“Truth.” I don’t mention that, yes, the place is overwhelmingly awful. The clean-up alone will take weeks of hard labor. Half of his products have expired. There’s definitely a bug problem, perhaps rodents, too. And any rebranding attempt means getting Wade and company to change their ways—a feat in and of itself. Diving into a shit pit is an accurate assessment of the undertaking.

And yet, I can’t think of anything else I’d want to do, partly because challenges and special projects are my jam. Seriously.

But more than that, I want to do it for Grady. He saved my life—he should have his back. If taking this job alleviates his guilt and restores his peace of mind, then, of course, I’ll do it for him. He needs this as much as I do.

By the time we finish working out details with Wade, darkness falls, turning the swamp into black ink and gray shadows. Heading toward Grady’s truck, I pull my sweater on to battle the chill in the air.

“Hungry?” Grady asks.

“Um, yeah.”

“Marigold doesn’t like eating out on the fly, but how about we take her home and raid Mom’s kitchen?”

The question surprises me. “Are you sure she wouldn’t mind?”

He smirks. “She’ll be ecstatic. Trust me. Only let’s not mention the Wade situation. Okay?”

“Okay, why not?”

“Did you hear that Marigold? We aren’t discussing Wade or the G&G. That’s off-limits.” He peers at his sister through the rearview mirror.

“Off-limits,” she repeats dully. “Yes, Grady.”

His eyes cut to me. “Wade and Dad don’t get along. They had a falling out over a decade ago. Dad prefers us to keep our distance, and Wade is perfectly fine with that arrangement.”

I want to ask about the falling out, but it feels nosy.

“I apologize in advance for Wade. He might be difficult to deal with.”

“Aw, honey, I’ll turn him into a teddy bear in no time. You’ll see.”

He chuckles. “Darling, if anyone could do it, it’d be you.”

A bit flushed by his faith in me and the word darling, I gaze out the window, focusing on passing lights instead of Grady. But it’s hard. The tight veins in his forearms, tensing as he turns, nicks from old injuries, and the dark lines and smudges of his tattoos are all delicious little things that could keep me entertained for hours.

I must be lonely. Or hormonal—I still have those.

Soon, we pull through the gates and bump up the long driveway of Tripp Family Farm. Flanked by fields and pastures, their home guides us in like a lighthouse amid the seas. Light beams in every window, and twinkle lights adorn the wraparound porch. It’s bigger than I expected, but it housed eight people at one time. Eight!