Zooming in, I studied each person and wondered who was who. The oldest brother was already losing some hair, but he was tall and handsome, in decent shape with only the beginnings of paunch around the middle. He had his hand on the shoulder of a gap-toothed girl who looked to be about seven or eight. Next to them was the couple I assumed Quinn had met at the farm stand, Pete and Georgia. He was definitely the shortest of the three brothers, but had an adorable smile and thick dark hair. His fair-skinned wife, the only blond in the picture, was pretty and slightly taller than he was. Both her hands rested on her huge, pregnant belly, and I wondered how old the baby was now. On the end was the third brother, the only member of the family who wasn’t smiling. I zoomed in a little closer.
Well, damn. Maybe I would ride a cowboy.
He was tall, thick through the chest and trim at the waist. His jeans were tight, and because of the way he angled his body in the picture, almost like he was trying to back away from the camera, I could see the roundness of his butt. The sleeves of his plaid button-down were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms, and he had the same thick dark hair as the short brother, although he wore it slightly longer. His full mouth was framed by a good amount of stubble, and the set of his jaw was stubborn. Two vertical little frowny lines appeared between his brows. (Muffy would say he needed a “beauty treatment,” which was code for any number of expensive things her dermatologist injected into her face every few months.)
Was he as sullen as he looked, or had the camera just caught him at a bad moment? Maybe the sun had been in his eyes or something.
Still thinking about his ass, I fell asleep to the sound of the waves and dreamt about picking lush, ripe peaches off a tree, biting into them with ravenous delight.
Five
Jack
“Wait a minute. Stop right there.” My brothers and I were sitting at Pete and Georgia’s kitchen table going over expenses, when Pete said something about a marketing budget. “Why the hell do we need a marketing budget?”
“Well, for one thing, the PR consultant is coming tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure she expects to be paid for her time,” Brad said.
I stared at both of them. “What PR consultant?”
“The one we hired last week to help us promote what we’re doing,” said Pete. “And can you please keep your voice down? Cooper is finally quiet.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped, although I tried to lower my voice. My one-year-old nephew, Cooper, had a hard time falling asleep on the nights when Georgia worked. I adored him—and I sympathized. “I never agreed to any fucking consultant.”
“That’s correct, you didn’t.” Brad was maddeningly calm. “But we outvoted you. The three of us own this business together, and we each have an equal say in how it’s run.”
“So you didn’t even tell me you went ahead with it?” I was yelling again, but I couldn’t fucking help it. I hated it when they sprung shit on me.
“Hey, it was you that stormed out after you didn’t get your way,” Pete said. “We sat here and discussed it for a while. And we decided that it would be worth the added expense to hire someone to help us promote.”
I crossed my arms. “We can’t afford it.”
“We can’t afford to do nothing, either,” Brad said. “Dad was a good farmer with ideas ahead of his time, but he was a terrible businessman, so we inherited a huge amount of debt when we took over. Then we had to buy Mom out when she moved to Florida.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot,” I snapped. “I know all this.”
“We also have families and our own bills to pay.”
They had families. I didn’t, and the reminder didn’t help. “Hey, it’s not my problem you’ve got an ex-wife who sued for alimony. Maybe you should have thought of that before you fucked around.”
“Hey.” A warning note from Pete. “Don’t be a dick about this. We’re doing good things here, Jack, but organic farming isn’t cheap. And what good will our principles and hard work do us if we can’t keep the lights on?”
“And competition is stronger now,” said Brad. “The market is getting saturated. We need to do what we can to stand out.”
I sank deeper into my chair, a scowl on my face. I didn’t need any reminders about competition or market saturation or debt or mortgages or anything else on the list of Reasons Why Farmers Have the Highest Suicide Rate of Any Profession.
Pete put a hand on his chest. “Listen. I’m a chef, not a businessman, Jack. You’re an ex-Army Sergeant with farming in your blood and a commitment to doing it responsibly. But if we want to keep this place going, we’ve got to start thinking of it as a business too.” His voice softened. “I know it was always a dream of yours and Steph’s. But it’s more than a dream now, Jack. It’s reality. For all of us. And if you want to keep it, we have to invest in it.”
“Look, we know you,” Brad said. “We are well aware that you prefer to keep to yourself and do things on your own, your way. And we’ve let you make every major decision so far, supported your vision even though we knew how expensive it was going to be. Fuck, I was ready to sell this entire place when that soybean guy expressed interest. I never wanted to be a farmer.”
“Me neither,” said Pete. “I saw the ups and downs Mom and Dad dealt with year after year and wanted something more stable for my family. But you had a vision, a good one. It was enough to convince me to move back and help out. And we have history here. We want this place to thrive. That won’t happen unless people know about it.”