“That doesn’t mean it’s smart to jump out in front of a car.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. He was tall, broad-shouldered and built like someone who spent time thinking about what his body could do. Dirt clung to his boots, sweat darkened the collar of his shirt. He didn’t look impressed.
“Who are you?” he asked.
I pushed the door open and got out before I could stop myself.
“I’m Claire Segal. I’m here for the orchard job.”
“You’re late.” His lips pursed.
“I’m five minutes early,” I countered as my stomach dipped.
He checked his watch anyway. “Didn’t get a call.”
“I emailed the time I was coming in,” I said. “Twice.”
“Didn’t see it,” he repeated like a broken record.
“Then that sounds like a you problem,” I countered. As handsome as this guy was, he was getting on my nerves.
Something sharp crossed his face, irritation or maybe something more personal. He stepped closer, and I resisted the urge to step back.
“You don’t start a job by arguing with the person running the place,” he said.
“I don’t start a job by being interrogated in the driveway.” I held my own. I wasn’t going to let this small-town jerk with his big ego make me feel bad about nothing in particular. Silence stretched between us. Up close, I noticed his eyes dark, focused and guarded.
“Claire,” he said. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Asher. It seems you took a side road into the property instead of using the main entrance.”
Oops.
He didn’t offer his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” I said flatly.
“Debatable.”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
He exhaled slowly. “People come here with stories all the time. Temporary work. Quiet town. Fresh start. It usually means trouble.”
My chest tightened. “I didn’t come here to cause trouble.”
“Everyone says that,” he bit back.
The words hit harder than they should have.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.
“You’re right,” he said. “But I know this place.”
“And what exactly do you think I’m looking for?” I asked.
He hesitated. Just a second too long. “Running from someone,” he said, “or digging something up?”