Page 73 of The Difference Between

I huff out an annoyed breath. “Nancy and Gavin sai⁠—”

“Yep.” He claps. “That’s what I’m talking about. Gavin. White hawk. The Heater. My man.”

I hold up my hands and look around. “What about him?”

He pockets his shears, making the flimsy fabric of his pants sag slightly, then presses all his fingers to his mouth. All ten fingers. He pulls them away, draws in a breath like he’s going to speak only to put the fingers back to his mouth. He does this again. Twice. “Uh-huh.”

Never have two syllables made me so uncomfortable.

“Explain,” I demand.

“For starters. There’s no reaching full potential when you live life so”—he gestures to the length of me—“restricted.”

I do not scream like I long to do. “I mean explain what you’re doing to the vines.”

After a lingering look, he retrieves the shears from his pocket and returns his focus to the vine, doing more touching than pruning.

“Canopy management,” he explains in my silence. “Just makin’ sure these fine grapes get enough sun and air, little lady.”

“Don’t call me little lady,” I tell him. “And explain more.”

“Ehh.” His face scrunches as he looks at me, focus lingering on my feet. “No can do.”

“What?” I pin him with a look that I hope translates to who the hell do you think you’re dealing with?

His shrug tells me it did not. “The clothes. The shoes.” He squints. “Do you meditate?”

I scoff, swatting gnats out of my eyes. “Do you bathe?”

He laughs. “You’re funny.” He doesn’t react to my withering glare. “But this is a reciprocal relationship. Symbiotic. The ladies feed off the energy and your energy is—” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Wowza.”

“Because I’m not here on work order?”

“More jokes.” He wags his shears at me. “But if you want to work with the vines, your stress will stress them. You have to be—” He slides a cool hand through the air. “Chill.”

“Chill?”

He nods, repeating the hand motion.

And herein lies my issue with hippies: They’re idealist pains in the ass with zero regard for efficiency.

I can’t get rid of him—I told Nancy he could at least stay through the season after she insisted that he’s some kind of grape whisperer.

But also, every study on fertility I’ve read says I should be relaxing and managing stress. I’ve made zero headway on that as everyone in this town is gunning for me to have a nervous breakdown. And vetting my donors might be adding to my stress. The one I researched this morning works for a nonprofit—noble—until I found his list of hobbies includes protesting big businesses. I might as well procreate with the antichrist. He’s off the list, meaning I’m down to the slow-emailing, online-dating doctor and five others, and Gavin still lives next door to my mother spewing perfect lines that now live in my brain rent free.

Maybe Banyan’s chill would be good for me.

“And how do you propose I do that?”

“Lose the shoes, for starters,” he says. “Direct connection to the earth’s surface will fill you with free electrons and balance you out. Those toe coffins are damming the energy and harshing your harmony.” He shakes his head, solemn as he whispers, “The grapes know.”

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. This idiot wants me to walk around barefoot.

At work.

Outside.

“I’ll take my shoes off if you button your shirt.”