And my God did he fill them out beautifully.

I had a flicker of a memory of the last time I’d seen Griff Shipley. We were in his room at the frat house, and he had me up against his bedroom door. My legs were wrapped around his waist while he fu—

“What are you doing on my farm?” he demanded. “Aside from driving into my ditch.”

“Your…farm?” I squeaked, feeling hot all over. “I’m, uh, here to see your father. I work for Boston Premier Group. They want to talk about buying produce. And cider. The yummy alcoholic kind.” I was babbling now.

He lifted his chin thoughtfully. “Do they now?”

Get it together, Kidder. I stood up straighter. “I’m the representative. Is your father home?”

Griff lifted an eyebrow. “You’re too late.”

“Really? I can come back tomorrow.” That was a great idea, actually. I needed to compose myself.

“You’re too late, because my father passed away a couple years ago.”

“He…” Griff’s words finally sunk into my addled brain. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” He waited, staring me down.

“So…” I dug into my purse for the list of farmers. “BPG gave me his name. August Shipley. I’m sorry they got it wrong. Are, uh, you the one I should speak to?”

He grinned, and I saw just a flash of the old Griff. “That piece of paper is right. My full name is August Griffin Shipley the third. And yeah—I’m the farmer and the cidermaker.”

My brain struggled to wrap itself around this idea. Football jock Griff Shipley in charge of a business? I hoped his family had other means of income. Griff Shipley in charge of a tailgate party—maybe I could see that. But a farm and beverage operation?

Nope. Not possible.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Can we talk? Do you have some time?”

Griff lifted his big, bearded chin toward the sky and sighed, as if I had just asked for the moon. Then he pinned me with a big, ornery stare. “Time is pretty scarce, seeing as I gotta pull your car out of that ditch, too. And your tire is probably toast. I have to mow, inspect the fences, milk the cows and slaughter a pig. I have to interview a drug addict and check my apples. But then, maybe. After that.”

“All right…” I shifted my weight, noticing that my cute little strappy sandals had allowed little bits of the gravel road to sneak under my feet. “My thing might only take a few minutes, though. It’s a couple of lines on a page.”

He lifted one giant hand to stroke his beard. “You might have called first. Did you think of that?”

“Good point,” I said gamely. “The BPG buyer told me that it was better to just drive up. He said farmers don’t answer their phones.”

Griff tipped his scruffy face toward the sky and made an unexpected sound which I eventually identified as laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

He crossed his bulky, lickable arms. “Look,” he said. “I have a feeling I know why your man at BPG doesn’t have his calls answered too often. His prices are probably bullshit, right? So his new plan is to send a hot sorority girl in a halter top and short skirt to dazzle the poor hicks who grow his food. Your guy thinks I’m a big enough idiot that a nice rack and a bright smile will blind me for long enough to agree to sell apples for a buck a pound.”