Chapter 3
2510 Words
DAY 1
DAY 1A light-blue Chevy truck that looks like it fell straight from an old film slows down in front of me. My lips part when I read Bennett Orchard Farms on the side and meet the deep-brown eyes of the man driving.
He’s here to pick me up.
He’s here to pick me up.I flew from California to Vermont, and after two connecting flights and three gigantic coffees, I’m finally here. The Bennetts insisted they drive me to the farm from the airport, and after pricing a rental car, I agreed. It was too expensive.
His gaze licks up and down my curves before he rolls down the window.
“Oakley Benson?” he barks in a deep gruff. If chocolate made a sound, his low, smooth voice would be it.
“Yep, that’s me,” I offer politely. I’ve been known to be flirty at times, and it’s always fun to test the waters, even if I’m here for business.
“Okay, get in,” he urges with a jerk of his head.
I smile, realizing I was gawking, even if the gesture’s not returned. I easily lift my carry-on and duffel to put them in the back but struggle with my oversized suitcase. Although it’s in the lower sixties and I’m wearing light clothing, I’m breaking into a sweat trying to deadlift it. After two minutes of me failing, the guy who looks like ice cream on a hot summer day finally gets out.
He’s tall, wearing a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. Scruff grows along his chin and jawline, and when his tongue darts out to lick his plump bottom lip, I have to force myself to look away.
I take a step back, and he grabs my hard-shell suitcase, then tosses it into the back of the truck with a heavy thud. Based on his body language, he’s not thrilled about being my ride. This isn’t the reaction I expected after he drank me in just a few moments ago.
“Hey! Things in there could break.” I scoff, but he ignores me.
“We don’t have time to stand around all day. Get in.” He taps his knuckles against the roof of the truck before climbing in and slamming the door. No hello, nice to meet you or even a friendly introduction. Not even the hint of a smile. First impressions are everything, and he just failed. He’s a grump who’s acting like someone pissed in his apple cinnamon oatmeal this morning.
One thing I can’t stand is being rushed. It’s one of my biggest pet peeves, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I try to push my annoyance aside because I’ll have to deal with this guy for the next hour.
After we drive for a few minutes in silence, I open my purse and grab some gum. “Want a piece?”
He looks at the package, then at me before returning his gaze to the road.
“Okay, guess not,” I mutter, shoving one into my mouth. I keep my eyes focused away from him, but then I remember I need to text my sister so she knows I made it okay.
Oakley: I’m alive in Vermont!
Oakley: I’m alive in Vermont!Tatum: Oh good! Don’t forget to send me pictures of all the pretty leaves! I need to live vicariously through you since I don’t know what fall looks like anymore.
Tatum: Oh good! Don’t forget to send me pictures of all the pretty leaves! I need to live vicariously through you since I don’t know what fall looks like anymore.I snicker. My sister’s sixteen years older than me and lives in Florida with her husband, Easton. She’s told me it’s either warm, hot, or scorching, and the four seasons we were used to in the Midwest don’t exist down there.
I snap several pictures of the gorgeous trees, then send them her way. I chuckle at her emoji choice—a smiley face slurping.
Now that I’ve seen the bright oranges and burnt reds, I’m even more excited to paint the Bennetts’ orchard farm for their centennial celebration in ten days.
Oakley: The guy who picked me up from the airport is a jerk. And of course he’s hot. All the hot ones are rude.
Oakley: The guy who picked me up from the airport is a jerk. And of course he’s hot. All the hot ones are rude.Tatum: Damn, that sucks. Scale from 1-10, how hot are we talking?
Tatum: Damn, that sucks. Scale from 1-10, how hot are we talking?Oakley: A total ten, but his shitty personality brings him down to a two.
Oakley: A total ten, but his shitty personality brings him down to a two.Tatum: Maybe he’s married, and that’s how he makes sure no women flirt with him?
Tatum: Maybe he’s married, and that’s how he makes sure no women flirt with him?I peek over the top of my phone and look at his left hand resting on his thigh.
Oakley: Nope. No ring. But I guess that doesn’t always mean anything. I know plenty of men who purposely don’t wear theirs.
Oakley: Nope. No ring. But I guess that doesn’t always mean anything. I know plenty of men who purposely don’t wear theirs.Tatum: It’s times like that I’m glad I’m not single and searching.
Tatum: It’s times like that I’m glad I’m not single and searching.Oakley: Who said I’m searching?
Oakley: Who said I’m searching?Tatum: Oh please. *Eye roll emoji* You’ve always been my boy-crazy little sister, and that hasn’t changed.
Tatum: Oh please. *Eye roll emoji* You’ve always been my boy-crazy little sister, and that hasn’t changed.I chuckle, and that’s when Mr. Grumpy glances in my direction.
Oakley: Fair enough. But this farm guy ain’t it, sis. Even if he looks like a Greek god. I’ll be happy when we get there, and I never have to speak to him again.
Oakley: Fair enough. But this farm guy ain’t it, sis. Even if he looks like a Greek god. I’ll be happy when we get there, and I never have to speak to him again.I pretend I’m taking a picture of the barn we’re passing on his side but zoom in on his forearm. Holding back my laughter, I send it to her.
Tatum: Muscular, nice. How old does he look?
Tatum: Muscular, nice. How old does he look?Oakley: Early to mid-thirties. But you know age doesn’t matter to me. I’d be a baddie and date a Daddy.
Oakley: Early to mid-thirties. But you know age doesn’t matter to me. I’d be a baddie and date a Daddy.Tatum: Oakley Jane!
Tatum: Oakley Jane!I snicker, knowing how much she cringes when I talk about dating older men. She’s nine years older than her husband, so she’s one to talk.
After I send her three kiss emojis, I lock my phone. My sister is my rock and best friend, and I tell her everything. We vowed to have no secrets after she ended things with her abusive ex-husband. I knew something was wrong before she left, but she didn’t want me to worry and lied about how bad things really were.
“So how long have you lived in Vermont?” I ask, trying once more to strike up a conversation.
He keeps his eyes focused on the road. “All my life.”
“Do you like it here?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Reba McEntire sings in the background, but other than that and road noise, it’s quiet and awkward.
“Are you shy or something?” I finally ask because I’ve never experienced someone treating me like I’m a nuisance before they even get to know me. I literally said three words, and I was on his s**t list.
“No.”
He doesn’t give any more explanation, and I take the hint—he just doesn’t want to talk to me. I could have a more enjoyable discussion with a rock. Instead of trying again, I keep to myself. It’s obvious he has nothing to say, and I’m too tired from traveling three thousand miles to care. I just hope this is the last time I have to deal with this guy.
meI concentrate on filming the passing farms and the different shades of leaves as the sunlight hits them. While my company isn’t the best, Vermont’s beauty is everything I expected it to be and more.
Before accepting the job, I did a lot of research about what to expect once I was here, but the photos didn’t do it justice. Colorful leaves hang from the tree branches, and some are even scattered on the ground and road. I’m more of a summer girl, but Vermont"s cooler temps and scenery are quickly winning me over.
After forty-five minutes of silence, the truck turns down a gravel road, and I see the historic inn in the distance. I read online that it has twelve rooms and is known for its homemade food and hospitality. My jaw drops at how it looks in person, and I continue staring as we come to a complete stop. The rocking chairs on the large front porch have the perfect view of the surrounding apple orchards.
“Your meeting will be through those doors,” he says, pointing toward the entrance.
“Great. Do I tip you?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not an Uber.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Do I need to grab my things?”
“I’ll drop your stuff off where you’ll be staying. I’ll be back to take you there once you’re finished inside.”
“Alright. Has anyone ever told you this place looks like it fell straight out of a Hallmark movie?” The hues have me itching to pull out my paints.
“Yeah, just every tourist who’s ever visited.”
My cheeks heat at how stupid he’s made me feel, and I’m ready to escape inside. After this embarrassing exchange, I’d almost prefer him not to talk to me ever again. Thankfully, once I hop out, he drives away without giving me a backward glance.
“Asshole,” I whisper under my breath as I nervously walk inside. I’m greeted with the smell of fresh-baked cookies, and I instantly crave a dozen.
I walk through a common area with chairs and a fireplace to the hallway. The bay windows allow the afternoon light to cast a warm glow inside.
As I look around, an older woman with white-gray hair comes toward me from around a counter. She’s got an oven mitt on one hand as she sweeps loose strands with the back of her free one.
“You must be Ms. Benson,” she kindly says. Her warm and inviting demeanor is just like the cozy inn, and I immediately like her.
“Yes, but please call me Oakley.”
“Perfect. I’ve been expecting you, dear. I’m Willa Bennett, the innkeeper and owner you spoke to.” She pulls me in for a hug, and I’m not used to people being this friendly. Especially after the driver basically dumped me at the front door like a soaking wet newspaper.
Willa leads me into a dining area with a large table and chairs that look hand carved. An older man is busy scribbling a mile long to-do list in a moleskin notebook.
“James, this is Oakley.” She grabs his attention, then looks at me. “This is my husband.”
He gives me a warm smile and outstretches his hand to shake mine. “The painter. We’re so happy you’re here. Thank you again for agreeing to do this. Once my wife showed me your portfolio, we knew you were the only one in the world who could do the farm justice. I’m still in shock you were available.”
onlyI blush. “Thank you. I’m very excited to be here.”
That’s an understatement, but I keep that to myself.
“Have a seat. I’m sure you’re tired from flying,” Willa offers, then pulls the oven mitt off her hand. “I just baked some cookies for the guests, would you like a few?”
“That would be incredible,” I admit with a smile. She walks away and quickly returns with a tray of milk and a stacked plate. We each grab one and dig in.
“Your painting supplies arrived early last week, so the boxes are at the cottage waiting for you. We’re looking forward to seeing your vision come to life. Well, when you decide what you’ll paint for us,” Willa says.
When we talked on the phone, they were very clear that I had complete creative control and wanted me to tour the farm to get an idea of its history. That was another reason I accepted the job. Not only are they comping the entire trip, but the piece they’re paying for will also be one of my highest-paid commissions. However, it puts a lot of pressure on me to present something worthy of the occasion.
“Perfect. I’m glad everything arrived okay. I’ve never shipped my supplies across the country before.” I smile, wanting to pop the entire cookie into my mouth, but refrain. Considering this is my first big freelance job, I’m shocked by how smoothly the process has gone so far. I’ve heard a handful of horror stories from friends who were given unrealistic deadlines and underpaid offers as well as worked with unbearable clients. Other than the tight deadline I’ve set for myself, the Bennetts have allowed me to call the shots.
As I take a sip of milk, James speaks up. “We’ve also ensured that you’ll get a proper tour of the farm. You’ll visit different areas over the next few days. We want you to take your time seeing it all and get the full experience of the orchard.”
I let out a relieved breath. Art takes time and shouldn’t be rushed. “Thank you. Really appreciate that. Just from the drive here, I’m already so eager to start painting the trees.”
“We’ve asked our grandson Finn to show you around, and he’ll be your main point of contact. He has expert knowledge of all the different areas of the orchard and is passionate about the farm. You’ll learn a lot from him,” Willa tells me with a smile.
“That sounds perfect,” I explain. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
James grins. “Oh, you already have. He picked you up from the airport.”
My smile drops, and I have to stop the four-letter words from escaping my mouth. Not excited to be touring the place with a man incapable of holding a conversation.
Fan-f*****g-tastic.
Fan-f*****g-tastic.
- Writer
