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“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”
Nash grunted under the weight of the hay bale as he hefted it onto his shoulder and carried it over to the stack he’d created beside the split fence.
“Nope. I said I got it.”
He was shirtless and sweaty, his skin reddened by both the sun and the coarse texture of the hay. Vivian couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man, and she blamed Gretta. If the woman hadn’t put that idea in her head of him being a good match, she was certain she never would have given Nash a second glance.
Okay, that was a lie, but sometimes a girl had to live in denial if she wanted to survive. Leaping from one impossible relationship to another in a single bound was a disaster in the making.
“You look like you could use a hand—”
“Why don’t you go inside and help Gretta get breakfast ready?” he said, cutting her off.
Vivian jerked back, offended by both his tone and the suggestion. “You’d better be asking that because you’d rather work alone and not because you think my place is in the kitchen because I have boobs.”
Dropping another bale down, Nash stopped, breathing heavily, to stare at her. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those feminist types.”
Vivian fisted her hips. “Maybe I am.” She wasn’t, not in the strictest sense, but she didn’t like his attitude one bit. Besides, she resented being dismissed just because of her gender. She could swing a bale of hay. How hard could it be? Women were tough. Hell, women had babies. She’d like to see a man try that!
“Christ. A city girl and a feminist,” he muttered as if both were such egregious offenses. Vivian was about to argue when he continued. “If you really want an answer, yes, I prefer working alone. I don’t care if you have a beard or a set of legs that could bring a man to tears, the answer is still gonna be the same.”
Wait. He thought she had great legs?
“And I’ll have you know, I’ve seen all shapes and sizes of boobs, and most of them belong to the men in this town, so that holds no bearing on what I said.”
Vivian’s head was spinning trying to sort this new information. “So…”
“So, please, for the love of all that’s holy, leave me to my thoughts. I appreciate the offer, but I won’t be takin’ ya up on it.”
Wow, from a verbal slap in the face to a stern refusal for help. Vivian wasn’t sure how to feel. She still bore the sting of rejection and a tinge of anger from assuming wrong, but she could tell he wasn’t trying to be rude. Nash was just…blunt. His lack of finesse was something she was going to have to get used to.
As she stepped back and gave him some space, Vivian was keenly aware that her thoughts had nearly completely transitioned from the idea of moving on and exploring more of what the country had to offer to setting up shop and getting cozy with the locals.
A thought for another time, though. Gretta was cooking for a bunch of hungry men, and she’d bet the woman would appreciate a helping hand or two. Even if Vivian had absolutely no idea what she was doing in the kitchen.
“I’ll leave you to your thoughts then,” she told Nash.
Tipping his head, he continued right on working.
“See you at breakfast.” Turning, Vivian cut a path through the wild grass that was in desperate need of a trim and across the packed-gravel drive to the wide, wooden steps that carried her into the house and the kitchen proper where she found Gretta toiling away.
“Well, I’m not needed or wanted outside, so I thought I’d offer to help in here,” she announced. “What can I do?”
Gretta, beating batter for what would probably turn out to be her delicious buttermilk pancakes, glanced at her and then the stove. “You can take care of the bacon. When that’s done, those oranges could use a firm squeeze, too.”
Vivian observed the mountain of citrus and the small glass dish with a point standing up in the middle that was intended to grind them on and gave an internal groan. She’d be lucky if she didn’t end up with carpal tunnel by the afternoon. Putting on a cheery smile, she picked up the spatula resting on the stove beside the sizzling hot frying pan and said, “I’ll get right on it.”
***
Scrunched noses, curled lips, curious looks cast her way. The way they looked at the bacon wasn’t unwarranted. Vivian had burned the hell out of nearly all four pounds of meat. It wasn’t her fault. There was something wrong with the pan. It didn’t cook evenly, and every time she tried to flip those flimsy little strips, the pan spat on her. Her arms were still dotted with tiny red spots from all the grease that leaped out and attacked her.
She’d question why anyone even ate the stuff if she didn’t already know how good it was.
Well, how good it could be. As it stood now, there wasn’t much enjoyment going on. In fact, everyone appeared to be trying to choke down at least a piece each just to be nice. At least they were trying. Vivian lowered her eyes to her plate and focused on the pancakes in front of her. They were delicious. She didn’t know how Gretta pulled it off each and every time, but the woman knew how to cook.
Maybe she could teach her. No one had ever taken the time. Back home, growing up and up until the day she jumped in the car and ran away from her problems, she’d always had someone who cooked for her. When she was hungry, she merely made a request, and in a short time, food was in front of her. There was enough money that there was never any need to learn the mundane aspects of life. Now, she found she was sorely lacking in basic life skills. It was humiliating to know that she couldn’t even manage to feed herself, let alone a dozen hungry men.
To her credit, Gretta hadn’t gotten mad or even lifted her voice. Even after she moved on to the next pound of bacon and burned that one, too. She just continued issuing words of encouragement and little tips, reminding her when to flip and turn down the heat when needed. By the time she started on the fourth package, she only mildly burned them. The lack of char was a monumental success for Vivian. A small accomplishment with big rewards. That load of bacon was long gone. It seemed the guys only continued to eat it to be polite, out of pure hunger, or because they were taught never to leave food on the table.
