Page 49 of Good Directions

12

ANTON

Saplings.

To the average person, saplings are just flimsy little trees—potentially expendable, depending on the circumstance—and not worth much more than a passing thought. Maybe they’ll grow. Maybe they won’t.

I am not your average person. I see potential. Future. Promise.

Sawyer Brown isn’t the average person either.

“Believe it or not, the soil isn’t in bad shape,” she says, running her hands through a pile of overturned earth.

She’s been down on all fours, crawling along the row where we lost the most trees, since I pulled up to the grove about fifteen minutes ago. I’ve been silently watching her, standing just far enough behind her to hear what she’s saying, but not close enough for her to know I’m here. For someone who hasn’t spent much time in the field, she’s clearly in her element, playing in the dirt, talking up all the soil properties, and taking readings and samples.

I don’t bother fighting my smile at how cute she is like this. It’s taking everything I have in me to remember my manners and not stare straight at her ass in those jeans. And I’m not doing a very good job.

I’m a man. Not a saint.

“The freeze didn’t affect the soil quite as much as it did the saplings, which is a good thing,” she continues.

“Not for the trees,” Ronald, one of our longtime workers, comments, his eyes glued firmly on her backside as well.

I snap my fingers at him, giving him a look letting him know that I caught him looking, and that I don’t approve. He shrugs, muttering something under his breath as he walks away. Something I’m sure was less than complimentary toward Sawyer.

“So…we can plant again?” I ask, letting my presence be known.

Sawyer startles, her quick movements forcing her to lose her balance, sending that cute little butt of hers into the dirt. Looking up at me, her eyes go wide. I smirk, the small flicker of want that quickly morphs into annoyance settling right in my chest.

“How long have you been standing there?”

It comes out as more of a demand than a question and I can’t help but laugh.

“Long enough to be pretty sure I just heard you say that I can plant again.”

I hold out a hand, offering to help her up. Sawyer thinks for a moment, then takes it, rising to her feet and starting to dust herself off. Being the gentleman that I am, I assist, sliding my hand around her waist and lowering it to her backside.

Sawyer slaps it away, looking around to see if any of the field crew are paying attention to us. I can tell without even looking from the muffled sounds floating through the air that they are well across the grove, focused on other things.

“Does anyone actually fall for that trick?”

“Some girls do, Sawyer.” I smirk, chuckling. “Sawyer Brown.”

She glares at me, narrowing her eyes, and not for the first time, I think that if she could shoot daggers at me, they would go straight to my heart.

Planting her hands on her hips, she cocks them to the side. “What’s so funny?”

“Sawyer Brown, ‘Some Girls Do.’”

She narrows her eyes even more, as if that’s possible, shooting her daggers even more acutely.

I start to hum a few bars of the nineties country song as if she somehow wouldn’t recognize it, which I know she does. But fuck, if it isn’t fun to get under her skin.

“Yes, I get it. You’re not the first person to make that reference.”

“Well, you seem to act like you didn’t know,” I tease. Her unamused look is cemented in place, and I take that as my cue to change the subject. “You also didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”