“Pop,” Owen started, clearly trying to choose his words with care. “Are you sure Eli’s the best, ah, choice for this?”
Well that figured. But for once, Eli agreed with his oldest brother wholeheartedly. “Owen’s right, Pop. He’d be way better at showing this woman the farm, and—”
“No.” Their old man’s tone brooked zero argument. “When that photographer arrives, anything she wants or needs is up to you, Eli. For the next four weeks, we’ll all play host, but as far as these articles and all this video stuff goes? You’re gonna make good and represent this farm. She’s on your hip.”
Eli’s mouth burned from the weight of the protest welling up from his chest. In front of a camera was the last place he wanted or needed to be, and really, the irony of him being the face of the farm? Yeah, it would’ve been laughable if it didn’t sting so bad. But dammit, with the way Hunter was nodding in agreement and the look of don’t-even-think-about-it tacked to his old man’s face, Eli would be shot down faster than a plastic target at the county fair if he let it loose.
Deflect. Slap on a cocky grin. And forget about it.
Letting out a slow exhale, he asked, “When’s she supposed to get here, exactly?”
The words had no sooner slipped past his lips when a bright-yellow Volkswagen convertible came whipping up the dirt path leading to the front of the house, rap music blaring from the speakers and a tattooed platinum blonde caterwauling along at the top of her lungs.
CHAPTER FOUR
Several thoughts whizzed through Scarlett’s brain upon pulling to a stop in front of the homey-looking white clapboard house at Cross Creek Farm, the first of which was that if there was a bright, bustling heart of civilization, she was as far from it as a girl could possibly get. Second of all, she sure hoped Mallory wanted a lot of pictures of corn, because Scarlett had just found the goddamn mother lode.
Thirdly . . . whoa. Where was the funeral?
Scarlett eyeballed the group of people gaping at her from the walkway in front of the farmhouse, grateful as hell for the Dolce & Gabbana aviator sunglasses covering half her face. An educated guess said the redheaded—and only—woman in the group was the business manager who Mallory had been trying to get ahold of this morning when Scarlett had packed the last of her camera equipment into the adorable convertible she’d grabbed from the car rental agency. The four men varied in age, one of them clearly the patriarch who ran the place, with the other three looking to clock in at about her age, if Scarlett had to guess. The website she’d scanned last night while clacking out some preliminary notes on her iPad had listed Tobias Cross’s sons as the other operators of the farm, and yep, the three men currently giving her the wide-eyed, drop-jawed routine bore enough resemblance to one another to fit the bill.
Make that handsome, rugged, just-enough-muscles-to-make-a-girl-sit-up-and-take-notice-oh-hi resemblance.
And not one pair of overalls in the bunch.
“Right. Here goes nothing,” Scarlett whispered, inhaling to counter the flush of warmth creeping over her cheeks and tugging a hand through her shag cut in an effort to tame the worst of the windblown look. Plastering a smile to her face, she hopped out of the Volkswagen, lifting her chin up high as she cut a path toward the spot where her not-so-welcoming committee stood at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Hi. I’m Scarlett. From FoodE magazine,” she added, reaching out to shake the hand of the older man. God, the whole scene was straight-up Norman Rockwell, right down to the family dog sitting at the man’s feet.
“Tobias Cross.” His eyes traveled the length of the loose silver bangles and assorted bead bracelets stacked halfway up her forearm, pausing over the pop of dark-red and pink and green that made up the cherry-blossom tattoo etched across her nearly bare shoulder before landing on her face. “Sure is nice to meet you, ma’am.”
Scarlett bit back her laugh as she shook the hand he’d extended, but only just. “Oh, wow, no. Scarlett is fine.” She threw a quick glance at the rest of the group, who seemed to have traded in their shock for curiosity. Well, all except for the broody-looking guy with the dark-blond crew cut. He was giving her a double dose of you’ve-got-to-be-joking with those ocean-blue eyes of his.
Fine by her. She wasn’t the one living in a frigging time warp. She hadn’t been able to get a single bar of cell service for the last fifteen minutes of her drive, for God’s sake. She didn’t even want to get started on the fact that her last Starbucks sighting had been nearly an hour and a half ago. Where else was a girl supposed to get an iced coconut milk mocha macchiato?
You came here to do a job. Focus. Scarlett gestured to the fields around them, where despite the small breeze moving over the wide-open terrain, it had to be conservatively eleven billion degrees. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting you to all be out here waiting,” she said, and the redhead flushed for a second before recovering with a smile.
“Oh! Well, it wasn’t quite intentional, but I’m glad we were here to meet you. I’m Emerson Montgomery. I spoke with Mallory on the phone just a little while ago.”
Surprise worked a path up Scarlett’s spine. Guess things really were a lot slower way out here in the sticks. “Ah. I thought Mallory would’ve been able to touch base with you this morning. I hope I’m not catching you all too unaware.”
“Not at all,” said the guy in the baseball hat standing next to Emerson, his nice-and-easy smile and handshake almost canceling out crew cut’s small-but-definitely-there nod. “I’m Hunter Cross, and these are my brothers, Owen and Eli. We’re happy to have you here at Cross Creek for the next four weeks to work on these articles.”
The reminder of why she was here, of how important her purpose was, threw Scarlett’s determination back into gear. “I’m excited to get the ball rolling. I’d love to go ahead and grab my camera so I can get some first impressions of the farm, if that’s okay with you.”
Owen’s shocked stare followed her gesture toward the endless fields of green. “You want to get started right now?”
“Sure. I’m not really a sit-still kind of woman.” The farm might be pretty and all, but she definitely wasn’t here to vacay. Mallory needed the goods, the faster the better.
Emerson cleared her throat gently before giving up a small smile. “I think Owen’s concern is that we haven’t really been able to prepare anything for you to photograph just yet.”
“Oh. Oh.” Scarlett waved a hand through the ultra-humid air. “That’s okay. This first round of photos would be for my frame of reference more than anything else. Anyway, what I’m really interested in is capturing Cross Creek authentically, so I’d like to immerse myself in day-to-day operations and interactions right along with you. As a result, most everything I shoot will be candid.”
“Wait.” Eli, aka Mr. Personality, leveled her with a tight frown. “So we’re all going to be the main focus in these pictures and articles? Not the food or the farming?”
“Well, the articles are all going to include multiple aspects of farm life, but human-interest pieces tend to garner the highest reach. You do run the place, so yes. There’s a large probability the five of you will end up in many of the shots and stories, and definitely in all the videos.”
“So you basically want to turn us into an online reality TV show?”
Note to self: Mr. Personality might be hot, but he sure knew how to work the hell out of a scowl. Not to mention being unusually perceptive about her media angle. “That’s a pretty condensed way of looking at it, but I suppose it’s accurate. I’d like to focus on the personal aspects of farm life as much as possible, which means capturing a fair amount of reality. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all,” Tobias said, tipping his light-brown Stetson first at her, then at Eli, who looked none too thrilled with his father’s answer. Innnnnnteresting. “Eli, why don’t you show Scarlett around the place so she can get the lay of the land? It’ll give the rest of us a chance to finish up in the greenhouse and get another place set for
supper.”
“Then I can run into town and get your room set up with fresh linens, too.” Emerson capped off the words with an enthusiastic nod, and holy crap, the down-home hospitality was a serious kick in the pants.
“Oh, you don’t need to feed me or worry about a room,” Scarlett said. “I can just grab some takeout on my way to the nearest hotel later, really.” Granted, she’d have to head the opposite direction from her drive in if she wanted to find either of those things, but surely there was something around Millhaven other than the single stoplight she’d passed about ten minutes before arriving at the farm.
Owen shook his head, but not before shooting Eli a lightning-fast glance that—funny—seemed to promise murder. “It’s our pleasure to put you up for the month in the local apartment complex a little ways from here. As for supper, we wouldn’t be very good hosts if we didn’t offer you a firsthand taste of what Cross Creek has to offer. We can talk a little bit more about what you have in mind for your articles and the logistics of your visit while we eat.”
“Okay,” Scarlett agreed, albeit tentatively. Although having an actual apartment sounded kind of nice the more she kicked it over in her mind, crashing their family dinner (okay, anyone’s family dinner, or anyone’s family anything) didn’t rank too high on her list of “Yay! Let’s do that!” But she was here to soak up story ideas so Mallory could put FoodE back on the digital map, and getting her eyes—not to mention her taste buds—on the food probably wasn’t a terrible idea. Plus, observing their family dynamic might give her a lead or two on the more personal end.
Hunter pulled a key ring from the pocket of his faded jeans, the plastic casing around the fob and keys clacking softly in his hand. “Great. I’ll take Emerson into town and help her out with the apartment, and we can all meet back here at six for supper. Sound good, E?”
Eli lifted one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug, although the move seemed more forced than fluid. “Six. Got it.”
Holy brotherly tension, Batman. Scarlett’s curiosity sparked, but she tucked that little nugget away in favor of doing her job, which right now meant taking reference pictures with more than just her mind’s eye. “So, guess you’re my tour guide, huh?” she asked, turning toward Eli.
A muscle tightened across his clean-shaven jaw as the rest of the group dispersed, but he covered it with a smile that didn’t come within a mile of those baby blues. “Looks that way.” He dropped his eyes to her suede, block-heeled booties, his sudden frown completely discordant with the firm, full mouth shaping it. “You’re going to want to change your shoes before we start.”
Scarlett’s brows took a one-way trip up. “What’s wrong with the ones on my feet?” It was just a quick walk around the farm, for God’s sake. She’d cruised all over Manhattan in these babies, and half of Brooklyn besides.
Funny, Eli looked just as dubious as she felt. “Nothing. If you want to break your ankle before we even make it to the henhouse, that is.”
Scarlett took in the network of unpaved pathways spiderwebbing out from the spot where they stood, and hell. Even though she was more than a little tempted to stay as she was just to prove she’d be fine, pulling off a four-week shoot in an air cast because she’d gotten chippy with karma was so not on her itinerary.
“’Kay. I’ve got a pair of flip-flops in the car,” she conceded, and one corner of his mouth lifted in an unnerving little half smirk.
“Not sure that’s going to be any better, but suit yourself, I guess.”
Just like that, her patience skipped a beat. “I usually do.”
The answer seemed to get him, or at the very least, make him keep his disdain for her footwear to himself. Scarlett fast-tracked her way back to the Volkswagen, swapping out her booties for the pair of bright-orange flip-flops she’d stowed on the floor mats as a last-minute why not. Unbuckling her primary camera bag from the passenger seat, she slung the strap over her shoulder, ducking to pull the padded fabric crosswise over her body and squeezing her muscles to maneuver the gear over her hip, safe and secure and ready to go.
“Okay,” she said, freeing first the Velcro closures, then her Canon 5D Mark IV from the center storage well. Popping the cap off the 35mm lens—a bit standard with all this sprawling landscape, but for now she’d make it work—she clicked Baby to life and looped the camera strap around her neck. “All set. Lead the way.”
Eli’s feet remained as unmoved as the rest of him looked. “Are you going to have that thing out all the time?” he asked, his eyes on her camera as if the thing were a murder suspect.
“It’s sort of why I’m here.” Scarlett laughed. “And by ‘sort of,’ I mean ‘totally.’ Why, does the camera make you uncomfortable?” He certainly wouldn’t be the first person to get a little wiggy at the sound of the shutter snapping, although God, nothing soothed her more.
“No,” Eli said, his shoulders lifting in a spray-starched shrug. “I’d just hate to see anything happen to it. Between the elements and the manual labor around here, things can get a little rough.”
Translation: too rough for you. She barely bit back the scoff brewing in the back of her throat. “This camera and I have both seen plenty of action in the field. I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
“If you say so.”
But still, Eli didn’t budge from his spot, and yeah, okay, Scarlett had officially hit her limit. “Is there something going on here that I should know about? Because you seem awfully determined to give me a hard time.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” he replied, the word sending her free hand on a straight shot to the denim wrapped around her hip.
“Scarlett.” Her camera shifted against her breastbone as she straightened, the familiar weight comforting her, and she inhaled on a five-count. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
With zero hesitation, Eli turned toward the nearest footpath, kicking up clouds of dust that hung low in the hazy sunshine as he started to stride away from the main house. The dirt-and-gravel path wasn’t quite wide enough for them to move side by side without the risk of touching, so Scarlett walked a half step behind him for a minute, stealing the opportunity to take him in.
The dark-blond hair and Caribbean-blue eyes she’d already caught sight of were ruggedly handsome, and now that she could see Eli’s face in closer profile, she mentally catalogued the nuances in his features. His strong jawline was offset by that ridiculously sexy mouth, along with the slightest sign of a dimple on his left cheek, although the jury was still out on its definite presence because he had yet to fork over a genuine smile. His light-gray T-shirt hugged a frame full of muscles—not so tight that it was indecent, but snug enough to outline the thick swell of his biceps, a pair of shoulders that would fill the better part of a doorframe, and holy shit, those frayed and faded jeans might be far from clean, but they were doing all sorts of favors for his ass. Dropping her chin, Scarlett craned her neck for a better look, watching the denim press over the perfect curve-to-hard-muscle ratio of Eli’s rear view with every step . . .
The masculine timbre of a throat clearing hooked into Scarlett’s well-helllloooo-there reverie, and her eyes darted back to Eli’s just in time to catch him catch her staring.
“Oh!” Her cheeks prickled with warmth at the same time her girly bits prickled with something decidedly naughtier. Way to keep it suave, girl. “Sorry. You were saying?”
Eli arched a brow, lifting it even higher at Scarlett’s you-got-me smile, but busted was busted. She might as well own it.
“There are a couple of things you’re going to need to know if you want to make it past day one around here,” Eli said—apparently for the second time—and the heat in Scarlett’s veins morphed quickly into surprise. She’d covered breaking news in more volatile situations than she could count on both his hands and hers. Was this guy for real?
“I’m pretty sure I can handle myself,” she replied. They were on a farm. She’d have to be halfway to sleeping to not keep up.
But eit
her he hadn’t heard her or he seriously doubted her claim, because he kept right on talking. “The heat around here is no joke. You’ll need to hydrate. A lot. It’s not optional.”
Okay, so that wasn’t an entirely stupid rule. Even if he was treating her like an entirely stupid idiot.
“Fine,” Scarlett said through her teeth. “What else?”
“You’re gonna need sunscreen.” Eli’s bright-blue stunners flicked over her fair skin and her tattoo, landing on her spaghetti-strapped halter top and denim cutoffs. “And jeans. Also, shirts with longer sleeves.
He had to be kidding. It was hotter than hell’s hinges out here. “I thought you just said I’d need to stay cool.”
“No, I said you’ll need to stay hydrated. But the second you get into the hay barn or out in the middle of one of these cornfields where’s there’s no shade to be had for a quarter mile, you’re going to be sorry you left all that skin exposed. You and I are gonna be spending nearly all our time together outside, and I can’t have you keeling over from too much exposure to the sun.”
Her pulse kicked in a burst of realization. “You’re going to be my point of contact for the whole four weeks?”
Looked like she’d unknowingly managed to piss off karma after all. But come on. She needed a blockbuster, not a ballbuster. She had to be stuck with the cockiest Cross of the bunch?
That unsettling smirk worked its way back over Eli’s mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”
Greeeaaat. “Scarlett,” she said. “And I’m not going to keel over from heat exhaustion.” She was hardly a delicate freaking flower.
Eli lifted one shoulder halfway before letting it drop. “That’s what everyone says right up till they do it. But just because you don’t plan on something doesn’t mean it isn’t gonna jump up and bite you on the . . .”
Crossing the Line (The Cross Creek Series Book 2) Page 6
