The professor lowered his voice. “I like you Harper. You’re serious and driven. But you know I can’t cancel that vote. And if you back out of this research opportunity, you know they probably aren’t going to vote for you.”
Yes. She knew.
Professor Hitten adjusted his tie. “Is there anything I can do to make you consider changing your mind?”
“No. I’m sorry. I have to do what I said I would.”
Professor Hitten gave her a long look. Then his expression changed as Wyatt walked up and stopped beside her, close but not touching.
He held his hand out. “Wyatt Fernandez.”
“Professor Hitten.” The professor’s eyes narrowed, but he shook Wyatt’s hand.
“He’s my cousin.” Some internal urge forced those words out of Harper’s lips.
The professor’s face relaxed.
“Step-cousin,” Wyatt said. He finished shaking the Professor’s hand and shifted closer to Harper.
Again the Professor’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t care, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of security that Wyatt offered.
Professor Hitten cleared his throat. “If you change your mind before next week, let me know.”
Harper nodded, her insides congealing like bacon grease as the professor climbed back into his car.
Wyatt stuck his hands in his front pockets. “Did he come to give you detention?”
Harper’s lips twitched up. Somehow Wyatt could always get her to grin. “Nope.”
He sobered. “It was about the research position, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Do it.”
She sighed as Professor Hitten’s car pulled out of the lot. “No.”
“I can handle the farm, Pickles.”
“Would you leave me here alone to go on your Europe trip?”
“Of course not.”
A few flicks of faded white paint fell from where her hand held the banister to the flower pot, already filled with soil and waiting for the geraniums her mother planted in it every year. She turned from looking at the empty brown fields and met his serious gaze. “I feel the same way.”
One side of his mouth pulled back. “I didn’t figure I could talk you into it, but I hate to see you miss out.”
“Ditto.” She shrugged, but she couldn’t quite get her mouth to turn up.
Wyatt put his arm around her. “If you’re going to keep looking glum, I’m gonna track that guy down and tell him you changed your mind.’
Although tempted to tell him about the tenure that she wasn’t going to get, Harper decided to keep her mouth shut about it. He couldn’t do anything, and she hated whiners.
“I’m a little bummed, but I’m going to be fine.”
“Come on. We’ll finish up early today. Tomorrow, I challenge you to a Christmas tree trimming race.”
This time she did laugh. “You always win, but your trees look like they survived a typhoon.”
Wyatt clasped a hand to his heart. “That hurts.”
“It’s true.”
“I don’t rub in the fact that your trees often look like they have a tassel at the top since you’re too short.”
“Vertically challenged.” She put a hand on her hip. “Like you are somehow responsible for how tall you are.”
“God favored me.” He smirked at her.
“So God punished me by making me short?”
“You said it.”
“You implied it!”
“No. I said your trees always look like they have a big ball at the top. You’re the one who got all huffy and started yakking about being short.”
“That’s because you’re acting like me not being able to reach the top of the tree because of a factor out of my control is the same as you mutilating yours simply because you lack the skill to properly trim an evergreen into a perfect Christmas tree shape.”
“Hold up there, Pickles. This boy is not lacking skill.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to prove it tomorrow.”
“Seven a.m. Sharp.” He stuck his hand out. “Unless you chicken out.”
She grabbed his hand. “This chick don’t run.”
“Obviously, you need to study up on your English as well.”
“I was kidding. It was a turn of phrase…” Harper closed her mouth. She’d been enjoying her argument, no, discussion, with Wyatt so much, she’d forgotten all about her conversation with Professor Hitten and the almost certain loss of tenure. Which was surely what Wyatt had intended.
Her heart flipped like a burger on a grill. She could almost hear the sizzle. Shaking her head, she pulled away and turned toward the house. Now that the more-than-friends thoughts had entered her head, her whole body went haywire at the oddest times.
To cover up her odd reaction, she said, “Last one in the house does the dishes,” and started running.
Chapter Six
“They look like they grew up drunk.” Wyatt set his hedge trimmers down beside the first row of Scotch pine and pulled his gloves out of his back pocket while scanning the cloud-free, early morning sky. The sun sparkled on the clear water of the pond which lay in the dip, two hundred yards away. “Maybe that’s how they got their name. Short for Scotch Whisky.”
Wyatt had spent enough time on the farm to know they grew fast and, because of their deep tap root, were drought resistant, which made them a favorite of growers. But compared to a Douglas fir or a balsam fir, Scotch pines looked more like untamed octopuses than the proper cone-shaped Christmas tree. Maybe that’s why they were his favorite, too.
“It originated in Europe. Probably grows well in Scotland.” Harper’s eyes swept over him. Lines appeared between her brows. “Where are your safety goggles?”
“We’re trimming trees, not welding.” He stopped at the end of the first row, admiring how different she looked in her long-sleeved shirt, jeans and work boots. Not studious. Not today.
“Welding?” She paused before walking to the next row.
The grass brushed the tops of her boots, and he made a mental note that it needed to be mowed. Snakes loved to hide in it, and he didn’t want Harper getting bitten. “You know, with a rod about yay long.” Wyatt stretched his gloved hands out.
“I know what welding is,” Harper said. “I just…never mind.” She shook her head, then adjusted her goggles and pulled her gloves on.
He started his hedge trimmer. Harper started hers. He pulled the trigger playfully, making revving sounds.
Harper rolled her eyes. He waggled his eyebrows at her.
She gave him her serious, I’m-gonna-whip-your-donkey look.
He loved that look.
Holding up three fingers, he waited for her nod. He put one finger down. Two. Then another. One. Waiting a beat, he fisted his hand, zero, before squeezing the throttle and starting on the tree in front of him. In the row beside him, Harper did the same.
How many times had they done this together? The last few summers he’d been off roaming the world, but before that, Harper and he had spent a lot of time trimming trees. They’d even raced before. And Harper was right—he did tend to sacrifice shape for speed. Well, not today. Today his trees were going to be perfect, and he was still going to beat her.
The scent of pine filled the air along with needles and small branches that flew from the blades of their trimmers. Like riding a bike, the proper angle and diagonal motion came back as easily as breathing. The buzz of the trimmers drowned out any other sounds, making his vision shrink to just the tree in front of him. Although he never lost the awareness of Harper behind or beside him.
He kind of wished they weren’t racing, because he loved watching the serious look on her face. The way her eyes sized up the tree, the way she handled her trimmers with skill, and her feminine grace despite her jeans and boots.
A cloud passed over the sun and without its heat the day turned cooler. Ominous, almost.
He moved to the next tree, glancing at Harper, still one tree behind him.
Taking a quick look at the rest of the row, he estimated that they weren’t quite halfway. Plenty of time for her to catch up. He widened his stance and willed himself to move faster. She could beat him at this, easily. Always could. His problem was simply that he got bored and distracted. His problem in tree trimming, his problem in life.
Well, he’d given up his Europe trip for the summer. He’d struggled with the decision, but once it was made, he’d been fine with it. Especially seeing that Harper had made her own hard decision. That decision, however, had cemented in his mind that Harper would never belong to him. He’d always known that the farm meant a lot to her. So, if he was going to fulfill his mother’s dream and his dad’s desire, he had to be in Chile. There was no compromise.
He’d told his buddies earlier this spring that his wandering days were behind him. He hadn’t planned to say that. But as the words were coming out of his mouth, he realized that it was true: he was ready to settle down and grow roots.
Problem was, his dad wanted those roots in Chile, and he’d always wanted his dad’s approval. Craved it. He didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like his dad had ever wanted him before.
Now that he was an adult, with experience and talent, his dad had begged him to move to Chile. Wyatt wanted to say no. Just desserts and all that. But there was something inside of every kid who wanted his parents to be proud of him. Wanted to please his parents. Plus, back when he was a kid, his dream had been to run the resort. He’d never gotten over that.
Even though his mom had died ten years ago, he knew it would make her happy for him to work with his dad. She might have been a farm girl from Iowa, but she’d dragged him all over the world, sometimes as a free-lance journalist, sometimes on the arm of some rich man or another, sometimes she worked her way—entertainment on a cruise ship, scuba instructor in Australia, even a zookeeper’s assistant in San Francisco.
Eventually she’d gone back to Chile, to his dad, claiming she was settling down. That she wanted her son to know his father. Wanted her little boy to be just like his dad. Then she was killed in an avalanche, and Wyatt’s dad didn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with him. So he bought him a plane ticket to Pennsylvania, where Uncle Fink, his mother’s brother, lived.
Where Harper lived.
He snipped one more bulging area before moving onto the next tree. Maybe he should be grateful to his dad. After all, if his dad had kept him, he would never have met Harper. Of course, being in love with a woman who only saw a clumsy kid, and maybe a sense of humor, wasn’t exactly easy.
The buzzing of his hedge clippers became louder. It sounded angry. He’d checked the oil, sharpened the blades, what could be the problem?
He glimpsed a huge, brown-paper-like ball—a hornet’s nest inside a branch of the tree he was trimming. Harper jerked on his shoulder as hot pain ignited in his cheek and hand.
“Run, you cracker head,” Harper shouted. She yanked on his arm again.
Dropping his clippers, he pushed her shoulder, altering her direction. “To the pond,” he yelled. He shoved her forward.
They sprinted toward the pond. A black cloud of the angry insects buzzed above Harper’s head. He didn’t see any on the back of her light shirt. Pain burned in his own shoulders where he’d been stung through the thin shirt material. His cheek stiffened as though he had a wad of cement in it and his hand stung.
Still running at full tilt, Harper reached in her back pocket and took out her phone, dropping it in the grass. That was a good idea. Wyatt unhooked his from his belt, getting a finger stung in the process, and dropped his as well.
They had almost reached the pond. He’d swum in it several times over the past decade with Harper, although neither of them really liked to, since the bottom was soggy mud and a film of algae covered it most of the summer. Not now, thankfully. Too early in the season.
As they flew down the last steep hill, he yelled, “Shallow dive.”
The pond was only four to six feet deep; a steep dive would be dangerous.
“Swim under the surface to the willow on the other side,” he shouted as they careened wildly down the hill. The branches hung gracefully over the water. They might offer some protection from the furious hornets.
She jerked her head in acknowledgement without breaking stride. Although she did slant him a microsecond look that said things like this happened uncommonly often when she was with him. She looked forward and didn’t catch his answering grin and shrug. Just as well. The innocent look probably didn’t come off well when a person was flat-out sprinting away from a swarm of angry hornets.
They reached the edge of the pond, still sprinting. The buzz of hornets filled the air. Their black bodies careened around his head. He took a deep breath and jumped a fraction of a second after she did, watching her. She hit with the shallow angle she needed to and he splashed in right beside her.
The cold water shocked his system, and he allowed the power behind his jump to glide his body forward while he took several seconds to adjust to the completely new environment. Although he couldn’t see much in the murky water, he could just make out Harper’s leg beside him. Her work boots must have been getting waterlogged, because her body looked like a ship going down. His own feet were being dragged to the bottom.
The pond wasn’t deep enough to worry about drowning, so he didn’t work to take the boots off. Rather, he allowed his legs to drop and push in a slow motion run against the bottom of the pond, staying under, still heading toward the willow. Harper did the same.
She flipped, rolling in the water until her back was down. With his lungs burning, Wyatt copied her motion, allowing only his nose and mouth to come out of the water, blowing like a whale, then sinking back down, turning and heading in the direction of the willows.
Harper grabbed his arm. Her ponytail floated in wispy strands around her head. Her cheeks were puffed out from holding her breath. She pointed slightly to the right, correcting his course. He didn’t think he was that far off, but was hardly in a position to argue with her.
It turned out she was right. They broke for air the second time directly under the overhanging branches.
“This is not my fault,” he panted.
“No one blamed you for anything. Although if you are defending yourself before anyone has accused you, it sure makes you look guilty.” Harper puffed, pushing her hair out of her green eyes.
“You definitely don’t look like a professor now.”
“Staying alive took precedence over being dignified.” Harper peered through the hanging branches. “There’s a cloud of hornets hovering over the water.”
“I see.” A cloud was an apt description. “They don’t look like they’re giving up.”
“Angry and stubborn. The absolute worst characteristics a hornet can have.” Her teeth started to chatter. Harper never could handle the cold water.
“Intelligence would be bad, too.”
She snorted. “Yeah, they’d have found us by now.”
“Gotta look on the bright side, Pickles.”
“I just ruined a two-hundred-dollar pair of work boots, I’ve got pond scum in my hair and hornet stings on my back, and you’re telling me there’s a bright side?”
“Sure, you get to hang out with me.”
“This is not hanging out.”
“Good point. We’re gonna lurk in the murk. We’ll start a new trend. Too bad we can’t take a selfie.”
“Yeah, that would definitely make it worse if my phone were lurking in the murk with me.”
“Positive thinking, phrased as a negative. Even if you do look like a drowned ostrich.”
“Ostrich?”
“Your neck’s looking kind of long today.” Slender. Graceful.
“When you’re not around, nothing like this ever happens to me.” Her teeth were chattering so hard, he was afraid she might be in danger of hypothermia.
“No wonder you’re always so happy to see me.”
“I’m happy to see you becau
se for some odd reason I like you.”
“You’re cold. Come here.” He moved toward her in the shallow water, putting one knee down on the pond bottom and planting his other foot, making a seat with his leg for Harper to sit on.
She floated toward him, dodging the hanging branches, and sat on his leg. He pulled her closer to his chest. Her entire body shook with chills.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out on a croak and he cleared his throat.
“It’s not your fault. You know I was teasing.”
“I know. But it does seem like I make you miserable.”
“You make me laugh.” She smiled over her shoulder. “Wow. Your cheek is swollen like a balloon.” She brought a hand out of the water to touch it gently. The cold on his face contrasted nicely against his tight, hot skin. If only he could close his eyes and allow her to cradle his cheek in her hand. He pushed the thought away.
“Hurts.”
“I don’t recall you being allergic to hornet stings.” Lines crinkled her forehead.
“Me either.”
Her lip pulled back. “Did you get stung anywhere else?”
He held up the finger that had gotten stung when he pulled his phone out. It was swollen.
“Being in the cold water must be helping that,” Harper said. “Anywhere else?”
“A couple on my back, my arm. It’s my face that hurts, though. Maybe I got more than one there.”
She squinted at his face. “Looks like maybe the stinger is still in there.”
“What about you?”
“If I’m stung, my adrenaline hasn’t subsided enough to allow me to feel it yet.” She chuckled softly. “I haven’t run like that in years. I might not be stung, but I’m going to be sore tomorrow and completely worthless.” She chuckled again, not as softly this time.
His heart sang at the sight of her smile, even if her chattering teeth made her face look like it was vibrating. Maybe she liked adventure more than she let on.
“You’re gonna chip a tooth.”
“Lots of people live without all their teeth.”
“You’ll never catch a husband if you chatter your teeth off.”
Better Together Page 5
