Page 7 of Her Juicy Cherry (Sweet Treats 2)

My eyes quickly scan the requirements. I need to be available for the next three months, and the pay is fifteen dollars an hour. Wow, that’s a lot considering that I made about thirty thousand a year at Praxel Puffin. In fact, the hourly wages work out to the same as my annual salary at Praxel Puffin. What a coincidence! Maybe I won’t be in dire financial straits after all.

Even better, I’ll be able to give up my apartment in expensive Silicon Valley because Cherrywood provides temporary housing for all seasonal workers. Granted, it’ll probably be dorm-like accommodations, but I can handle that. It’s only going to be for three months after all.

Staring at the picture of Huck and Hank, I quickly type an email expressing my interest, attach my resume, and then send it off. I can’t imagine what they’ll do with my CV, but you never know. Besides, my resume is filled with chirpy business-speak like “detail-oriented” and “self-starter.” Cherrywood would want someone like that, right?

Feeling happy for the first time all day, I get up and stretch. My neck creaks and my shoulders crack a bit, but my spirit feels lighter. Somehow, I’ll figure this out because if all goes well, I’m headed to Cherrywood Farms, and straight into the arms of the two muscular cherry farmers.

4

Huck

The ancient bus pulls up to dusty road and rattles to a halt in front of the barn. Oh shit, they’re here.

I call out to my business partner.

“Yo Hank. New recruits just arrived. Time to start orientation.”

Hank appears in the doorway with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t look too happy and I don’t blame him because we don’t really want to hire temporary workers. More often than not, these folks often have problematic backgrounds: drug records, warrants for their arrest, or even a couple runaways sometimes.

But what can we do? The cherry season just is what it is, and we need all the help we can get right now. As a result, everyone who sent in an expression of interest got hired. They were asked to meet at a Walmart parking lot in Sacramento, and then driven by bus down to Cherrywood. We didn’t want twenty cars parked haphazardly all over our farm. It’s too precious for that.

The recruits stumble off the bus, tired from the long drive. Hank lets out a disgusted grunt, and I agree. They’re travel-stained and raggedy, but that’s okay. So long as everyone has two arms, two legs, and an eye for cherries, then we’ll be good.

Suddenly, my eyes light on one of the new recruits because she’s different from the rest. There’s a sassy air about this girl, from the way her curly brown hair springs around her head, to the swing of her generous hips. She pulls her striped t-shirt down to hide a bit of pooch, and I see that she’s got huge, curvy tits and a big ass encased in tight jeans too. Hmm, very interesting.

“Do you see what I see?” Hank growls from over by the office window. Of course, he’s staring at the same girl.

“I sure do, buddy,” I reply. “Who the hell is that?”

He shrugs.

“Damned if I know. I didn’t read those resumes. Did you?”

I quickly think back. I did, but no one really stood out. There were a couple people who were professional dog-walkers, a couple food service guys, and a girl who had an office job but was unceremoniously fired from the sound of it. It must be her.

I lean over my computer and scroll through my inbox before clicking on the email. Courtney Harlow. Graduated from Sonoma State, and then worked as an admin assistant at Praxel Puffin doing paperwork. That’s all well and good, but here at Cherrywood, it’s going to be manual labor.

I look out the window once more and see that Courtney is brushing her hair out of her face while looking suspiciously at one of the other temps. He looks about fifty, with stringy brown hair hanging in his eyes and missing teeth. He weasels up to her and then whispers something to her. She smiles wanly back while slightly edging away. But Rat-tail leans closer once more, and she subtly tries to get away again by slinging her bag over her elbow like a barrier. I’ve had enough.

Hank and I stride outside to greet the group. Immediately, a hush comes over the straggly crowd as they turn to us with wide eyes.

“Hi and welcome,” says Hank in his baritone. “I’m Hank True, and this is Huck More. We’re the founders of Cherrywood Farms. Welcome.”

I smile at the crowd, nodding pleasantly.

“We’re not really the founders of Cherrywood because as you can guess, this farm has been around ever since California belonged to Mexico. It was once run by rancheros, and even back then, they grew cherries. But the United States barreled in, ownership changed several times, and the farm fell on hard times. Hank and I wanted to do the right thing, so we stepped away from our day jobs and swooped in to buy this place out of bankruptcy. The farm that you see now is ten years of hard work,” I say, gesturing to the cherry trees planted in neat rows to the left.

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