Chance of Rain by Amber Lin Page B

definitely, but he wasn’t talking about sex. “I guess I’ll stay here until the phone lines come back up.”
    “Good.” He paused, seeming oddly unsure. “There isn’t someone who would worry about you? I mean, did you tell someone you were coming last night?”
    Had Lucy really mouthed do it , do it at her when she and Joe came into the diner yesterday morning? And drawn the sketch on the back of their receipt, the one that had seemed anatomically impossible? “Yeah. That happened.”
    Sawyer’s face was blank. “What?”
    “I mean, she’ll figure it out. Lucy will. You remember her? She’s Joe’s sister.”
    His eyes narrowed slightly. “Right. Joe again.”
    “They come into the diner pretty much every morning. So if I’m not there or in my apartment, she’ll know I’m...somewhere else?”
    His expression was unfathomable, until he said, “Stop cleaning.”
    “Oh!” She glanced down and realized she had been straightening a stack of mail. “Sorry.” She set down the unruly pile and patted it. “It’s a habit.”
    “There’s coffee in the pot while you wait.” He pushed off from the counter. “I’m going to check on a few things outside.”
    “Okay,” she called to his back, as if her cheery tone could offset her awkward blush. “I’ll make breakfast.”
    When he grunted in what she assumed was assent, she tackled the pile of dishes in the sink with a sigh of relief. He hadn’t given her much to go on. Would he have preferred her to leave? But anyway, she had managed to find a comfortable role here after all. The dishwasher, the cook. The one who served breakfast and then faded into the background.
    * * *
    Sawyer banged his thumb as he drove a nail into the tarp, trying not to think of a certain sexy woman cooking in his kitchen and focused instead on getting the roof of the barn cleared of debris and covered before the damn thing caved in.
    He had enough saved up from his tours to patch this place up, and that wasn’t even counting the nest egg he’d been shocked to find in his father’s bank account. They’d lived on rice and beans and a TV that had been ancient when Sawyer was born. What had the man been saving for?
    Except for the harvest, his ornery, wiry old man had run this farm by himself. Sawyer was physically stronger, more capable, better trained at strategy and tactical maneuvers, and yet for all his labor, the farm was a complete wreck, not close at all to being ready for planting. It felt like a puzzle, a challenge.
    “Damned prideful bastard,” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure who he was talking about.
    After the barn was secured, he went to check on the irrigation. Sure enough, it was broken too. The three-foot-deep trench that skirted the field should have been lively with running water after the flash flood last night. Its purpose was twofold: to supply water to the roots within the field and to keep the plants from drowning. Instead it was full of still, glassy water, while the field itself was a muddy slosh. One more downpour and it might overflow right into the house.
    He followed alongside until he found the blockage. Some animal must have built its den here, judging by the packed pile of debris and excrement floating nearby. Was it any wonder he hadn’t wanted to be a farmer? Now he’d have to shovel all this shit out and hope he didn’t find a drowned rabies-infested body inside. Whatever it was should have known to evacuate when the water started rising, but on principle Sawyer doubted the intelligence of any animal that lived here, including himself.
    The hard work was therapeutic, though, allowing him to work off some of his earlier annoyance. Joe Peterson, seriously? He was a tool. And obvious too, hanging around the diner like that.
    So Sawyer had gone to the diner every evening. That was different. A man had to eat.
    Yeah, it was the same thing. If anything, Sawyer was the asshole because he had no way of following through and marrying Natalie.