Page 29 of The Reason I Married Him
Now that we’re in the silo section of the farm, I know he’ll tell me we don’t need such large storage systems, especially ones that aren’t kept up as well.
“Well, potatoes sometimes get stuck in the silo, leading them to rot.”
“That’s very unappealing,” he says as he looks up into the cylinder tower. “Why do you need so much space? This seems like a lot. Have you ever thought about ways you can distribute the potatoes around town other than for the vodka?” He looks at me. “How many potatoes do you have to compost a year?”
“More than what you probably want to hear.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You need to figure out another way to get these potatoes off your hands. I mean, if you have an overproduction of a crop that is not your main source of income, then you need to change it up.”
“But it is the main source of income,” I counter.
He shakes his head. “The vodka and almond extract are. The potatoes just provide a way to make that. You shouldn’t have an overproduction of potatoes. That’s wasting time, farmland, and money. Either you need to cut down on the fields you’re using for potatoes and distribute that to something else like the cows, or you need to find a new way to use the potatoes rather than just selling them to local restaurants.”
I fold my arms and say, “Okay, then what would your suggestion be if you’re so smart?”
“I’m glad you asked.” He smiles and faces me, sticking his hands in his front pockets, looking like the arrogant man he is. “There is a plant just outside of Silicon Valley that specializes in making biodegradable plastics by using potato starch. I know the CEO and have actually toured the factory. It’s impressive, and they’re always looking to buy potatoes despite having their own fields. They’re at a deficit at the moment.” Is that why he knows so much about freaking potatoes? Here I was thinking hewent and researched potatoes for a week straight before he came here. “So your potato surplus could help him out, and you’re helping the environment by creating a biodegradable plastic.”
“Well, that’s . . . interesting,” I say even though I don’t want to.
“And if you went that way, then I’d keep the fields, but then strike up a bargain with the dairy farmers behind you for the milk so you can make the ice cream and butter. But if you’re still thinking about cutting down on the potato fields to make room for more cows, then you could also turn over your potatoes to make potato flour. A farm about half an hour from here makes all kinds of flours, potato being one of them. And of course, with that potato flour, not only could you add it as a retail item in The Almond Store—part of the brand—but you could take that flour and make another specialized bakery item unique to the store.” He twirls his finger in the air. “A full circle moment.”
God, do I want to kick him so badly. Right in the nuts. I want to make him keel over in pain because just yesterday, I was going over the books and trying to figure out why we were coming up short on growing the farm and the business. Then he comes waltzing in, wearing a pair of new boots that now look like they’ve been through the trenches of a war field, acting like he is the mighty potato czar.
And even though I hate to admit it, a little part of me believes it. I mean, his ideas were unlike anything I would have thought of. How could he look at a situation, quickly assess, and find a solution or a way to expand? He looked at the resources, reused them, and put them back into the product, the farm.
Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tells me we should have a few cherry trees to “go with the brand.” I’d buy it. I would probably, in my mind—not out loud, of course—think wow, what a genius.
“I can see you’re thinking.” He leans in with a grin. “Are you thinking about how clever I am?”
A wave of his fresh, earthy cologne comes barreling into my space as I say, “No.” Even though I’m thinking, yes.
He is clever.
Annoyingly charming.
And has a knack for comebacks that make me stutter over my words.
I’ve intentionally resisted reacting, resisted adding to the banter, because the last thing I want is for him to think he can make me laugh.
“Come on, surely you thought that one of my ideas was smart. I was throwing out some good ones.”
“They’re ideas, Wyatt. They’re not action plans. There’s a difference.” And they all require upfront capital that we don’t really have.
“Want me to draw something up for you? Like I said, I’m available right now. I can talk to the cow neighbors and my friend down at the biodegradable plastic plant to see if we can negotiate a deal. Then we can write up a plan of action, a step-by-step process, and maybe throw out some projections. I would need to look at the books, but that won’t be too hard. I could have something on your desk in the next few days.”
Why is he like this?
I thought he wrote thrillers. He’s acting like a billionaire trying to monopolize the potato industry. Who does he think he is? Huxley Cane?
Lord knows he probably knows who Huxley Cane is. They’re probably best friends.
“Uh, are you going to answer me?” he asks.
I focus my eyes on him and tilt my head to the side. “Do you happen to know Huxley Cane?”
“I don’t, but I did serve on a board with his brother, Breaker. Great guy. Why? Do you need me to ask them something? I bet I could set up a meeting with Breaker and Huxley.”
Dear Jesus.
