My first day of digging, I’m clumsy as hell. Sweat makes my grip slippery on the wooden handle, and trying to break the surface of the hard dirt is like knocking on the earth’s crust. Finally, finally, I sketch the rough outline of a rectangle, but as the sun goes down, I head inside with aching shoulders and red, shiny palms.

The second day, I complete a whole corner. Everett says something in the evening about mixing stuff into the loose soil once I’m done, and I try not to weep over the dinner table.

I’m so freaking tired. So bad at this.

But it’s fine. I will get this job done, and I will earn my way. I’m not looking for handouts from Everett Bray, and I don’t want his pity.

All I really want, deep down, is his eyes on me.

That night, once we’ve eaten the creamy pasta I made and we’re both tipping back in our chairs with sleepy eyes, Everett clears his throat. “Listen, Josie. About the patch. I could find you a different job to do instead—”

“Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare.” I am this close to throwing my fork at his big, rugged head. His mouth tilts up in that almost-smile, and my cheeks lift in answer. I’m grinning like an idiot when I say, “I’m gonna finish it.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “Sure you are.”

Well that’s a challenge if I ever heard one, and I work harder than the devil on my third day of digging. I’m out there with the first blush of dawn, throwing my whole body into the task, sweat coursing down my spine and my bare limbs. My strappy green top sticks to my back and my hair escapes my ponytail in a mad frizz.

“You missed breakfast,” Everett mutters when he passes on his way to his workshop. I pause long enough for him to nudge an apple into my hand. “Don’t skip lunch, you hear? And drink plenty of water.”

I salute with the hand holding my apple, wobbling on the uneven dirt with one heel propped on the shovel. “Yes, sir.”

Everett blushes as he turns away.

My nipples poke at my bra as I stare after him, like tiny Everett Bray-seeking missiles. Is it that easy to make him blush? Or am I special?

The upside of digging this stupid patch is that there’s no room in my head for loud, circling thoughts. There’s only my burning muscles and sweaty skin and short, ragged breaths. There’s the crunch and rasp of dry soil, and the hot glare of the sun, and nothing else.

It’s bliss.

I don’t need to think about what my plans are after this. Don’t need to worry about money and jobs and being a big ol’ failure; don’t need to imagine what Harry will say.

All that matters is that I dig up another patch of soil.

I’m not too bad, either, once I find my rhythm, and soon enough two thirds of the patch are dug up. I’m so close to finishing I can taste it, but my body’s paying a steep price.