Page 18 of No More Secrets
He handed her a blade. “I’ll start over there and work my way to you. If you get tired, let me know.”
She wouldn’t. In her career as a writer and then editor, Summer had interviewed sources through a translator, followed a team of scientists into a bat cave, and once sat down with a troubled model/actress for an interview in the limo on her way to rehab. Plus, she had already been on the back of a horse today.
Harvesting lettuce, she could handle.
Beckett and Colby were already moving like machines up their rows.
She shoved up the sleeves of her shirt and bent from the waist.
Grab. Slice. Toss. Grab. Slice. Toss.
The first few tries were sloppy and she had to take a second and sometimes third pass with the knife. But as her crate slowly filled, she hit a rhythm.
Grab. Slice. Toss.
There was something satisfying about having her hands in the earth, about seeing her progress when she looked back at the empty stalks. Another few heads and she straightened to take a drink.
Her back sent a swift and undeniable complaint of discomfort. Her feet were echoing the sentiment.
She felt eyes on her. Carter, of course. Checking on either her progress or physical wellbeing. Pretending not to notice, Summer took a quick swig of water and bent over again. The complaint from her back got instantaneously louder, but she sliced through the next head of romaine with enthusiasm.
Grab. Slice Toss.
Once her crate was full, Summer struggled to pick it up.
“Summer, leave it,” Carter called. He was already stepping over the rows separating them. He hefted the crate and carried it to the truck bed where he grabbed an empty.
She used the opportunity to jab her fingers into her throbbing lower back. “Thanks,” she said, pasting a smile on her face.
“Doing okay?” Carter asked, tugging her ponytail.
“Sure,” she answered with more enthusiasm than she felt.
He raised an eyebrow before heading back to his row.
To save her back, Summer crouched down. She couldn’t swing the knife as efficiently, but at least her back wasn’t taking the brunt of the effort.
Grab. Slice. Toss.
––––––––
Summer hated the farm. The dirt. The stupid lettuce.
But most of all she hated the smirks Carter and Beckett were throwing her way. Colby was at least polite enough to look at her with pity when he picked up her crate.
She had tried standing, crouching, and kneeling. The only thing left was to lie down in the dirt and crawl through the field. She was seriously considering that option when she ran into a pair of work boots. Strong arms lifted her up despite the protest in her lower back.
Carter held her by the shoulders until she found her footing, which took longer than it should once she realized he was shirtless. Ripped did not do justice to the chest and torso she was staring at. Broad shoulders and an expansive chest tapered down into a six-pack that would make most of the male underwear models Summer knew cry. His jeans rode low on his hips revealing those exquisite twin creases that directed her eyes lower still. There were scars, too. On his shoulder and his chest.
Her hand raised to touch them before she stopped it.
Summer’s cheeks flushed and she brought her wayward hand to her hair. “Why are we stopping?” She willed herself to look only at his face and tried not to sound so out of breath.
“We’re done.”
She looked around. What had been a green field hours before was now empty. She’d been so absorbed in the labor, focusing only on the next head of romaine, that she hadn’t realized how much had been accomplished.
Beckett and Colby were loading the last of the crates into the back of the pick-up.
