Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97053 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I try to scan the workers to find Jack. But I don’t see him. I don’t really know what I’d be looking for. When he was at the ballet, Jack wore what looked like a custom navy suit. Even in Grizzly’s last night he was wearing an expensive shirt and jeans that probably cost as much as a day’s worth of fruit.
I hope he didn’t turn up this morning in brogues and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt. My brother might have kicked his ass just for that.
Just before I’m about to turn to head into the house to get a beverage, I spot him.
I don’t know why I thought he’d be missable. He stands tall—he must be at least six-two—and his wide smile is unmistakable. He’s carrying a crate of just-picked fruit, so he can’t wave, so I wave at him. He only hesitates to wink at me before heading into the packing barn.
I try to think of a reason why I’d need to be in the packing barn. But really, there isn’t one other than to ogle the man I spent the night with last night.
“So how do you know this guy?” Bray makes me jump as he comes up behind me and catches me watching Jack.
“Bray!” I say, swiping him on the arm. “What guy?”
Bray chuckles. “The one you’re staring at now. He’s a good worker, I’ll give you that. A little chatty, but he picks things up fast.”
“You got him on the strawberries?” I ask.
“Yeah. We’re nearly done now. Even with the polytunnels. But you didn’t answer my question. How do you know him?”
“I told you, he’s a friend of Byron’s.”
“Yeah, but you’re not. So what gives?”
I shrug. “I just ran into him. We got to talking.”
“So he lives nearby?”
I groan. It’s so typical of Bray to be destroying my buzz. “Leave me alone, Bray. I don’t question you on your love life.”
“Oh, so you’re admitting this guy is starring in your love life at the moment.”
I narrow my eyes at him, sending him death stares.
He doesn’t take the hint. “Well, let me do you a deal. When the woman I’m dating turns up asking you for a job, you can ask me all the questions you want. How about that?”
“You need to get back to work. Focus on the fruit. Not me.” I pause. “What do you mean he’s chatty? What did he say?”
Bray chuckles. “Nothing about you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You’re annoying,” I say, and I turn and head back into the safety of my office. If I can’t ogle the beautiful New Yorker who’s on Wilde’s Farm for the day, without my brother giving a running commentary, there’s no point in being out here.
SIXTEEN
Jack
Being out in the late September sun in Star Falls is very different to the end of the summer in New York. The sun here is gentler. The air easier to breathe. The people are just as busy, just as focused, but here on Wilde’s Farm we’re all working together—with the same aim. To get the fruit off the trees and shrubs, packed, and on the trucks.
If I wasn’t busy today, I know my mind would be full of Iris. Full of everything that happened last night. I’ve known our connection was strong from that first night, strolling around Central Park. But last night sealed it.
Last night wasn’t sex, it was a goddamn pledge. It felt like we were giving ourselves to each other. Describing it as intense isn’t enough. It was big. I’m just not sure what it means or where it can go, so I need to be busy so I don’t drive myself crazy. Leo, Worth, and Bennett have headed back to New York and I don’t want to be a third wheel with Fisher or Byron, so I’m here to pick fruit.
Wilde’s Farm is a big operation. Bigger than I expected. And more complicated. There’s a ton of staff—most of which must be seasonal. And different shipments to different places piled up everywhere. I haven’t even been here a day, so I don’t know the ins and outs, but there are a lot of moving parts.
Being here, working on a business, reminds me of when I first bought my hotel. After business school, Bennett, Leo, Worth, Byron, Fisher, and I decided we’d each buy a hotel with some of the proceeds of the business we’d founded while studying, which delivered prescription medicines. The business had made us all independently rich. But we all knew we’d been successful because we worked so well together. We wanted something that would force us to stay in contact, so we’d devised a competition where the owner of the most successful hotel each year would win.
Little did we know that we wouldn’t need a competition to keep us close. Our bond has strengthened no matter the hotels and the competition, and our focus on them has ebbed and flowed. When I bought my hotel—a small boutique place opposite the Four Seasons on East 57th Street—the place had been run into the ground. It was about to lose its four-star rating and any good staff had left or were on their way out of the door.