Stirred: A Love Story (16 page)

Early on Monday morning, Garrett watched George and six of their other guys pull up the summer plants that were no longer producing in rows nine through twenty-two. The new cultivator was working. They’d spend the next couple of weeks cultivating and amending the soil before planting broccoli, cauliflower, and turnips. They’d finished spinach and another three rows of brussels sprouts, but Garrett was worried about the cabbage. The seeds were new and despite a few weeks of ideal environment, they still sat dormant. He also made a mental note that they needed to get the peppers Logan requested in the ground by the end of the weekend. Watching his men on their tractors through a cloud of dirt, he once again wanted to be out there in the fields instead of held up behind the damn computer for half the day. There was something about sweating, real work, that cleared his mind.

As he walked back to his office, Garrett longed for the days when Ryeland Farms was still only twenty-five acres and he could see everything he was responsible for while standing on his back porch. Now there was a whole other growing area a few miles away, and by next week, their new prep-and-assembly facility would be updated. The lands were still sustainable and responsible, but it was getting harder and harder to keep it all together. The drip system they used on their first forty-two acres proved a bitch to install at the second grow area, but it was important. California had been in a drought most of his life, so responsible water was sort of his soapbox issue. Sipping his coffee, he felt the weight of the three generations of farmers before him. Garrett was happy that Logan and Kenna were now getting married and he knew he wasn’t responsible for them in the true sense of the word, but the big brother thing never went away, which was fine. It was all he’d ever known how to do—farm and be responsible. When he was younger, he was also pretty good at kicking the ass of anyone who messed with his family, but he tried to find other ways of handling assholes these days.

Herbert Rye, their dad, and though Garrett rarely admitted it, one of his best friends, took a seat in the metal chair, padded with fake leather, across from Garrett. He placed two sandwiches wrapped in white paper on the desk right as Garrett responded to an e-mail from an applicant they hadn’t hired. He hit send and looked up at his dad.

“Were we meeting for lunch?”

Nodding, his father opened two Cokes and set one in front of Garrett.

“Did you make these?”

He shook his head, nudging a sandwich closer to Garrett and opening the one in front of him.

“Are. . . you going to speak?”

“I’m working on being a better listener,” his father finally said before biting into the French roll.

“Okay. I thought you were a pretty good listener before.”

“Yeah”—he paused to sip—“but there’s always room for improvement.”

Garrett opened his sandwich. “So, what’s up?”

“What are you working on?” his father asked after a few bites in silence.

Garrett let out a breath. “Well, we still need two more people trained and ready before harvest, and I got a quote to paint the sign out front because Kenna said it looks. . . haggard. I think that’s the word she used.” He finished the first half of his sandwich.

“That’s not what I meant. I know you’re working on things here. I meant your personal life.”

Garrett put his sandwich down and rubbed the bridge of his nose, hoping like hell this wasn’t another “shared wisdom” from his father’s obsession with Oprah. He’d already told Garrett that his “tank was empty” and “if he wanted abundance, he needed to nurture himself.” He shuddered at the memory and tried to think of something to tell his father that would end the conversation.

“Oh. . . well, I’m working on. . . being more enjoyable to be around.” If that made any sense. Apparently, it did because his father’s eyes widened mid-chew.

“That’s great. How’s it going?”

“Great. Dad, thanks for lunch and it’s always nice to have one of these. . . chats with you, but if I don’t get some of this paper off my desk, I’m going to have a bonfire that will supremely piss Kenna off.”

His father laughed, which was one of Garrett’s favorite sounds. “Sure, I’ll let you get back to it. I’m glad to hear you’re working on your personal foundation. Sometimes I think the things I say go in one ear and out the other.”

They do
, Garrett thought, throwing their lunch trash away.

He patted his father on the back and walked him halfway back to the house. Returning to his desk, he smiled and wondered if there was a support group for too much Oprah.

Chapter Fourteen

L
ogan had called a meeting to go over “Lessons Learned” at the farm-to-table event so they could prepare for the next one, which was rapidly approaching. He wanted to run through the meet-and-greet flow and promised a tasting menu if everyone was willing to drive up to the barn for the meeting. Sage didn’t need to be bribed with food to visit Ryeland Farms. Aside from the fact that Garrett would be there and the place itself was breathtaking, she also loved the drive. It was cleansing to get out of LA and she enjoyed being on the open road with her music. Today’s playlist was The Fray. They were always right on the border of depressing, and their music made her think about something other than sappy love.

Rolling down her windows, Sage allowed her fingers to touch the breeze as she looked out over acres and acres of rows. They were different in the afternoon sun, and she noticed more were covered, with what looked like white plastic, than before. For dirt, everything was so clean, precise. Sage guessed it had to be and wondered about regulations. For the first time in her life, she pondered what it must take to run a farm of this size.

What did his job look like? Was it fun or nerve-racking? Probably a bit of both, like most jobs, she thought. Pulling into a space next to Kenna’s Jeep, Sage realized admiring him from afar was no longer enough. She wanted to know him, understand him. That kiss had opened a door and even though she tried coming in late to avoid seeing him, nothing had helped her close the damn thing. If she couldn’t have all the pieces, she didn’t want his body.

“What the hell is wrong with wanting his body?” her own body screamed.

With the door wide open, her stomach knotted at the thought of seeing him, she realized that steps or no steps, she was never going to be a grape.

Reapplying her lip gloss, Sage tried to think about something else. She exited the car and grabbed her supplies from the trunk. She’d spent the last couple of days working on another drink, using bitters she’d made herself, and she planned on mixing up a batch for the tasting.

Sage went around the back of the main house and lowered her sunglasses over her eyes, partly because of the sun and mostly because Garrett was sitting straight ahead and she wanted some kind of barrier. His shirt was stiff and white as if it had recently come back from the dry cleaner.
Did he drop off his own dry cleaning?
For some reason, the idea of him living alone seemed wrong. It didn’t make sense that a man like Garrett Rye would be alone. She knew that sounded silly, but those were her feelings as she stared at him, one arm draped over the back of his chair. There were faint blue and red stripes on his shirt. It was plaid, but not exactly. The starched cotton looked as if it warmed and molded to the muscles of his shoulders. She noticed his wire-framed sunglasses and one boot propped up on the base of the wood table where he and Logan were sitting. Even with his back to her, he looked like no other man she’d ever met. He was a rare combination of easy and hard with a casual loping walk that hinted at cowboy. Every time he sat down, he leaned back as if he were going to be there for a while. Sage caught herself being ridiculous and cleared her throat. He certainly wasn’t perfect, but when she shared space with him, it felt like he was perfect for her. As she approached, he was arguing with Logan over melons. Was it even possible to have an argument about melons?

“We did the honeydew hybrid two years ago and they were crap. I’m keeping it simple this time.” Garrett took a catalogue back from Logan.

“They weren’t crap. We put them with that Spanish ham and it was great. The flavor is mellow, it worked.”

“Yeah, well, not everyone is a chef or knows what the hell Spanish ham is for that matter. I’m talking about bringing this thing home from our farmers market and cracking it open. There’s no flavor. You’ll need to find another friend for your jamón because I’m not growing those melons.”

“Hey, Sage,” Logan said, standing as if he’d been hanging out and forgetting his yellow pad for a minute. “You brought your equipment? Are we gonna be doing some afternoon drinking?”

She smiled. “Only samples. I have another new drink I think we should feature instead of the rusty nail.”

“Okay, good. Well, Kenna and Travis are in the barn already and we brought an extra server to see if that helps with the flow. Garre, do you want to come over and play restaurant for us?”

“Oh sure, I’m not working. I’ve got a tractor George can’t get out of reverse, but let me do this.”

“Great, thanks,” Logan said as if Garrett’s sarcasm was sincere.

As he stood, George approached, asking him something in Spanish.

Garrett nodded. “
Deje' las partes en el escritoire en la oficina de enfrente.
Regreso en un minuto
.”

George said something back that was equally confusing to Sage’s one-language brain and shook his head before heading back to the fields.

“You speak Spanish?” she asked as the three of them walked toward the barn.

“No,” Garrett said, gesturing for her to go ahead. Logan shook his head at his brother.

“Very funny.” Sage glanced over her shoulder.

“I’m working on being more. . . enjoyable to be around.” Garrett’s grin was wicked, his eyes hidden behind his shades.

“Seriously?”

“It’s not working,” Logan said, and ran ahead as a truck pulled up close to the barn.

“What’s the drink called?” Garrett asked from behind her.

“When did you learn to speak Spanish?” she asked back.

“Some in high school and then community college.”

“Impressive.”

“Is it? I thought only fancy degrees were impressive.”

“Those are too, but I’ve always been fascinated with language. Like, what did you say to George back there?”

“He was looking for parts. I told him they were on the desk and I’d be back in a minute. Why?”

“I think it’s interesting that you two are privy to something I don’t understand, but if I had a key and could learn it, then I could communicate. Language never sticks with me. I’ve tried Spanish and Italian on those computer classes, you know?” She shook her head. “Nothing works. My sister speaks three languages, which pisses me off.”

Garrett laughed. “Why does that piss you off?”

“She’s smug. You’d have to meet Hollis to understand. Anyway, I envy that ability to communicate. What did he say back?”

“That I was full of shit and he’d see me in a couple of hours. He also said you were beautiful.”

She stopped and turned to him again. “You made that up.”

“He did say I was full of shit, but the beautiful part may have been mine. You are.”

Sage felt her heart jump. “Is this part of your being more enjoyable practice?”

“Maybe.” He stepped up to her, inches from her mouth, and took off his sunglasses as if he knew those eyes were a weapon. “Is it working?”

She nodded, noticing he’d shaved.

“Good. What’s the drink called?” he asked softly, eyes on her mouth.

“The Rye.” She offered nothing else and continued walking. Sometimes being next to him threatened to wash her away, and she needed to concentrate on this meeting so their event went well.

“Really? I thought my drink was a Manhattan. I’m a classic, remember?”

“Yes, but you are not the only Rye in the family. Maybe the drink is an expression of the whole family.”

“Maybe.”

Logan was way ahead of them now and already in animated discussion with Travis.

“What’s in it?”

Sage stopped and turned to face him. “Logan gave me some plants, so I combined them and made a couple of new bitters.”

Garrett looked confused.

“Bitters are. . . essences, kind of like spices for a bartender. They’re part of the creative process for me. I have different kinds, creosote, rhubarb from last summer. They’re infused with flavors.”

“Huh. So you have new bitters from our farm?”

“Well, it’s my interpretation of the farm. You may not agree.”

“I’m sure I will.”

She laughed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said and pulled her off to the side, out of sight near a large tree. “You don’t by any chance have any farm fantasies, do you?”

“I do, they involve—”

He slid his hand behind her neck and kissed her before she could say another word, which was perfect because she had no idea what she was going to say or how she would go about describing a farm fantasy.

She could hear the breeze in the leaves above, smell the wood-tinged scent of him, and feel his lips, which were almost familiar. He’d touched her enough now that the initial shock had been replaced with recognition, as if her body knew it was him and welcomed him.