Page 8 of Where It All Began
“Let me tell you exactly what you’d be getting by letting me stay for the summer,” Phoebe insisted.
He unfolded his hands palms up. “By all means.”
“I’m strong and have a ridiculous energy level. I only need six hours of sleep a night and work my ass off every damn day. I’ve worked on my grandfather’s farm every summer since I was seven years old. I’m not afraid of hard work or heavy lifting, and I’m so close to finishing my master’s degree that I can taste it. I just need a sliver of your time and some hands-on experience to make this happen. I need your help, John. I can’t do it without you.”
She put it all on the table and gave him her best pleading look.Please, John.
“My future is in your hands.”
Chapter Five
John was already regretting his decision when his feet hit the bedroom floor the next morning. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour yet. He could at least wrangle a little peace and quiet before his new “farm hand” woke up and started rattling off questions like a damned parakeet.
He’d told her she could stay, even voiced his “concerns” that the work would be too much for her. If Phoebe had picked up on his warning hint that he wasn’t going to go easy on her, she’d brushed it off and looked at him with those glass green eyes, and he found himself nodding dumbly.
She hadn’t thanked him profusely, tears glistening and lip trembling. She’d merely nodded smugly as if she’d expected that answer all along.
He’d at least had enough wits about him to put a trial period on it. She had until the fourth of July to prove herself to a) be helpful and b) not be a nuisance. She’d agreed and immediately forgot about b, demanding to know the story of every person present in Peace of Pizza.
He came home with a dull headache, one measly leftover slice of pizza, and a house guest for the next two weeks.
John crept down the stairs determined not to wake Phoebe so he could at least have a cup of coffee in peace. He was debating whether he could get away with making that lone slice of pizza his breakfast when he realized the kitchen lights were already on.
“Morning,” Phoebe called cheerfully from the stove where she was scrambling something in his one and only fry pan.
Goddamn it. Just half an hour of quiet. Was that too much to ask?
She nodded toward the coffee maker as it sputtered to life on the counter. “Best part of waking up,” she said with the perkiness of a true morning person. John skirted around her and caught a whiff of his own shampoo in her hair.
He blamed his knee-jerk arousal on his lack of sleep and his foggy brain. He’d slept like the dead alone in this house for a year now. But Phoebe’s presence across the hall—on his only set of sheets, no less—had dominated his brain for the majority of the night. He’d counted ceiling tiles for hours. There were one hundred and forty-four of them in his bedroom. He’d triple checked before finally falling asleep into a restless dream about green eyes begging for help.
“Hey, where’s your TV? I poked my head into the living room, but I didn’t see one.”
“Don’t have one,” he said gruffly. And he was sure she’d have a thousand things to say about that. But he changed the subject before she could. “Did you sleep well?” John knew it was mean, but he hoped she’d slept like shit.
“Slept like there was a carbon monoxide leak in my room,” Phoebe said, plating up fluffy yellow eggs. Two slices of bread popped up like a jack-in-the-box out of the jaundice yellow toaster his mother had given him when she and his father had packed up for their big move west.
She handed him the plates jerking her chin toward the table, and while he stared stupidly at the breakfast in his hands, Phoebe efficiently filled two thick handled mugs with coffee.
“So,” she said, setting the mugs down on the table. “What are we doing today?”
He followed suit with the plates and pulled out a chair. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down for breakfast. Usually it was a bowl of cereal eaten standing up or a piece of toast on his way out the door.
He reached for his coffee with a twinge of desperation. “Feed the cow and turn her out.”
“You mentioned a limping cow yesterday. Is she livestock?”
He shook his head. “She’s a pet. She was a neglect case from over in Cleary,” he said shooting his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the neighboring town. “The vet needed a place to keep her while she healed, and I opened my big, fat mouth. Now Pierce Acres has a cow.”
It was the most words he’d spoken pre-dawn in years. But it still wasn’t enough for Phoebe.
“After our pet cow, what then?” She dug into the eggs with enthusiasm.
Maybe he could put Phoebe on shoveling out the grain bin that needed emptied while he handled the roadside mowing. He’d get some quiet time before lunch. If he gave her too much information up front, she’d be asking him questions about the sprayer apertures and his life goals while they were weeding the borders of his fields.
“Let’s just start with Melanie and go from there.”
She put her fork down. “You named your cow Melanie?”
