sneaking glances at Harrison.
Focus on the cute animals. Do it for the cute, stinky animals. Nothing else matters.
Don’t keep sneaking glances at Harrison.
Carry this over here. Carry this over there. Discover that it is actually humanly possible to sweat from your eyeballs.
And don’t … keep … sneaking … glances … at … fucking … Harrison.
Stop praying he will come around. He may never come around. I can’t waste energy on that, not when I’m busy all day long with chores around the farm. They don’t need me over with the cool machines and the fields of crops, and that’s fine. I’ll keep doing the tiring, thankless tasks needed with the animals where I’m needed.
Work hard.
Keep your head low.
Stop sneaking glances.
Damn, this work really does take everything out of you. I have come to discover that after three long weeks at this place. But isn’t that what you do when you put all your love into your work? You have nothing left for anyone else.
Maybe that’s for the best.
Can’t even remember the last time I gave a thought to Toby or his boyfriend and the headache I put them through senior year.
I have a new focus now. A new tether.
A new purpose.
Sometimes, I hang around outside the bunkhouse at night and pretend to be checking out the stars, but really I’m glancing across the yard at Harrison’s, wondering what he’s up to. When the noise of his nightly endeavors reaches my ears, I will sneak over to his place, come around the side, and watch him work, hidden away like some shameful squirrel.
He makes furniture.
Dining room chairs. Rocking chairs. Weird chairs.
Cabinets. Tables. Cute little desks.
Harrison makes other things, too. Doghouses. Tiny decorative boxes I’m sure serve some kind of purpose. Wooden wind chimes, like the pretty one hanging on his porch with the shells. Window shutters. I swear, the guy can make anything.
At least once a week, I notice Harrison leaving the farm in the middle of the day when everything seems settled.
It coincides with when his furniture disappears.
I guess making and selling things is his side hustle.
It’s on an unusually cloudy, overcast Friday afternoon that I spot Harrison heading to his truck. It’s my cue. “Hey, Harrison!” I call out, hurrying across the yard from the mudroom.
He stops at the driver side door and looks at me. “Hoyt?”
“Where you headed?” I ask, diving right in.
He looks totally caught off-guard. “To run an errand. What’re you doing? Don’t you have—?”
“Finished my morning chores already,” I explain. “Was just tidying up in the bunkhouse. Are you delivering some furniture?”
“I’m sure there’s something you can do ‘round here.”
“Turtle’s still trying to figure out the thing with the sprayer. Even Lea had nothin’ left for me to do. So … can I tag along?” I approach him and spot the table in the bed of the truck. “Whoa, that looks cool. Is that what you’re delivering?”
A flicker of annoyance passes over Harrison’s eyes. Finally, he gives in. “Yeah. Delivering it to Goodwin Designs.”
“I’ve got time to kill. My chores are done. It’ll just be a quick trip, right? Let me come with. C’mon.”
I know I’m pushing my luck. As well as his buttons. And there might actually be a good dozen of things I could and should stick around here to do. But I’m dying for a little time away, and this is the perfect opportunity.
Not to mention maybe a chance to butter Harrison up more.
“I can help carry it,” I go on.
“For Pete’s sake,” he mutters under his breath, turning away.
“Can’t you use the extra muscle? C’mon, you’re not gonna make your client carry that table inside, are you? Looks pretty big and heavy.” I click my tongue and shake my head. “I bet it’ll look a lot more professional if you got a second pair of hands on that—”
“If I say yes, will you shut the hell up?” snaps Harrison.
“Yup.”
“Fine. We’ll be gone an hour, tops. Tell Lea or Fred, whoever you find first.”
Fuck yeah! “They’re way out in the field. I’ll leave a note in the house. Be back in a couple of minutes!” I call over a shoulder as I hurry inside. He shouts back: “I’ll give you ten seconds!”
Soon, I’m in the passenger seat of his truck, and we’re kicking up dirt on our way off the farm and ripping down the country road. The wind is in my hair and crashing across my smiling face. I’m riding cloud nine with my arm hanging out the window as I watch the fields of corn and wheat fly by like oceans of yellow-green hair dancing in the wind.
