In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(37)

I rack my brain for an appropriate excuse.

4:43 am

Beckett: I’m not registered.

I know for a fact all team members need to be registered at the start of the trivia season. Caleb had to intervene in a dispute last year when Gus and Monty pulled Luka in for the Bruce Willis category without any clearance.

I sit up in bed and swing my legs over the edge, the floorboards cold beneath my feet. It’s been unseasonably chilly this March. I glance at the window, and then back down to my phone when it buzzes again.

4:45 am

Nessa: Oh, sweet brother of mine.

Nessa: We register you every year for exactly this reason.

Nessa: Now is your time to shine.

Nessa: The category is BOTANY.

4:47 am

Beckett: Our father is also a farmer.

4:49 am

Nessa: See you this weekend.

I don’t bother with a response. I know if I don’t show up to trivia, Nessa will appear at my house—probably with Harper—and physically drag me there kicking and screaming. It’s happened before and it’ll likely happen again.

I don’t like going to trivia. I don’t like spending my time in a crowded room that smells like beer and hot wings, a television on in every corner and an old record player that anyone can change whenever they want. For some insane reason, Jesse loves playing ABBA. It’s overwhelming, and at least seven people try to talk to me every time.

I go through the motions of getting ready for the day, the edges of my dream clinging to my thoughts. In my dream, I had been tracing the gentle slope between her shoulder and neck, my finger tracing soft brown skin. I shuffle down the hallway while pulling my flannel over my shoulders and indulge. Would she still taste like citrus if I pressed my tongue to her skin? Would she still hiccup my name?

The clink of the coffee pot distracts me, a warm glow of light coming from the kitchen.

Evelyn stands with her back to me at the counter, Prancer nuzzling her head into her hip. She hums and pets her hand down the cat’s back, whispering something with a laugh as Prancer pushes harder into her. I glance at the countertop. Two mugs sitting out, steaming with coffee.

My heart gives a heavy thump in my chest.

“Morning,” I greet and Evelyn turns to glance at me over her shoulder, hair swinging around her face. With her eyes still heavy and a yawn making her nose scrunch, she’s better than any dream I could ever come up with. Soft. Sleepy.

Perfect.

“Morning,” she says back, voice a little scratchy at the edges. I remember it gets like that when she first wakes up, body lazy beneath the sheets. I clear my throat and continue fastening my shirt, her gaze stuck on where my hands work at my buttons, the thin strip of bare skin that is exposed. I feel the touch of her eyes like a fingertip against my skin, starting below my collarbones and teasing slowly down. A pulse of heat pounds once at the base of my spine.

“What’re you doing up?” I make myself ask. My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed a bag of rocks.

Her tongue swipes at her bottom lip as she turns her back and grabs the two mugs from the countertop. I wish she would keep staring at me, wish she would press her hands beneath this flannel and dig her nails into my skin.

She hands me a mug, her fingertips brushing mine as I curl my hand around warm ceramic.

“I’m coming with you today.” She brings her mug to her lips. “I’d like to see what you do. Would that be alright?”

I nod. She could tell me to put on a hot dog costume and do the merengue down the front steps and I’d probably agree.

“Yeah, that’s alright.”



“You’re sure?” I ask for what feels like the eighty-seventh time since we left the cabin twenty minutes ago. She gives me a look over her shovel like she’s been counting too, entirely unamused.

“Why do you think I can’t handle manual labor?”

I scratch at the back of my head roughly, squinting out over the fields. The transplants will be here soon for planting, and we’ll be all hands on deck for dig day. I prefer to dig by hand (like a lunatic, as Layla likes to say) and of course, Stella has made it into a thing. Music, snacks, a bunch of people who are frankly unhelpful with the whole process. Caleb might be a good deputy, but he digs the most lopsided holes I’ve ever seen in my life.

But it makes Stella happy, so dig day it is.

We’re doing spacing today, marking the distance between each tree. It’ll be easier for people to dig if everything is already placed where it should be. I learned that the hard way when Charlie thought it would be “cool” to make his own “private forest” in the last field we did. I now have several clumps of trees growing way too close to one another, throwing off the balance of the whole thing.

“Just tell me what you need me to do,” Evelyn commands, and my brain immediately offers several detailed suggestions. She snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Instruction, farmer boy.”

I hesitate and her eyes narrow into slits. I forgot how demanding she can be.

I forgot how much I like it.

“You don’t think a woman can do what a man does?” If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.

“No,” I reply, amused. “A woman can do what a man does and make it look easy.”

Her eyes narrow further. “Don’t pander to me.”