Page 33 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

"Morning."

I look at the clock. "You're late."

"It's six fifty-eight."

"Exactly."

He ignores that.

"We need to talk about the north field."

That gets my attention.

"What about it?"

"I got the soil report."

"And?"

"Better."

"How much better?"

He hands it to me. I scan the numbers. Not perfect. But workable.

"Another compost cycle."

"That's what I thought."

"We can plant early greens there next season."

"And after that?"

"Legumes. We rebuild the nitrogen before we try anything demanding."

Jack nods.

"Sounds good."

He takes the report back. This is the part most people never see. They see a tomato at the market. They don't see this. Soil reports. Compost. Crop rotation. Temperature logs. Water. Timing. A hundred small decisions made months before anything reaches a plate. I prefer it that way. The food can speak for itself.

Jack heads back outside. I return to the basil.

By midmorning, the farm is fully awake. Men move between the greenhouse and fields. The tractor starts near the south beds. Somebody turns on music in the packing shed until somebody else complains. Normal. Good. I prefer normal.

I'm checking the berry rows when I notice several plants need tying. I kneel and get to work. There's satisfaction in this part. Small adjustments. Attention. Knowing what a plant needs before the damage becomes visible to everybody else. Growing isn't complicated because nature is mysterious. It's complicated because nature doesn't care about your schedule. You pay attention or you lose things. Simple.

I move to the next plant. Then, for no useful reason, I hear Madison's voice in my head.

These are restaurant quality.

Then:

Better than restaurant quality, actually.

I smile before I can stop myself. Once. Barely. Then I catch myself. No. I don't need to be thinking about Madison Hart. She's grieving. She's Lily's sister. She's Noah's aunt. And unless something changed in the last twenty-four hours, she has a restaurant and a life waiting for her in New York. She said Oakridge isn't home. I believed her. I should probably remember that.

I stand and pick up the basket. Atlas falls into step beside me. At the end of the row, I stop and look back across the farm. Tomatoes. Squash. Herbs. The greenhouse. The land we've spent years bringing back.