Farmer Scott

Harper

I try not to pull a Marilyn Monroe as the wind whips the flared skirt of the sleeveless aquamarine dress I am wearing. McKenzy loaned me a pair of high-heeled, strappy sandals to match, and they aren’t helping the situation much as I teeter along the sidewalk, expecting to be swept away like Mary Poppins.

As I turn the corner onto Raymond Avenue, I pause to adjust one of the straps on the right sandal. 

“I should have worn tennis shoes,” I grumble, even though I know that wouldn’t be appropriate. It’s my own fault for losing one of my own silver slippers. Not in a Cinderella way, but in a this-closet-is-an-unholy-vortex way. I’m sure, when I finally get around to cleaning it, the missing slipper will reappear. .

“Yeah, when I’m being moved to a nursing home,” I mutter. I catch my reflection in one of the storefront windows and pat back a strand of my hair. At least that’s clipped up in a twist so the wind can only do so much damage.

In the reflection, I also see a police car. I swear the side says Otsego.I spin around, but the car is already speeding down the block.

“That’s bizarre.” I think of my ex-boyfriend, Jack Collins, for a second or two. He’s an Otsego cop, but Otsego is forty minutes away from St. Paul. I shake my head. “Pretty soon here, I’m going to need a tinfoil hat.”

“It’d match the shoes,” a low voice chuckles.

I look up and straight into the warmest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. I smile when I recognize it’s my date–Scott.

“Uh, hi,” I say, embarrassed about being caught talking to myself.

He sticks out his hand. “Hi. I’m Scott Bauer.”

Sheepishly, I shake it. “Harper Ward.”

“I could get you a tinfoil hat, if you like.” Scott grins. “It’d make a real statement at the wedding.”

“A statement like ‘look who showed up with crazy’?” I smile back.

“Hey, as long as I show up with somebody, it’ll be fine.” Scott offers me his arm. “Since you’re about to fly away any minute now, I figure you’d better hang onto me while we walk to the coffee shop.”

I look down at my skirt, which is already trying to get tangled around a lamppost. “Yeah, good plan.”

Surprisingly, Scott leads the way. I eye him suspiciously. “You researched the area before, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Scott admits with a grin. “I’ll bet I even know where you live.”

“Is it that obvious?” I laugh.

“You’re an artist. Carleton Artist Lofts is nearby. It just seems to make sense. Am I wrong?” Scott asks. We enter the coffee shop, and I get a strong whiff of ground beans.

I chuckle. “And here I thought I was being so stealthy.”

Scott pulls out a chair for me at one of the pleasantly beat-up tables. “Don’t worry about it. I moonlight as an amateur detective.”

“No, you don’t,” I snort.

His dimples deepen as his smile widens. “No, I don’t. But I’m not going to give you too much crap over it. I think you’ve learned your lesson. And since I’m not the Mississippi River Slasher, you don’t need to worry. Just, maybe, pick somewhere a little further away from home for a meeting point next time, yeah?” His beautiful blue eyes are genuinely concerned.

“Point taken,” I agree.

“So,” he says without sitting down. “What can I get you?”

“A London Fog would be great, thanks. But you don’t have to buy me coffee. I mean…” I feel my cheeks heat up.

Scott winks. “Let me buy myself into your good graces. I figure we could at least get to know each other a bit before I sweep you off to the wedding.”

“Okay.” I relent. I mean, what else am I going to do?

Scott goes to the counter and comes back with my London Fog and a drink for himself. He sits across from me, sipping what I can only imagine is very strong coffee, from the fragrance.

“Tall, black coffee?” I guess.

“Got it in one. Didn’t know you were a psychic too. Is that what you’re doing on those ‘long walks on the beach’?” Scott teases me.

I groan and drop my head on my arm. “Don’t remind me. Tell me she took out the partying bit?”

“I could kind of tell from the profile pic you chose that you weren’t the ‘party girl’ your friend made you out to be. Not that you don’t enjoy a good time, but most of the ‘party girls’ on that site are holding a beer in one hand and a cropped-out ex in the other,” Scott laughs.

“Oh, God.” I peek up at Scott. “I’m not a crazy cat lady. I swear. I don’t even have a cat.”

“You’re not a crazy cat lady yet,” Scott corrects me. “And I like that about you.”

I pull out my phone to check my profile. “She didn’t seriously put that in there…”

He puts a hand over mine. “No. That was a personal observation. I think you’re a hard worker, like me, and serious about your success, so you don’t go out making Girls Gone Wild videos and drinking until you’re dancing topless on tables. You’re just the kind of girl I want.” A charming blush creeps into his tan cheeks. “I mean, as a date.” A cough. “To my cousin’s wedding.”

I smile at him and put my phone away. “You won’t see this again for the rest of the night. I just had to make sure McKenzy didn’t go totally wild. She has the login, you know? She could do anything. She wanted to make my profile pic a bikini shot!”

“That would have been nice,” he admits. “But not what I was looking for. I was looking for you.”

I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. We stare at each other for a long moment, something magnetic happening between us.

Then Scott clears his throat. “We should probably go to that wedding.”

“Yeah, probably.” I start to stand, but Scott rushes to pull out my chair for me. He’s attractive, and a gentleman. I am so doomed. “Hey, Scott?” I say as he offers me his arm again.

“Hey, Harper?” he echoes with twinkling eyes.

“Would it be out of line for me to say I wish we weren’t going to a wedding, and this was a real date?”

Scott’s eyes soften. “No,” he replies. “You wouldn’t be out of line at all.”

* * *

Scott

Holy fuck, this woman is hot!

I’m tempted to tell my cousin my truck broke down and take Harper to some fancy Minneapolis restaurant. One of the ones with the cloth napkins and champagne I would feel completely out of place in. It would be nothing like the farm, but for Harper, it would be worth it.

I give myself a mental shake. If I don’t go to that wedding, I will never hear the end of it and I need Harper to be my shield. So, no cloth napkins for us,, not tonight, at least. Still, it’s hard to focus on going back out to the church in Vermillion and later dancing at The Wexford at the Emerald Greens Golf Course.

Dancing. I feel the warmth of Harper’s hand through my light jacket, and I’m glad I’m not wearing a tie, just a nice white shirt. If I had been wearing a tie, I wouldn’t be able to breathe. She smells like lilacs.

I am in so much trouble.

Harper is strawberry blonde with long hair that curls in soft waves, begging to be wrapped around a man’s wrist. Her eyes match her dress perfectly, a cheerful aquamarine. With a smoking body and the cutest little sprinkling of pale freckles across her nose, there is no doubt in my mind she would be incredible in bed–but that’s not why we’re here, I remind myself.

“She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” begins playing in my head on a loop, and it’s all I can do not to snicker at my stupid thoughts. Though I can see Harper riding my tractor, perched right in my lap. Suddenly, my pants feel a little too tight.

Luckily, my workhorse of a Ford F-450 Super Duty King Ranch comes into view, huge compared to the city folks’ cars parked along the street in front of and behind it. I’d given her a good washing before coming to get Harper, but there is still a little bit of dirt clinging to the mud flaps.

Harper gives a low whistle. “Is that yours?” she asks, pointing right at Big Bertha.

“She sure is,” I reply proudly. I unlock the truck and swing open the passenger door. “Watch your step,” I say, helping her up. For all the times my mom asks me why I don’t get around to putting running boards on Big Bertha, I can finally tell her. It’s because one day, I was meant to put my hands on Harper’s waist and lift her into my truck.

“Thanks,” Harper says. The most adorable blush touches her cheeks, making those cute little freckles stand out even more.

“Any time. Seriously, any time,” I respond. My voice is more growly than usual. I probably look like a horny teenager. Hell, I feel like a horny teenager.

“I think we’re supposed to go to the wedding now,” Harper murmurs throatily, and it goes all the way to my groin.

It also means I’ve been caught staring. “Right.” I close the door, careful not to catch her dress, and run around to the other side of the truck.

I get in, throw the truck in gear, and squeeze out of the parking spot. Two idiot sedan drivers gave me a couple of inches on each bumper. Stupid city folk. Maybe you could get a Smart Car out of here without a problem, but this is gonna be tight.

“That was impressive,” Harper remarks when I finally ease Big Bertha free. She puts a hand on my knee.

I show all my great driving skill by almost rear-ending a Cadillac. “Thanks.” I gulp.

“Sorry,” Harper says, starting to remove her hand. “I shouldn’t have—”

I grab her hand and put it back right where it was. “You definitely should have. Just give a man a little warning next time. It’s not every day I get a sexy woman groping my thigh.” I grin so she knows it’s a joke.

“Oh, Scott, if I was groping your thigh, you’d know it,” Harper shoots back.

Her wit is going to be the death of me. Sure, she’s hot, but this easy banter between us is something I’ve never had before. “I’m sure I would.”

I hold Harper’s hand in my lap all the way to Vermillion, not minding the forty-minute drive one bit this time. The church rises tall and beautiful on one of the main drags. I’m tempted to drive right past it and into a cornfield. I’m willing to bet Harper will show me what it really means to grope my thigh if I do.

Focus. Janet’s wedding. Janet’s wedding! I force myself to imagine the chewing-out I’ll get from my mother if I don’t attend.

Reluctantly, I park near the church and go to help Harper out of the truck. She slides all the way down my body as I pull her out and set her on her feet.

“Holy fuck,” I groan. I’m sure Harper can feel the problem between us.

Harper bites her lip. “Maybe I should stand in front of you for a minute while you convince your friend it’s a bad time to make an appearance.”

“Yeah, I think that’d be a good idea,” I agree. But I still have to move her a couple of inches away from my body, or the problem’s never gonna go away.

“So, what’s organic farming like?” Harper asks.

I smile at her, knowing she’s trying to help. “It’s hard, but worth it.”

Harper glances down at the word ‘hard,’ and I have to laugh.

“I like hard things,” she mumbles.