Page 68 of Good Directions

17

ANTON

I stare up at the ceiling, wondering just how big of a marble I’m going to need. Probably a decently large one. Which means it’s going to have some weight to it, causing it to fall faster. Not something you want in Plinko.

So marbles are out.

Back to balls.

“You’re not listening,” Sawyer chides.

Her bossy tone almost makes me wish I really hadn’t been paying attention, and it really makes me wish we weren’t in the lab. Because as glorious as those big, beautiful greenhouse UV windows are for letting in the sunshine, they also mean that there is zero chance of stripping her down and having my way with her.

“Sure I am,” I reply, eyes still glued to the Rube Golberg contraption I’ve rigged up around the lab. The one that I’ve been using as a distraction since Alex called this morning to let me know that for a second day in a row, he had to send people home because there wasn’t anything new to process.

The trees haven’t quite been picked clean, but damn close. We have maybe—maybe—two more weeks of fruit. If we’re lucky. And that’s going to be tight. Won’t be even good fruit, if I’m honest about it. We’ll still pick it though, because someone will be buying. I should be getting a good four more weeks, but I won’t. Not even close.

Making this the worst crop since my grandfather was running this business in the 1950s.

Fuck.

“Then what did I say?” she challenges.

I swivel around in my chair, taking her in. The late afternoon sun bounces off her chestnut hair, making it almost look reddish in spots. Her lips are pursed to one side, arms crossed, pushing those perfect breasts up. The ones that now that I know what they look like, I can’t stop thinking about. Everything about her right now is a challenge. One I’m ready to meet.

“That your samples from the saplings field are outperforming your lab data at a rate that actually has you more worried than excited, because it makes you think something is wrong, rather than proving that you did something right.”

“I hate you.”

I chuckle. “You do no such thing.”

I swivel back around, thoughts returning to the Plinko board and whether or not that’s really the best solution for this section of the experiment. The longer I stare at it, the more I second-guess myself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sawyer asks, her voice shifting.

“About the samples? Honestly, soil is not my expertise. I know what I need to as it pertains to not fucking up my crops. I trust you.”

“Not what I was asking.”

I sigh, turning back around to face her. I know what she’s asking. Talking about it is another story.

“Worst season since 1954. Nineteen fifty-fucking-four.”

The sour taste left in my mouth as I say it out loud seems to multiply somehow, becoming more and more acidic by the second. Even worse, I sound like an asshole.

“That isn’t your fault.”

Leaning forward, I press the heels of my hands in my eye sockets. There’s no use in holding it back, and frankly, if there is anyone to let go in front of, it’s Sawyer. We’ve shared so much with each other over the last week—from likes, dislikes, childhood stories, fears, and happy places—so what’s adding this to the list?

She’s spent more nights at my place than she has at my parents’, something Auggie couldn’t help but privately comment on at Munch this week. I managed to keep my smart mouth shut, simply nodding as he gave me the dad glare and once-over, before proceeding to lecture me about treating her right and not doing anything that wouldn’t make him or my mama proud. If he only knew all the things that aren’t going on in that bed.

Something that is still fine by me. Sawyer’s the one calling the shots. I meant what I said; there isn’t a timeline here. Because Sawyer is different. She’s the one woman I’ve met that I want to be with—just be with—and not because I want to fuck her. Yes, I want to fuck her. But, there’s so much more to it. More to her.

So fucking can wait.

“Objectively, I know that,” I say, looking up at her. “I know that Mother Nature took over, threw a massive hissy fit, and fucked us six ways to Sunday. That doesn’t make it any easier looking at the numbers. Submitting my reports. Tracking my numbers. All of which are down. Record-breakingly down. Knowing that it’s not my fault doesn’t help knowing that the workers that depend on this seasonal crop for work to provide for their families…can’t.”

Sawyer nods, letting me rant.