Page 13 of The Farmer
“Oh, hush, Dottie,” Mrs. Allen says, elbowing her. “Let the boy breathe. He’s clearly smitten. Look at him. He’s dazed, and so is she.”
Paris laughs against my chest, cheeks flushed pink. I’m still catching my breath, hand firm on her lower back, and all I wanna do is head back to the farm and continue what we started.
I give the small group a bow. “Good morning, ladies.”
“Come here, honey,” Mrs. James says, waving Paris over. “We’ve been trying to set him up since forever.Man owns most of the farm, and he still wears those jeans from 2008.”
I grit my teeth and resist the urge to roll my eyes. Grandma’s friends love roasting me whenever they can. That hasn’t changed just because I’ve gotten older and grown bigger. “You all act like I can’t hear you.”
“You can hear, Parker, but you never listen.There’s a difference.” Mrs. Allen winks at Paris. “Tell me, sugar, can you cook? Because he sure as hell can’t.”
Paris, my sweet, sweet girl, tries to come to my defense. “Oh, but he can. He made me a delicious breakfast plate.”
“Did he, now?” Mrs. Allen squints at me and rakes her eyes up and down my body. “What did he make you? Eggs, toast, and some fried meat?”
Paris casts me a look over her shoulder. “Uh, yeah.”
“Doesn’t count as cooking, dear. Although that’s an upgrade from back when he only ate straight from the can.”
Paris bursts out laughing, and even though I would very much like the attention far from me, I’m starting to enjoy myself.
“If he ever hurts you,” Mrs. Bryant says, wagging a perfectly manicured finger, “you call any of us. We’ll show up with our favorite weapons, mine’s my dead husband’s old shotgun by the way, and a bottle of your favorite drink.”
“We’ve got pitchforks, too, if you feel like going old school,” Mrs. Richards adds. “Mine’s still sharp.”
Mrs. Allen nods. “And we’re all sharpshooters. We never miss.”
I dart my gaze to every one of them. “Am I being threatened right now?”
“Of course not!” Mrs. Allen slides her arm around mine. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be comforting or threatening. “You’re Maya’s grandson.”
Paris shoots me a look, brows lifted, lips twitching. “So this is the town’s welcoming committee?”
I groan. “It’s the poker club.You’ve just been inducted, whether you like it or not.”
She snorts. “Do I get a badge or free shirt?”
Mrs. Allen wraps Paris in a hug. “No, but you get age-old recipes passed from generation to generation, lots of gossip, and lots of booze.”
“Well then,” Paris says, sliding her hand into mine, “I feel very welcomed and protected.”
And judging by the way they beam at her like she’s already one of their own, she is.
6
PARIS
My phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I turned it on half an hour ago. Dread coils in the pit of my stomach like a lead weight. I wring my hands together and dig my bare feet into the hardwood floor. My hair falls in my face as I hunch over, and I absently blow it away.
Staring at the screen doesn’t make it stop, but for a second, I pretend it might. The bright display shows fifteen missed calls, each one from the same number that makes my skin crawl.
My heart pounds like a fist on a drum. The article was due two days ago. I haven’t even touched my laptop. Hell, I haven’t touched a coherent thought in forty-eight hours, unless you count the endless stream of ‘oh God, oh God, oh God’ running through my head.
The phone buzzes again.
Taking a deep breath, I answer on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Ah, there she is. Paris Page. Alive and apparently reachable.” Brad’s voice oozes that oily sarcasm I’ve come to loathe. He’s myboss, yes, but he doesn’t deserve an ounce of respect. In fact, no one in the office respects him. That’s a fact. “I was starting to think you’d run away.”
