Page 2 of A Bittersweet Summer

“Wesley Miller?” I say again with a bit more gusto. “I’m assuming.”

I curse myself for the muttered last line there, but carry on anyway.

He gives me a flat smile but doesn’t move. “You must be Cass,” he says, before glancing longingly at the counter. “I’m just going to grab a quick coffee, and I’ll be right over.”

I let out a full breath that ends in a soft chuckle before my nerves shove my voice into thetoo-brightzone. “Yeah, okay. Of course!”

He nods once—the kind of nod you’d expect from a farm man departing in an old western film, and I sit down.

“This is going alright,” I whisper to myself as if I can manifest it to be so.

I debate alerting the group chat, but before I can touch my phone, he’s back and thumping onto the chair across from me at the table. His shoulders visibly slump, as if he’s been carrying around the stress of the world and decided to unload it here… during an interview.

It’s not my idea of relaxation, but different strokes, as the saying goes.

He leans back with a cup clasped in his large hand.

“That was fast!” I say, keeping my tone bright, but not too bright this time. I hope to emanate a very hirable personality—snuff out some of my crazy that comes out when I’m nervous. My tendency to become talkative and overly friendly when I’m uncomfortable has cursed me a time or two, and judging by the flat look on his face, I have a feeling Wesley Miller, owner of Miller Run Farms, would not appreciate anything too vibrant or bubbly.

“That’s because it’s black coffee,” he informs, and my previous assessment that this man despises all things too joyful gains validity with every passing second.

That kind of personality is exactly the type I tend to avoid in every context.

My childhood was filled with so much sadness, I can’t fathom touching any more unnecessarily.

I swallow my nerves and smile anyway. “Of course! That wouldn’t take long at all!” My fingers wind around my cup, gripping my latte as if it can ground me. Unfortunately, the sugar-loaded concoction can only serve to increase my chatter. “Thank you so much for taking the time to interview me here,” I start, words rushing out of me like a swollen river after a solid three days of rain. I’m merely swept up in the current. “I am very excited for the opportunity to work on a farm. As you know, from my previous messages, I grew up around horses since I worked for my lessons. I may have lost some muscle in recent years, but I’m certain I can get it back. I’m a very hard worker, and I—”

“Do you have a criminal record?” he asks, the rumble of his voice startling me out of my long-winded self-advertisement.

My brow furrows, the wind leaving my sails. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, somewhat confused.

Wesley takes a sip of his coffee and relaxes further back into the chair with his legs spread wide. He looks as if he’s just sat down after a long day of work.

It’s only eight in the morning.

“A criminal record,” he asks, placing the to-go cup back on the table.

“Oh,” I say. “No. I mean, I got a parking ticket once, but I paid it right away because I was worried about—”

“Afraid to touch shit?”

I startle back a bit, doing my best to mask my surprise. “No,” I answer, letting an easy laugh slip between my lips. “Though I’d prefer to wear my work gloves when I do it. In an emergency, I suppose I could—”

“Great.” That one word feels final, and I’m suddenly unsure of myself. I cannot for the life of me gauge how this interview is going, and that bothers me.

It bothers me a lot.

“Great,” I say, suddenly at a loss for words.

Wesley taps his cup twice before leaning forward, his elbows tilting the table just slightly, setting it off balance. I feel off balance, too.

This is a specialty of his, I’m finding.

“Pay isn’t much. Fifteen an hour, but your housing is provided. The house is at the end of the driveway. Utilities are a part of the deal, but you’ll need your own cable service and internet. Or not. That’s really none of my business.” He sucks in a long breath as if our conversation exhausts him. Which is odd, because he’s hardly spoken until now. “You’re expected at the barn by seven. Shift ends at three-thirty. Fridays and Saturdays off. The rest was outlined in the listing.”

“So,” I start, the word lengthened by my confusion. “Am I hired?” With all my strength, I try to fix my face and keep any incredulous expressions to myself. Though I firmlybelieve Wesley Miller might prefer that expression more than a welcoming smile.

I can’t be sure.