I’m not even going to think about questioning her on these numbers. I don’t know why she even insists on me looking at them in the first place. They might as well be in a foreign language, for all the sense they make to me. My strengths lie in earth and water, soil and roots, tractors and the ever-changing of the seasons. Not stupid spreadsheet bullshit.
“Axel? Did you hear me?”
“Oh right,” I grunt, staring at the page and not her. “I suppose that number makes more sense.”
“Is there another question you have?” she asks, pushing the sleeve of her oversized shirt up her forearm. I don’t know why, but Andrea has this weird proclivity for wearing baggy clothes. Even in the summer. I’ve literally never seen her in any restrictive clothing; not once in the nine years since I hired her right out of college. You’d think it would get old, harvesting a shitload of peaches while your clothes drag along your ass, but I’ve never seen her in anything else. It can’t be comfortable. It’s weird.
Not that I care. I’ve got better things to worry about than Andrea’s clothing. It’s just an observation—and I’m an observant man.
Whatever. I’ve got shit to do. I finally meet her gaze; Andrea is staring at me, eyebrow raised in question, not a smidgeon of pity on her face. Another reason she’s indispensable. “No, that was my only question. You can get started on this quarter’s report.”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“See that you do.”
Andrea gets up, making her way to the door to return to her own office in the barn. But before she can, the door flies open and Morris appears, eyes wild.
“Boss, you gotta come quick. Someone fucked up the hose and it’s flooding the whole southern quadrant.”
Chapter Four
It’s a fucking nightmare.
I stare at the carnage. We have one industrial hose—the kind that firefighters use—and a bunch of smaller ones, which we use for daily watering. Pretty simple stuff, but apparently someone had the brilliant idea to hook up the industrial hose instead. In the time it took someone to run back to the water line, the industrial hose completely flooded the southern quarter of the farm, turning the soil into a muddy mess.
Peach trees are hardy, but even trees can be overwatered. Untold gallons of water slamming into them don’t exactly create an ideal soil composition. If we don’t dry them out quickly, the roots might rot, and then a whole bunch of the trees could fall over dead.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell were you thinking?” I say, taking in the massacre.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Morris whines. “I didn’t think the hose could send out that much water.”
“Yeah, you didn’t think all right, you fucking ingrate.”
Some of the other men arrive from the northeast quadrant, where they’re harvesting today—or at least, where they should be harvesting today. They stare at the wreckage in shock.
“How far did you turn the hose on?”
Morris shrugs. “I don’t know, I turned it on the whole way.”
“The whole way? Are you out of your goddamn mind? They use these industrial hoses to put out fires. It didn’t occur to you that that might be too much water for a couple of peach trees?”
“Well, hell, boss. I didn’t know they use them for fire fightin’. Howard always controls the water flow.”
I rub my temples, not saying a damn word because what I really want to shout is that he might just be the dumbest piece of shit I’ve ever met in my entire life.
I’m about two seconds from blasting him into next Sunday when Andrea puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “We need to stabilize these trees.”
I pull out my phone to call my soil supplier because she’s right. If these trees don’t get better soil immediately, we’re risking a quarter of our total production. “Jerry? Yeah, it’s Axel. We’ve got a huge problem over here. A whole bunch of trees got flooded when one of our hoses malfunctioned. I need you to bring over a shitload of soil right now … Yeah, the same one as last spring … I’d say about fifty of them need two, maybe three feet of soil around the base … No shit, we’re going to need a lot. Thanks, Jerry. I’ll see you soon.”
I send the men back to continue harvesting while we wait for the soil to arrive. Thank Christ Jerry has enough on hand right now. Usually I have to call him up three months in advance with a special order to make sure I have what I need.
He arrives an hour later, dumping an enormous pile of soil onto the ground near the trees. I call the men over from the harvest so we can get to work.
“Okay, guys. We need to get this done by nightfall so that the roots don’t begin to rot after the sun goes down.”
They all eye the soil skeptically, probably counting the number of trees that essentially have to be replanted. It’s already midafternoon; we’re going to have to hustle in order to get this done in time.
“Howard usually—” someone begins, but it’s the final straw.
I whirl on the lot of them. “Let me say this once and one time only. Howard is gone. Whatever Howard did or didn’t do is no longer relevant. If you have to do something and you’re unsure or can’t remember, you come directly to me. No more thinking ‘Oh, I saw Howard do this once, so I’ll do it like that’ or ‘Howard always did it this way, so I’m going to as well.’
“If you don’t know how to do something, if it’s not literally already your job, you will come directly to me before doing anything. And I will tell you what to do. If you don’t, and we have another situation similar to the multiple fuck-ups we’ve had today, Howard isn’t going to be the only one who gets fired. I’ll then get people who can follow orders. Do I make myself clear?”
They all nod, but I don’t miss the frustration on their faces. Well, bummer for them, because I, too, am frustrated as hell. And unlike them, I don’t have a boss that I can complain to and pass the buck whenever I feel like it.
We began transporting wheelbarrow-fulls of soil to the trees. It’s disgusting work since we have to wade through the muddy ground to rearrange everything. Many of the trees are so swamped with mud that we essentially have to scrape any remaining soil entirely away and dump clean, dry soil around the trunk.
I feel the sun slipping across the sky, urging me to finish before it grows dark. We’re in a race against time; I glance around, counting the remaining trees that need to be fixed. Still too many. It’s going to be close to finish before sunset. After a few hours, my clothes, my shoes, even my face are covered in muck.
To their credit, my men don’t complain. They can be dumbshits, but give them clear directions and a deadline and they’ll bust their asses to finish on time. I work right beside them, calling out which trees need to be replanted before others, wheeling more soil over when one of my employees needs help.
Andrea toils away without being asked. While Andrea is officially here to manage the farm’s finances, she often helps out with the physical work when necessary. And there’s nothing more necessary than that right now. The soil is too heavy for her small frame to move it in the wheelbarrow, so she spends her time shoveling it around the trunks after someone drops it off for her.
Some of the men laugh and joke about how she’s too tiny to do much damage. She just laughs and continues shoveling. All the men love Andrea. Over the years, she’s become an unofficial mascot.
She’s the Tinker Bell to my Red Devil. Three guesses which one of us tolerates the nickname better.
By the time the sun slips completely below the horizon, we’ve just barely finished. The men give each other high fives and pats on the back, their white smiles the only clean thing about them. Andrea leans against the handle of her shovel and smiles tiredly.
“All right, guys. Y’all did a good job. We really came together to get this done. I appreciate it. Go on home and get some rest; we have to resume the harvest tomorrow. We’ll be a little behind since we spent the afternoon here, but thanks again.”
A few of the men gape at me in open surprise
. I just barely refrain from scowling. It’s not like I’m literally incapable of being grateful. I’ll be the first to be thankful when someone deserves it. It’s just not often that anyone deserves it.
I watch them head off in the general direction of the employee parking lot; it’ll be a bit of a hike for them to return to their cars, let alone drive all the way back into Ovid. While we almost always work until sundown, today’s been rough. The last thing I need is a bunch of people to quit when I still haven’t filled the gaping hole left by Howard’s precipitous departure.
“We should find a way to thank them,” says Andrea from directly beside me, moving so quietly I didn’t hear her come up next to me.
I grunt in agreement, but I frankly have no idea what I’ll do for them.
Andrea reads my blank expression correctly—another one of her talents. “How about a picnic? We can have it next Saturday. Give them free food and beer and they’ll feel appreciated.”
I shrug. “Sounds like a plan.”
Andrea rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s why I pay you.”
“Um, no, it’s not.”
“Then remind me to add it to your official job description.”
“Oh sure. I spent four years in accounting school to get my degree, but you’re right; I’m essentially a glorified party planner.”
I grind to a halt and stare down at her. “You know that’s not what I meant. I don’t think of you as some fucking party planner.”
She smirks at me, then throws a significant glance around her. “Obviously. But I couldn’t really resist such low-hanging fruit, could I?”
I roll my eyes and continue walking. “Glad I could be of amusement to you.”
“Oh, come on! Nothing? Really? But that was so very punny!”
“No comment.”
“Ax, you loser. I slid that low-hanging fruit reference in there so smoothly, it deserves acknowledgment.”
“It does not.”
“Ha, you just acknowledged it!”
“Andrea, please stop by the psychiatrist on the way home. He might be of assistance to you. Hard to say though. Some cases are hopeless.”
“If anyone needs psychiatric help, it’s the Red Devil.”
“Now, I was under the impression that you were aware I dislike that nickname. Do you require a refresher?”
“The only thing that needs refreshing is your shirt. It’s beyond filthy.”
I glance at her dryly. “Oh yes. And your appearance is positively clean.”
“Naturally. Women always are.”
I snort, because that’s a lie if I ever heard one. By now, we’ve reached the house. I take a few steps onto the porch, then say casually over my shoulder, “Well, I was going to let you clean up in my shower, but since you’re already clean—”
“Don’t even think about sending me home like this!”
I shake my head. Women. Obviously I wasn’t going to let her go home in muddy clothes like that. The men, sure. They’re perpetually disgusting. No use pretending otherwise. But Andrea is a civilized human being, so I’ll treat her as such.
It pays to keep your accountant happy. Quite literally, I might add.
I motion for her to follow me into the house. Normally, there’s a shower on the ground floor, but it’s been out of commission for a few weeks while I update the plumbing. So instead of leading her to it, I nod toward the second floor on my way to my office.
“Go ahead and shower upstairs so you can head home. I’ll go after you.”
“What am I supposed to do, wear these filthy clothes after I shower?”
“Just take something out of my room,” I call over my shoulder. She can wear a garbage bag, for all I care. I just want her out of my house as quickly as possible. I’d take even a handful of minutes of relaxation by this point. Andrea, with her constant picking at my business decisions, is the opposite of relaxing.
“Okaaaay,” she calls as she climbs the stairs.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. You can bring my clothes back then.”
Andrea grumbles something about hospitality under her breath, but I don’t bother trying to pick it out. It was hospitable enough of me to let her use my shower, right? And my clothes. She’s a big girl; I don’t need to hold her hand right into the shower. She can figure it out on her own.
While I wait, I place an order for more packaging; we’re running out since this year’s harvest is marginally larger than usual, something we desperately need after three lackluster previous seasons.
By the time I finish, it’s been almost an hour. Jesus. I’ve been sitting in my own filth while I work on the computer. I surge out of my chair and then turn back to stare down at it. Sure enough, it’s covered in dirt. Christ.
I’ll deal with it later.
I strip off my shirt and pants in the laundry room. The things are filthy; I’ve already tracked enough muck into the house. I climb the stairs to the second floor, taking them two at a time and propelling myself around the bannister at the top so I can reach my room that much sooner. I shove my bedroom door open without any thought but how much I desperately want a hot shower.
I almost walk into Andrea, completely naked and still wet, gaze trailing down my body. All thoughts of a shower fly out the window as I reach for her, needing to taste that glistening skin.
Chapter Five
Andrea’s lips wrap around my hard cock, her tongue swirling over my head as her mouth takes me in farther. I groan, my fingers twisting her hair as she bobs up and down my shaft. Andrea adds a hand, gripping the base of my cock firmly as her mouth sucks me harder.
My hips buck involuntarily, my mouth dropping open in a groan as she moans softly. I feel the vibrations all the way up my dick. Her eyes snap to mine and hold as she slowly takes one inch, two, then all of me down her throat, sucking me like she’s been doing it for years.
I feel my balls tighten mercilessly as the mother of all orgasms threatens to put me on the floor. Andrea slides me completely out of her mouth, a soft smirk twisting her lips as my chest heaves.
“Why haven’t you fucked me yet?”
I jerk, eyes flying open to land on the disappointingly empty sheets next to me. Holy fucking Christ, did I really just imagine Andrea mouth-fucking me to within an inch of my life?
I slide out of bed, legs hitting the floor as I hold my head in my hands, cock aching as I desperately try to mentally erase the most erotic dream I’ve experienced in months, perhaps ever.
I cannot be fucking my accountant in my dreams. That is fucked up on so many levels. I’m not attracted to her; I just happened to see her naked, and being male, my brain went to its inevitable pleasurable conclusion.
This is just my brain processing the day’s events. That is it.
Even so, my mind returns unbidden to last night.
My hands jerk back before I stupidly touch her, but I sure as fuck look. My eyes take in every inch of her body. Andrea’s blonde hair is darkened by the water. To my dismay, I realize the color is natural; I’ve always had a weakness for blondes. I’ve never really noticed Andrea’s hair color before because she always has it up in a messy bun, but now, staring at the hair nestled at the apex of her surprisingly curvy hips, the color is kind of impossible to miss.
Everything about her is perfectly proportional to her tiny frame, but none of it is slim. Andrea’s curves are as full as her 5’2” stature can allow without becoming obscene. Her legs are long, slender limbs I instantly need wrapped around my waist as I thrust inside her.
And her tits? Fuck me, but I could spend a few hours licking those perfectly pink nipples.
But the worst thing of all is the lovely shade of pink her body changes the longer I keep staring at her. Because now I know that Andrea is one of those women who are very fucking responsive.
She’d be responsive to me if I screwed her like I suddenly want to.
Have I been blind? Andrea has an extremely fuckable bo
dy, and I’ve somehow missed it in all the years she’s been working for me.
“What the fuck is this?”
My words release us from our mutual ogling. Andrea leaps forward and grabs the towel that’s sitting on my bed, wrapping it tightly around her. It does absolutely nothing to distract me because now I’m thinking of peeling that towel from her before I fuck her in the shower.
“Axel! Why aren’t you getting out?”
“Because I want to know why you’re naked in my bedroom!”
“I’m getting the clothes you said I could borrow!”
“Why did it take you an eternity to do so? I’ve been down there for an hour! For fuck’s sake, did you get lost in the shower?”
She glares at me, her hand still gripping the towel. Will she drop it accidentally in anger if I piss her off enough? Should I try it?
Believe me, I know that would be remarkably stupid, but my cock is still back on the fact that the naked woman in my room has been right under my nose for ages. It’s going to be a bit before my brain starts functioning properly.
“Why do you always wear such large clothing?”
Andrea stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Not going to lie, I probably have. “Are you seriously asking me about my choice of clothing right now?”
“I don’t see why you wear them when you—” I trail off, because while I might have lost it, there are just some things men instinctively know not to say.
A sly look I’ve never seen before creeps onto her face. “When I what? Look like this? How exactly do I look, Axel?”
My mouth snaps shut. I take another long gaze at her body, unable to resist even though I know it’s the height of idiocy. “Like that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Very descriptive. Typical. Can you get the hell out so I can have even a little privacy, now that you’ve seen every inch of me?”
I haven’t seen every inch of her, but just about. And because I’m a stupid man, instead of leaving like a sane person, I fold my arms over my chest and say, “I don’t get why you insist on dressing so poorly when you have a body any man would kill to screw.”
Devil (King Brothers #2) Page 3
