Page 39 of Worth Fighting For

Shang steps close to me and does the same, breathing in deeply as he does so. “When I was a kid, this was my favorite place. I’d just come here and touch everything. Burned my hands pretty badly once.”

The way he describes it makes me realize again how much more there is to this place than just pure numbers. I see Shang as a little boy, wandering around the distillery, touching everything with curious little hands. I think of him burning his palms and my heart aches with the need to comfort him.Oh, Baba, I think I’m starting to understand what you saw in this company.

I’m about to reply when my right hand, buried in the barley, bumps against something solid and warm. Shang’s hand. We both tense at once, but neither of us moves our hand away. Oh my god. All my senses have focused, laser sharp, on the electric sensation shooting up my arm from the sliver of skin-on-skin contact. The attraction I feel toward Shang right now is so irresistible, so magnetic, that it scares me a little. What is happening? This can’t happen. This is so unprofessional! And with that, I use the last vestiges of my self-restraint and pull my hand away. Shang does the same just a split second later while clearing his throat.

“It’s getting late,” he says gruffly. “I need to help prep for dinner.”

“Oh, right! Of course.” I hurry after him and we both walk out of the distillery in thick silence.

Outside, the sun is slowly setting, limning everything gold. I stop to admire the gorgeous land, loving the way the breeze makes the leaves sway. Farmhands are guiding the animals back into the barn, and a sort of peace is settling over the land. When I glance up, I find Shang watching me with an intense gaze. He opens his mouth, as though to say something, then seems to think better of it and walks on ahead of me.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he says.

“Yep, see you.”

I hurry back toward the farmhouse, wincing as my new boots bite into my feet. I’ve been able to ignore the pinch of the tough boots this whole time, but after wearing them for so many hours, I can no longer pretend not to notice the way my poor feet are blistering inside these torture devices. Inside the house, I yank off the boots with a grateful sigh and steal a precious few minutes just submerging my aching feet in a shallow bath before dinner.

Dinner that night is a feast, a collection of steaming dishes, each one worthy of a restaurant. When Shang said he had to help prep for dinner, surely he didn’t mean he cooked all of this? He probably helped with the simple things like washing the rice or chopping the vegetables. I’m so tired by now that I can barely keep up with the multiple conversations going around the table, but thankfully, Mushu is in her usual fine form, regaling this uncle and that auntie with funny stories and as always making everyone fall in love with her. I chew my green beans (which, like everything else on the table, have come from the farm) and smile and nod, smile and nod. A couple of times, I catch Shang’s eyes on me, and when I look over at him, he quickly breaks eye contact. This can’t happen, I remind myself.

By the time dinner is over, I’m all ready for bed. Mushu opts to stay in the living room, where the cousins are gathered to play poker, but I bid everyone good night and retire to our bedroom. But once I’m in bed, I don’t go to sleep. Instead, I grab my phone and open up TikTok. By tomorrow morning, I am going to know everything there is to know about ranch living, and I’m going to wipe the smug looks off everybody’s faces.

When I wake up the next morning, Mushu is sprawled across the other bed, her mouth hanging open as she snores. Soft, dim light streams in through the gap in the curtains. I peep through the gap and see gentle, golden sunlight blanketing the fields. I’m so used to waking up at dawn that I no longer need an alarm to rouse me. I get up slowly, careful not to wake Mushu, wondering what time she finally climbed into bed last night. After brushing my teeth, I shrug on a pair of jeans and a sweater and pad down the stairs.

Having the whole house to myself, if only for a bit, feels like heaven. Yesterday, I wasn’t able to enjoy the beautiful house because I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people in it. Right now, I would like nothing more than to make myself a nice hot mug of coffee and settle down on the porch and take in the pastoral surroundings.

But as I near the kitchen, I hear the clanging of pots and pans. I groan inwardly. Clearly I won’t get the kitchen all to myself after all. Still, one can hope that perhaps it’s the housekeeper cleaning up after last night’s feast, or maybe a stray raccoon that I can just let out through the back door? Anything would be less intimidating than a member of the Li family, come to think of it.

No such luck. When I go inside the kitchen, I come face-to-face with Shang, wearing an apron and wielding a wooden rolling pin. The sight is so unexpected that I freeze, staring at him. I’ve never had a thing for men wearing aprons before. But now, seeing Shang wearing one, I’m realizing how incredibly sexy it is. He’s somehow more masculine in an apron, his broad shoulders accentuated by the apron strings. Unbidden, the thought of him buck naked, wearing only an apron, flashes through my mind. My god, what is wrong with me?

“Something on my face?” he says by way of greeting. “Only you’re kind of staring.”

I break eye contact and clear my throat, trying to hide how flustered I am. “I wasn’t expecting anyone down here this early in the morning.”

“Me neither,” he says. He flours the roller, picks up a small piece of dough from the counter, and begins to roll it out into a circle.

The sight is incongruous—Shang wearing an apron with a nectarine print, his hands floury, rolling out dough with expertise, and meanwhile his biceps are bulging as he works and he’s got an expression of intense focus that makes me sweat a little bit.

“Can I help you get something?” he says, glancing up for a second before turning his focus back to the dough.

“It’s okay,” I say hurriedly. “I’ll just—I’ll make some coffee and get out of your way.”

Of course, as soon as I say that, I notice the professional barista-style espresso machine on the kitchen counter. No easy-use Nespresso machines around here. Maybe they have an instant coffee mix that I can simply add water to?

Shang must’ve seen the hesitation on my face, because he wipes his hands on a towel and says, “I’ll make you a coffee. Latte? Cappuccino? Americano?”

“Uh. Latte.” I lean against the counter and watch as Shang picks out a jar of beans and pours them into the grinder. He measures out the ground coffee carefully, obviously comfortable with the espresso machine. “Where did you learn to make coffee like that?” I say, watching him fiddle with the pressure controls.

“Instagram,” he says, so simply and so straightforwardly that it takes a second for the answer to sink in.

I laugh. “Really?”

“Yup. That’s also where I learned how to cook most of my dishes.”

“Seriously? My Instagram algorithm only pushes parodies of finance bros. I’m not complaining, they are funny as hell, but they don’t exactly teach me anything I don’t already know.”

Shang presses a lever and the machine hisses as foamy coffee begins to pour into a mug. “Nothing wrong with that. Your job sounds very high-pressure and it’s probably good to have something that lets you blow off some steam.”

I frown at him, wondering if there’s a secret jab hidden in his words, but Shang is now walking to the fridge, where he takes out a jug of milk. “Fresh from our cows,” he says, grinning. “There’s nothing better than our cows’ milk.” He pours some into a small cup and slides it over to me.

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