Page 97 of That One Night
It wasn’t just that Trenton was an asshole. He’d always known that. It’s that he thought he could treat Emery that way. That he could go back on his promise to sign away the lien. And yes, she was the one who’d broken their agreement first, or at least she’d threatened to.
But she didn’t deserve this. And he couldn’t help but think this was his fault.
The flatbed of the truck was half full with corn cobs. In an hour it would be full, thanks to the eight men picking the long rows of golden ears. Once full, he’d drive it to the barn to be sorted. Some of it would go to his uncle’s restaurant – the menu was always locally sourced and in season – and others would go in vegetable boxes they sold to local stores. But the majority was earmarked for the local canning plant to fulfill the contracts his uncle had signed last year.
Next year he’d have his own small harvest, if things worked out as he’d planned. It would be a one-man job for the first few years. He wouldn’t have the money to pay anybody else, and he didn’t want to grow too fast.
But he couldn’t wait to see the first fruits of his labor being sold.
“Did you hear me?” his uncle asked him. He was waiting by the flatbed, holding out a can of ice cold soda. He must have arrived to hand them out while Hendrix was picking corn.
“Sorry. I was a million miles away. What’s up?” Hendrix asked him. He took a long, cool sip of soda, but it did nothing to soothe the ache in his soul.
“I asked if everything was okay. You’ve been distant all morning.” He’d barely listened to his uncle when he was briefing him about the harvesting. “You coming down with something?”
“No.” He shook his head. Not unless you counted a bad case of annoyance as a sickness. And wishing he could stop the woman he cared about from getting hurt.
“You sure?”
He let out a breath. This was the problem with being a man of few words and a lot of actions. He wasn’t great at putting into words what he needed to say. He just needed to do things. To make things right.
To stop Emery from getting hurt.
He let out a breath, looking at his uncle again.
“Actually, I think you might be right. I might be coming down with something.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Would you mind if I disappeared for a few hours? I’ll make it up tomorrow. Be here before everybody else.”
“Of course.” His uncle nodded. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do? I don’t like seeing you like this.”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll be better tomorrow.” He gave his uncle a smile.
“No worries. Feel better.”
His uncle turned to call out to one of the farmhands, leaving Hendrix to grab his phone from his pocket as he walked back through the dusty field, heading for the edge where he’d left his bike.
He pulled up Google, tapping his big fingers on the screen keyboard as he typed into the search box.
Trenton Montclair. LinkedIn.
And there he was. The smarmy bastard, grinning at the camera like the cat who ate the cream. Strategy Director. Montclair Estates.
It took less than thirty seconds for his second search to bear fruition.
Montclair Estates Charleston Office
500 Kanawha Boulevard E, Suite 1203
Charleston, WV 25301
He slipped his phone back into his pocket, climbing onto his motorcycle. It was time to take a trip to Charleston.
He and Trenton Montclair had unfinished business.
Montclair Estates, Charleston division, was housed in a brownstone office building overlooking the Kanawha River. Hendrix parked his truck – it had been too hot to ride his bike in the scorching heat – in the lot beneath the twelve story tower, then walked to the lobby, fully aware of how he must look walking into the pristine building.
He hadn’t bothered to change, and a few people turned to stare at the man in his old, battered jeans and black-t-shirt, covered in dust from a morning in the fields.
“Montclair Estates,” he told the receptionist.
