“Not if I work it off beating the crap out of you.” Trading jabs with Casey was the easiest way to recover from public embarrassment.
“That’s a fight I’d like to see.” Ford’s tone was casual and friendly but something about it—about him—made everything he said feel very … personal.
The chair next to me scraped back and Ford sat down. I turned just as he scooted forward, and, for a split second, our faces were only inches apart. I blinked, startled by the closeness of the most striking gray-blue eyes I’d ever seen. I was right. Definitely better close up.
Ford turned his attention to his steaming plate and dug in. Across the table, Casey grinned in a way that made me want to throat-punch him. He was enjoying this way too much. Ass.
While Ford ate, I tried not to ogle the parts of him that filled my peripheral. But it was hard not to notice the broad shoulders and hard jawline. After a few moments, he grinned and turned toward me. Feeling caught and determined to play it off this time, I did the same.
“I’m Ford.” He stuck his hand out and I shook it, the gesture awkward when we were sitting this close. Wow, he had big hands. Rough and calloused. What was his job here? Shit, was I supposed to be saying something?
“Um, hi.” My cheeks warmed all over again. I raised my chin, giving his hand an extra-firm shake. “I’m Summer. I live here.” Smooth.
He held my hand longer than necessary, but I didn’t pull away, wanting to beat him.
Finally, Ford retracted his hand from mine and picked up his fork, though he made no move to eat “I know. Casey’s told me a lot about you.”
Without the distraction of his touch, I regained my composure enough to manage a mock glare across the table. “Is that right? Should I be worried?”
Not that it mattered what Casey said about me. I’d left school to get away from a lot of things about my life, including a guy. Especially a guy. I wasn’t looking for another one. So who cared what this one thought?
“I think where Casey’s concerned, you should always be worried,” Ford said and I laughed.
“Hey now,” Casey said. “You two have known each other three seconds and you’re already ganging up on me? Dean, I want to file a complaint on the new guy.”
At the far end of the table, my dad shook his head at Casey and then went back to his conversation with Frank.
“You work here?” I asked Ford. He nodded. “When did you start? I don’t remember seeing you here for winter break.”
“Got into town about a month ago. Only been working here at the farm for a couple of weeks,” he explained.
“Ford took that internship,” Casey explained.
“The work study program?” I asked, remembering my dad saying something about it being his turn to offer to mentor a graduate for the Board of Farmers he served on. They were big on “the next generation,” as they called it, and keeping natural produce locally owned and operated so they found ways to give back as often as possible. I’d forgotten all about it until now.
“That’s the one,” Ford said. “Figured I’d follow him around, learn what I can of mass-produce field farming before moving onto the next one.”
“You have multiple work studies lined up?” I asked.
“This is my third since graduating the program.”
“Do you have a track record that requires you to keep seeking out alternative locations?” I asked.
Ford laughed. “I’m not a delinquent, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” He shot back. I frowned, but he didn’t seem ruffled. “Don’t worry. I’ve completed each program with no problems. I just want to learn as much as I can before choosing a location and settling into my own thing.”
“And what’s your thing?” I asked.
Ford didn’t answer right away. He seemed to take his time thinking over my question. “Creating,” he said finally.
Something about his answer pulled at me. Like a challenge. Like the question I’d asked was important and if you didn’t know the answer, you’d failed. It made me shift in my seat as I realized I wouldn’t have known the answer had he asked me that same thing. I waited for him to shoot the question back at me, but he never did. Casey said something to him and he responded; moment over.
The rest of the meal passed easily. Ford talked mostly to Casey with plenty of side comments and smiles for Mazie. All of the guys, including my father, seemed to genuinely like Ford even though he’d only been here for two weeks. Maybe it was my warped view of the world these days, but it was a little off-putting to see that he’d slid into the fabric of Heritage Plantation so quickly.
Ford was either the nicest guy ever—or the slickest charmer. I wasn’t looking for either one.
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Novels are a funny thing to write. They’re inspired by everywhere and nowhere all at once. Take this novel for instance. The title came to me two years (or more) ago. I was helping another author friend with finding a good title for her current work-in-progress. Paper Thin came into my mind. She didn’t like it for her story, but I loved the title. I jotted down the two words on a Post-It note, and placed it on my desk. It sat on top of a stack of other random Post-It note scribbles for nearly two years. Each time I saw it, I knew I wanted to write a story that would do the title justice. One summer day, I sat down and tried. I hope you think I succeeded, dear reader.
This story wouldn’t have been possible without the following people:
My wonderful husband who helped me brainstorm the plot for this one. He knew where this story would go before I even did.
My kids, who let me write early in the mornings without complaint, even when I knew they wanted me to make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast instead of cold cereal because I wanted to get back to Charlotte. They knew there was always Saturday mornings…unless they woke to find me at the computer. Again.
My mom and sister for always being there for me, and believing in this dream of mine.
My author friends T. A. Foster and Bethany Lopez. Your feedback is precious to me.
My team of people I’ve come to adore. My editor H. Danielle Crabtree. My proofreader Nicole Stephenson. My cover artist Lindee Robinson. My formatter Stacey Blake. You all make my stories a complete package, and I thank you for that.
My Snyder’s Sidekicks. You fuel me. Honestly. Each day I’m so amazed by your enthusiasm for my stories and characters. Thank you, ladies. A special thank you needs to go out to Amanda Miracle for naming the bar Charlotte meets Johnny at Throttle.
My readers, thank you for keeping this dream of mine alive for a little while longer.
(Photo by Cover Me Darling Photography)
Jennifer Snyder lives in North Carolina were she spends most of her time writing New Adult and Young Adult Fiction, reading, and struggling to stay on top of housework. She is a tea lover with an obsession for Post-it notes and smooth writing pens. Jennifer lives with her husband and two children, who endure listening to songs that spur inspiration on repeat and tolerate her love for all paranormal, teenage-targeted TV shows.
Find out more about her latest novel by visiting her website:
http://jennifersnyderbooks.com/
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