Chapter Three
His trespasser was back.
Sam recognized the white Volvo parked in front of his house and groaned. What did Genevieve want with him? He was just beginning to regain his equilibrium after their last meeting.
His old truck bumped along the familiar gravel-covered dirt road that led from the farm’s entrance gate, past the guesthouse, and eventually to his white two-story farmhouse. He parked and exited the cab. His gaze latched on to her as he approached.
Genevieve was sitting on one of his rocking chairs, once again looking like she’d come from a fashion shoot. She closed her laptop and set it on the side table next to a disposable coffee cup. “Good afternoon,” she said cheerfully, remaining on her—his—rocker.
He stopped with one foot on the porch and one on the step below. “Am I going to have to call the cops?”
She smiled as if there’d been no seriousness in the question at all. “Why in the world would you do that?”
“Because this is the second time in two days I’ve found you squatting on my land.”
“As you can see,” she waved toward herself, “I’m not squatting. I’m sitting on your land. Land that, by the way, I absolutely love.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes.” Unlike a normal person, she didn’t say anything else.
He’d created a predictable, quiet life for himself. Genevieve Woodward wasn’t predictable. And even when she wasn’t talking, many things about her were loud. Her presence. The energy captured inside her small frame.
She wore an ivory short-sleeve shirt. The scarf that looped around her throat—oddly—had no ends. Her leather earrings, in the shape of feathers, reached almost to her shoulders. She must have purchased her jeans with holes in them, because there’s no way she’d ever worked enough manual labor to create those holes naturally.
“I’ve been doing research,” she told him. “You were one of a select group chosen to lease a historic farm on Chattahoochee National Forest land.”
“That’s right.”
“How long ago?”
“Four years. I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“How were you chosen?”
“I submitted an application.”
“From what I read, it was quite a coup to score one of the sixty-year leases. Why do you think they picked you?”
“Did you come here to ask me questions about leases on national park land?”
“In part, yes. I’m interested.”
He sized her up, trying to understand her motivation for being here. She sized him up in return, pleasantly and patiently. She wasn’t just a stranger to him. She was also just plain strange. A weird blend of charming, confident, and confusing.
“I think . . .” His forehead furrowed.
“Go on.”
“I think the park service picked me because they were looking for people who were into sustainable farming. They were looking for people who were young, because the farmers in this country are aging. And they were also looking for people willing to open their farms to the public in order to educate them about resource preservation.”
“And you checked all the boxes?”
“Yes.”
“What business plan did you pitch?”
He scowled, wishing she’d go and leave him alone.
She laughed. “Be nice! Didn’t you just say that part of your job is to open your farm and educate the public?”
She had a point. “I told them I was planning a farm-to-table breakfast restaurant. That I’d grow much of the restaurant’s food here and sell the rest to visitors.”
Gracefully, she rose and moved to stand at the porch rail, looking out. A breeze rustled her hair.
He walked a few paces onto the porch, turning just enough to take in the scene she was studying. Behind the house at their backs, a wooded hill rose steeply toward the sky. In front of the house, the earth rolled gently down to a wide valley that held the farm road Genevieve had been driving the other night when she’d made the bad decision to stop.
Shade from the porch roof protected them from the sun pouring onto the meadow. The long rows of the garden he’d worked so hard to develop marked the earth a good distance away, on the lower side of the meadow. Near the garden, which butted up against the tree line separating his house from the guesthouse in the next meadow over, a simple farm stand waited to open for weekend business.
“If that’s all, I have some things to do around here this afternoon,” he stated.
“Do you love it here?” she asked.
He paused. “Usually, yes.”
“By that, do you mean that you love it here when uninvited women aren’t pestering you?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Are you the only person who lives on the property?”
“I am.”
“Ever get lonely?”
Yep. I’m lonely every hour of every day. “No.” That single syllable was easier than trying to explain to this high-maintenance person he was lonely in a way that was deep, complete, and undisturbed. She’d find fault with that. But that’s how he wanted it. “Why are you here?” he asked.
She faced him. He’d forgotten how bright her hazel eyes were against her perfect milky skin. “I’m here because I’d like to rent your cottage.”
His brows crushed down. “It’s not available for rent.”
“I realize that. But I went and had another look at the cottage when I arrived at the farm a few hours ago. You’d locked the door—”
“I locked it the second you left.”
“—but I was able to peek in the windows and inspect the outside. It’s adorable. And, as I recall, it has electricity.”
“It’s not for rent.”
“Does the plumbing work?”
“Yes.”
“A/C and heat?”
“Yes.”
“Dishwasher?”
“No. Not even a sink, except the one in the bathroom.”
“In that case, I guess it’s too much to hope that it has a washer and dryer.”
“Way too much to hope.”
“But you’d allow me to wash my clothes at your house from time to time, right?”
“That doesn’t matter since it’s not available—”
“It’s small and simple and old, but you’ve also kept it very clean. Why is it in such good shape if you’re not planning to rent it?”
He worked his back molars together. “At some point, I’m going to put furniture in it and rent it out to people wanting a holiday. I’ve been busy with everything else and haven’t had time.”
“You’ll be able to make a mint off that thing,” she said with assurance. “It’s full of charm. It has excellent potential, in fact. All you need is someone with good design sensibilities to come in and decorate the cottage—”
“Guesthouse.”
“—cottage with a sofa, chairs, rugs, art, a mini kitchen.” She tilted her head. “Someone like me.”
“No.”
“Aren’t you interested in hearing my offer?”