Page 18 of Good Directions

Makes sense that Hickory Hills would go all out for such an event. Small town in the south—I’m sure everyone turns out. That’s how it goes down in Hurricane Shoals.

“We compete against the boy cousins as the first match. And we have a title to defend…”

Boy cousins?

I blink, my mind going fuzzy as Anton continues to ramble on in small-town code about God knows what. Not anything that makes sense. His excitement is palpable though, his smile electric, making my insides feel funny.

And that’s the last thing I want when it comes to Anton Hayes—for my insides to feel funny.

“Pancake breakfast is really the kickoff,” Cary corrects him, cutting off his nonsensical ramble and pulling my attention back. “Best damn pancakes you’ll ever have, Sawyer. Dolly usually makes at least three different types. And we’re not talking little silver-dollar pancakes. Nope, these suckers are big, fluffy, and thick. The real deal. Thinking of, we should consider pulling some pecans for her, since we don’t have excess peaches.”

Pecan pancakes? Those sound delicious. Having experienced the magic that Dolly—assuming it’s the same Dolly—worked with a BLT, I can only imagine what she does with a pancake. Town events have never been my thing, but that might be enough to make me change my mind.

“Go for it. Although I had been thinking about trying to turn the batter purple or something, but Dolly might slit my throat.” Anton laughs.

I cut my eyes to him, unable to tell if he’s being serious. What kind of juvenile⁠—

“I’d be more afraid of Hux,” Cary comments.

Okay, he was serious. He really was thinking about tampering with the batter. Like a thirteen-year-old boy. Good to know he’s the one running the show.

The lab darkens slightly, the natural light streaming through the large greenhouse windows muting itself as a cloud rolls in front of the sun. I turn my attention away from the boys, looking at the skies. The crystal-clear blue from this morning is gone, giving way to a darker shade, with large, bulbous clouds building in the distance.

“Tut, tut…” Anton comments, twisting his head to look to the skies.

“It looks like rain.”

I finish the phrase without thinking, Winnie the Pooh’s words so engrained in my memory that they flow out like water. Anton turns to me, smiling, bright blue eyes sparkling. For a split second our gazes connect, the shared expression connecting us like we’re the only two on the planet who remember the silly old bear and his request to Christopher Robin. My tummy flutters, the tickle of a thousand butterfly wings skimming through me.

As quickly as it’s there, it’s gone though. As fleeting as a whisper.

“D’we wanna call over and see where they are and if we can spray before it hits?” Cary asks.

“Nah,” Anton replies, turning back to the skies. “By the looks of it, it’ll be quick. We’ll want to make sure they hit it today though. The dew point is pretty high, and I don’t want to risk mold taking over in the night.”

“What? Are you the weather whisperer?”

My question is meant as a joke. Something to tease him with. To try and see if that incredibly brief connection a second ago was a thing. But my tone is harsher than I intend.

“I’m decent at it.” Anton shrugs.

“He’s better than decent. He’s like a human barometer,” Cary says, typing away at his phone. “I tried to get him to major in meteorology, thinking we’d be an unstoppable team if one of us knew ag and the other weather, but he wasn’t having it.”

Anton ignores him, instead craning his neck to follow a cloud as it moves. “Tell them not to spray the saplings. If we’re going to replant, we should limit the sulfur exposure to the field.”

“Already did.”

I nod, enjoying the heck out of getting to witness this firsthand. Getting to see how a company looks at its data and treats its fields as situations arise. Knowing that Hayes takes such good care is going to be a big help in proving my hypothesis. If we’re able to lower the pH levels even a little bit this summer, that will go a long way in helping reduce cycle time. And them being cognizant of when they spray⁠—

Wait…

“Did you say sulfur?” I question. This time I know my voice is harsh, and that’s on purpose. Because sulfur is the wrong answer.

“Yes,” they say almost in unison.

“You use a sulfur-based spray?”

No. No. There’s no way.