Page 74 of Saltwater Cowboy

Wells smirked, turning the key. The engine rumbled to life beneath us. “Ready?”

The vibration of the machine buzzed up my spine as I slipped my sunglasses over my eyes. “And what, exactly, is this death trap?”

“It’s a four-wheeler,” he said, motioning toward the grips on either side of me. “You can hold on there… or you could hold on to me.”

I snorted. “I’d rather walk than hold onto you.”

He didn’t say another word before we took off down the dirt road, winding past pastures and barns until we reached a stretch of land that looked straight out of a painting.

Rows of flowers stretched out before us, wild and bright—sunflowers, daisies, roses, lavender, zinnias, and blooms I didn’t even have names for. The air smelled sweet, the breeze carrying the soft scent of earth and petals.

For a second, I just stared.

This wasn’t what I expected.

It was beautiful.

Wells glanced at me, catching my expression. “Better than wrangling goats?”

I swallowed, tearing my gaze away. “I’ll let you know in a few hours.”

He chuckled and swung off the four-wheeler, grabbing a pair of gardening shears from the small storage compartment. “Come on, city girl. Let’s see if you can handle a day in the flower fields.”

I sighed dramatically but climbed off after him, my flip-flops smacking against the packed dirt.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.

FLOWERS IN YOUR HAIR

Wells led me down a narrow path between the rows of flowers, the scent of lavender and wild blooms thick in the warm air. The colors were almost overwhelming—sunbursts of yellow, deep purples, fiery reds. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought I’d stepped into some kind of enchanted garden.

He stopped in front of a row of sunflowers, taller than both of us, and handed me the shears. “Alright, first lesson—you don’t just go hacking at ‘em like you’re in a horror movie. There’s a method.”

I playfully rolled my eyes. “And here I thought I could just start swinging.”

Wells ignored my sarcasm, crouching beside one of the smaller flowers. “You always want to cut at an angle, right above a healthy set of leaves. Keeps the plant strong and encourages more blooms.” He demonstrated, slicing cleanly through the stem.

I mimicked his stance, eyeing a bright zinnia. “Like this?” I clipped the stem, and the flower flopped over like a tragic love story.

He snorted. “Close. Maybe don’t kill it in the process.”

I scowled before trying again, this time paying closer attention. When I successfully snipped a bloom without looking like a botanical assassin, I stood a little taller. “Not bad for a city girl, right?”

Wells glanced at me, an unreadable expression flickering across his face before he straightened. “Not bad,” he admitted. “But let’s see if you can last more than an hour before you start complaining.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t complain.”

He let out a full laugh at that. “Sure, Sunshine. Whatever you say.”

I huffed but followed him as he moved to another section of the field. The work was surprisingly peaceful—the rhythmic snipping, the soft rustle of petals in the breeze, the occasional hum of a bee drifting by. This was the first time in a long time that my head felt clear.

As we worked, the minutes stretched into an easy rhythm. The sun beat down gently, and the only sounds were the steady clip of shears and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. Wells moved with practiced ease, trimming and pruning flowers, while I fumbled with every snip, trying not to make a mess of things. I kept my head down, concentrating hard, but every now and then, I caught myself glancing at him.

Finally, he spoke, breaking the silence. “What’s your favorite flower?”

I paused, my shears hovering over a sunflower. The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t really thought about it before. “I don’t know,” I said after a beat, my voice unsteady. It wasn’t the answer I’d expected to give, but it felt true.

Wells raised an eyebrow, his expression curious. “You don’t know?”