Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Every business conversation felt like a foreign exchange. It didn’t matter how confidently I explained how a farm runs from sunup to sundown, or how the soil feels between your fingers. All they cared about were projections, profit margins, and scalable vertical integrations.
Whatever the hell that means.
Every meeting ended with the same cold dismissal—“We’ll be in touch”—which really meant, “We won’t.”
And then, of course, there was him.
The final cherry on top of my New York Shitty Sundae. The man who ruined my twenty-dollar latte and had the audacity to blame me for it.
He was easily the sexiest man I’ve ever seen—hazel eyes, low-cut black hair, dimples that could ruin your whole week.
Until he opened his mouth.
Rolling my eyes at the memory of him, I make my way to baggage claim and mentally replay every meeting that went sideways. The missed opportunities, the forced smiles, the glossed-over condescension.
I grab the last suitcase from the carousel—right as a deep voice growls behind me.
“What the hell happened, Eliza?” my older brother, Jackson, bellows.
Before I can play dumb, he grabs my shoulders and spins me to face him.
“When were you planning to tell me you bombed the meeting with Josiah Investments? So much so that they won’t even answer my emails now…”
“I wasn’t,” I admit.
“Why the hell do you think I sent you up there?” he fumes. “I need someone who can get us some new investments for our damn farm.”
“I am the someone,” I say. “I have two business degrees, and I handle myself just fine at all the other meetings…”
“On a scale from one to ten, how badly did you burn the bridge?”
“Fifty.”
“Jesus Christ.” He glares at me.
“I really am sorry.” I meet his eyes. “I tried every tip and trick from that course you made me take, but when the CEO asked if we could ‘continue the discussion over wine… with me in his lap,’ I just… lost it.”
His expression slowly softens.
“The other guys were less direct, but it was all the same. I know you were counting on that contract, but…”
I trail off. What else is there to say?
“If he calls to follow up, let me know.”
“I won’t answer.”
“No, I want you to.” His tone darkens. “I’ll finish the conversation for you.”
I nod, but ignoring the call sounds like the safer plan.
My brother’s still on thin ice with the sheriff for beating the shit out of the last guy I almost dated—
(and by “dated,” I mean the guy who said, “If we don’t fuck tonight, I’m done with you.”)
“Why didn’t you tell me he came onto you?” he asks.
“Seriously?” I give him a blank stare.
He laughs. “Fair enough.”
He grabs my bags before I can stop him. “Let’s get home. You’ve got a lot of new stuff to deal with in the garden before tomorrow’s check-ins.”
THREE
HARRISON
Three weeks later
“Are you freakin’ serious?”
The latest girlfriend I’m breaking up with practically screams it across the café. “He’s too much of a coward to end this relationship himself?”
I stay quiet as the room goes still.
There’s no use telling her that her boyfriend has been trying to break up with her for months—but he didn’t want to risk a public meltdown like this one.
“Oh, so now you’ve got nothing to say?” She stands up, knocking her chair back. “Now you’re a mute?”
People start pulling out their phones and recording.
“I just need you to sign this contract,” I say calmly, sliding my typical paper forward. “Your boyfriend wants you to find someone who deserves you.”
“I deserve him!”
“Well, he doesn’t want you anymore.” I don’t flinch. “Don’t waste your time trying to keep a bird captive while he’s trying to fly free.”
“Thank you, Shakespeare.” She scoffs. “I bet you have an entire catalog of bullshit quotes to roll out when you’re doing things like this. Don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it a catalog,” I say. “It’s more like a carefully curated PDF file. Would you like me to send you a copy?”
She stares at me like she’s deciding whether to murder me, then snatches the contract and looks over the terms.
Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she grabs my pen and signs the paper. Then she shakes her head in frustration.
“You literally have the most despicable and disgusting job on the planet,” she hisses. “Who is your manager?”
“I work for myself.”
“Even worse. In that case, how the hell do you sleep at night?”
“Sometimes I have to use a white noise app, but most times, I go to sleep just fine.”
She blinks.
“Are you waiting for me to give you the name of the app?”
“I hope you get pushed off a roof one day. Soon.” She hurls the contract at my face and storms out of the café.
Thank God she was the last one this week.
I flag the waiter and lean back, ignoring the judgmental stares. At this point in my career, whispers and side-eyes don’t faze me.