Work for it, p.6
Work for It, page 6
“I never said that.” The words are clipped, flat, final: a roundabout way of telling me to shut up. Now, shutting up is usually my favourite thing, but I prefer it to be a choice.
“Is a lie a thing we say,” I ask, “or a thing we let people believe?”
Keynes stares at me for a moment, breathing slow but deep, as if to calm himself down. All I can hear are those steady inhale-exhales and the near-silent patter of light rain against the windows. Rebecca’s blinking at me like What the fuck are you doing? Starting a fight, it looks like. My mum wouldn’t approve, but she’s not here, and I’m on the edge today. I think Keynes shoved me without even knowing.
I clearly can’t shove him, though, because in the end, he doesn’t snap back. Instead, he speaks to me with painful control. It’s like he has a fist wrapped around his own throat. It’s like he’s so worried about his words running wild that he only lets them leak out inch by inch: “I’m sorry.”
Once it’s said, he looks as surprised as I feel. Judging by his expression, that flicker of slack-jawed astonishment I see before his mask returns, he didn’t plan on saying that. I didn’t plan on hearing it. Rebecca’s gawking at us with zero shame, like we’re one of her favourite films. An odd sort of silence settles like dust
Then Keynes disrupts it with a harried urgency that might, on a different man, be called babbling. “I apologise if I reacted poorly on Sunday night. That was… a private issue. You weren’t at fault and I shouldn’t have made you feel as if you were. And I certainly didn’t mean—or I should never have inferred—that you were stupid.”
Well, fuck. There’s my answer about how much he heard. A warm weirdness blossoms inside my chest, and it should be embarrassment, but it’s not. It’s really not.
Keynes isn’t lounging against the door anymore. His spine is ramrod straight, his head is high and his jaw is set, as if he’s daring me to make something of this. His eyes burn into me with unbelievable focus, but I doubt it’s because he finds me bloody hypnotic. No; I think he’s trying to pretend Rebecca isn’t here. I think he’s awkward and mortified and worried about how much I told her. Silently, I try to let him know that I didn’t share anything he might call… private.
But, before I can crack the mystery of telepathy, I hear the heave of the building’s door and a shout. “Griff! Griff!” Booted footsteps, and then—“Oh, hello Mr. Keynes.”
Vulnerability vanishes like it never existed. That gorgeous, golden head turns slowly to face someone in the corridor. He drawls, “Peter, please, we’ve talked about this. Just Keynes. I’m begging you.”
I have a sinking feeling that, while I’ve been brooding and storming around the farm these past few days, Keynes has been flitting like a butterfly, charming the pants off of people who barely tolerate me. People like Pete Manning, who looked right through me until I was made production manager, whose little brother called me Frankenbastard at school. My teeth are on edge again, but this time I don’t know who I’m irritated with.
“Keynes, then!” Pete says, sounding friendlier than I thought he was capable of. “I’m in a bit of a tizzy. You wouldn’t believe what’s happened. Here, I don’t suppose Griff is in there?”
“He is,” Keynes murmurs, and makes no move whatsoever to leave the doorway. “Are you quite alright, Peter? You’re looking rather flushed.”
Instead of issuing a brisk order to move, which would be his usual style, Pete all but giggles and says, “Well, that don’t surprise me one bit. It’s bedlam out there, it is!” If I didn’t know better, the tone of my gruff, married harvester’s voice might convince me he was flirting.
Rebecca shoots me a disbelieving look, like she thinks the same. I pinch the bridge of my nose and wonder if Henry’s mysterious ‘school chum’ is the honest-to-God, actual devil. Charm and temptation in the flesh.
Except… I don’t think the devil says sorry and means it.
I shake my head sharply to dislodge bullshit thoughts and call, “Pete. Problem?”
“Oh, ah!” He’s remembered himself. His ginger head pops through the doorway, squeezing past Keynes’s breadth. “Woodward’s sheep are out again, whole flock, and they’re at the west elderflower something awful.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Rebecca mutters, which about sums up my reaction.
Shit, shit, shit.
Olu
Sheep, it seems, are a great enemy at Fernley Farm and not to be trifled with. Griffin practically tramples me on his way out the door, and the little woman, Rebecca, rushes after him with just as much urgency. Obviously, I follow them both.
We hurry across the courtyard, race through a small copse, and hear distant shouts growing louder over the patter of rain. A bramble scratches my right forearm, and it feels like the sting of coming across Griff and Rebecca. But I won’t think about that—I don’t want to think about that. I met Rebecca yesterday, though I recognised her from the pub, and she reminds me of my sister. Maybe that’s why I’m fixated on the fact that she’s Griffin’s best friend. Knowing that Griff can be so close to someone, while I’m forced to keep everyone—keep Lizzie—at a distance so they can’t see me falling apart… it burns. And the fact that Griff discussed me with Rebecca burns even more, in a different way. A way I’m in no mood to examine.
So I keep my eyes straight ahead and examine Griffin instead.
His size should make him slow, but, since he’s fundamentally irritating, it doesn’t. He sprints ahead of us like some kind of athlete. I watch the muscles in his back bunch through his T-shirt as the fabric grows steadily wetter and more transparent, this slight April shower having a catastrophic effect. Everything about him is so… big. Thick. Excessive. He is height and muscle layered with soft, simple weight, and looking at him makes me want to sink my teeth into something. Which is, of course, a disgraceful response; I should have enough dignity not to salivate over my enemies.
Then again, I haven’t salivated over anyone for countless panicked months, so maybe I should let myself enjoy the sensation. Plus, it may be overzealous to think of Griff as my enemy—even if I’ve been doing so for the last three days. What can I say? I have a tendency toward melodrama when I’m stressed, and Griffin Everett causes me… considerable strain.
Apparently, I did the same for him. Shame is not an emotion I’m familiar with, but when I heard him talking about me the way I might talk about my father—well. An apology sort of threw itself from my mouth. Must be the fresh country air, softening me up.
Griff disappears from my line of sight, pushing through the trees. Next goes Rebecca, then Pete. I follow, bursting through crowded branches to break out of the copse, and find myself in a field of chaos.
This, I suppose, is an elderflower plantation. It’s naturally fenced in on one side by giant, ancient oaks that disrupt the pale sunlight, casting an ethereal gloom over the very edges of the verdant space. The crops themselves are rows of sprawling bushes dotted by tiny, bright white flowers, and right now a few too many of those flowers are falling victim to slow sheep jaws.
Sheep, sheep, everywhere. And—is that a goat?
Sheep, as a species, have a fundamental flaw: I hate them. They lack charm, and they do not respond to charm. They are difficult to move and impossible to command. Currently, about two dozen of them wander around looking woolly and dirty, with their demonic eyes and their munching mouths. I spot Holly from HR trying to herd one elsewhere, her kitten heels digging into the grass. I suppose she wasn’t expecting to leave her desk today, but apparently, all hands are on deck.
“Keynes,” she calls, catching sight of me. “You’re a big, strong man. Come and help me with this bloody sheep.”
At the sound of my name, several other employees look up and smile at me, waving and shouting greetings. I spot Matt the accountant and Emily from admin and Mary-Margaret—yes, that is her name—who’s always in the orchards. There’s a strangled sound of disbelief from my left, and I turn to find Griffin staring at me as if he seriously suspects I’m the anti-Christ.
“What,” he asks faintly, “have you done to my staff?”
I smirk. “I simply introduced myself. I can’t help it if people like me.”
He appears genuinely baffled, as if he’s wondering how that could possibly be true. As if I’m so unlikeable it does not compute. I set my jaw and turn away. Clearly, he has atrocious taste in humans. Although, his taste didn’t seem so atrocious when he was trying to taste me.
But I fucked that up, didn’t I? And for the first time in a long time, knowing I’m a mess doesn’t make me angry. It just makes me sad.
For Christ’s sake, Olu, now isn’t the time for emotional exploration. I have sheep to deal with. Shudder.
Griffin’s already off, striding over to an anxious-looking, farmer-type man, snapping at him to “Control your bleeding sheep, Woodward!” I watch him for a moment—all that massive, commanding bulk, the fearsome scowl, the rough, expressive hands that flex and tense at his sides.
Then I do as Holly asked and help with the damned sheep.
It’s not easy work. The sheep man, it seems, has lost his sheep dog, and also the ability to maintain his fences, so all his stock ambled over here and he’s rather useless at herding them back. This must have happened before, because Griff’s outrage is resigned rather than astonished, and he goes about collecting stray animals with the air of a man who’s done this one too many times. Unlike the rest of us mere mortals, he doesn’t resort to coaxing, chasing, or even pushing. He picks the bleating balls of wool clean off the ground, and carries them a good hundred metres to a fence beyond the trees. Then he dumps his sheep, jogs back, and does it all again.
Before long, the sheep get wise and run faster when he comes near.
The air grows thick and heavy as we work, but I barely notice because the sun is still bright and the temperature is mild. So when the spattering of rain abruptly becomes an outright downpour, I’m shocked and disgusted by nature’s mercuriality.
Peter tromps past me, grinning wide, his red hair plastered to his face. “April showers!” he shouts.
Thank you, Peter, I’ve heard of the term. I just don’t bloody like them. But I keep going anyway. When I find myself next to Holly again, she gives me an assessing look and says, “I bet you could pick up a sheep.” Like Griffin, she means.
My snort is loud and indignant enough to be heard over the rain. “Holly, darling, you don’t understand. Sheep and I barely associate. We are not on speaking terms. This entire situation is pushing me over the edge as it is.”
But she makes a valid point; I could probably pick up a sheep. I really don’t want to, but I could. I’ve certainly been watching Griff closely enough to grasp the, er, mechanics, and my urge to help people with their problems has certainly been awoken by the chaos around me. Alright then; while Holly laughs at my look of disgust, I sneak up on a thoroughly distracted sheep and grasp its odd, sturdy-soft body. Like Griff does, I make sure to secure the head quickly—and as soon as I do, the creature’s squirming lessens. But it’s still heavy as fuck and bleating in my ear.
I’d drop this thing like a hot potato if I weren’t concerned that would damage the creature… and if its presence in my arms weren’t making Griffin Everett stop and stare at me. There’s something rather satisfying about the slack-jawed expression on his face as he stands there, frantic staff and naughty sheep milling around him. He is a veritable column of surprise, and I do like surprising people—which must be why warmth floods my chest, easing the strain of the bloody sheep cradled in my arms. It’s only when the ache in my biceps gets really intense that I realise I’ve been standing here like a sheep-toting lemon, staring at Griff while he stares at me, for far too long.
Breaking the connection feels like the icy shock of being slapped by rain. Ignoring that strange sensation, and my even stranger thoughts, I drag my burden over to the appropriate fence and dump it awkwardly in its own territory. My lower back has served me well for thirty-eight years, so I feel incredibly guilty when it twinges as I drop off the sheep. Why am I subjecting my poor body to this abuse? Oh, yes—because “hard work cures all ills,” and I’m drowning in ills.
Interestingly enough, I do feel much better now that I’ve carried a farm animal. Sort of… real, earthy, human. Simple. Perhaps I’ll snatch another. Griffin certainly isn’t slacking. I can see him now, a few metres away; his shirt is so thoroughly soaked, it’s like transparent tissue painted to his skin, displaying the flex of his muscles as he bends to grab a roaming fluff ball. He thinks he’s got the creature, but at the last minute it rushes out of his grip and comes barrelling toward… me.
I really do hate sheep.
Griff stands, his gaze following the animal’s path straight to me. His wet hair is shoved out of his face, and when I squint through the blur of rain, he looks something other than ugly. Maybe rugged is the word. As if he was raised by wolves on a mountain somewhere and he kills his prey with his bare hands.
I choke off that line of thought and step back, neatly out of the sheep’s way. Then I see Griff’s eyes widen. Register my calves bumping into something hard. Lose my balance. Trip and fall.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Griff
Even if Keynes hadn’t apologised earlier—even if the sight of him still caused a burn of shame-edged anger in my chest—I don’t think I’d enjoy watching him trip over one sheep while dodging another. It is kind of slapstick, but he hits the ground way too fucking hard.
On the slippery grass, with this low visibility and sheep running everywhere, he never stood a chance. The one lurking behind him reaches the back of his knees, so when he goes over, he lands badly. This green space vibrates with sheets of rain, but even so, I think I hear his fall. I’m sprinting for him before I realise I’ve moved, because I’m the resident first aider, and because knowing my luck he’ll have snapped his fucking collarbone or something, and…
And I’m not sure what else.
He’s already sitting up by the time I crouch beside him, but I know he’s hurt real bad. I didn’t notice, before, how fluidly he moves—only how clumsy it made me feel in comparison. But now that smoothness is gone, and it’s jarring to see him slouch like a normal person. There’s mud smeared on his face and up his side, grass stains on the clothes he wears so well, and a wince freezing his handsome features. He raises a hand to touch his own ribs, then stops, flinching.
I don’t know if he can move his arm. Automatically, I grab his elbow for support. “Pain?”
“Ribs, nothing major.” His answer is clear and no-nonsense, even though his voice is tight. I hesitate for a minute because he’s taking this seriously without a second thought. I suppose I expected angry, macho defiance, a rejection of my help and a denial of any injuries.
I move my hand to check his ribs, but at the first brush of contact he jerks away, his brown skin paling. “Don’t.”
I press my mouth into a disapproving line. “Let me have a look.”
“No.”
“Keynes—”
“I think it’s just bruising,” he says, dragging himself painfully to his feet. I can barely hear his words over the rain, they squeeze out so quietly. “I’ll make sure later. If I’m wrong and I’ve punctured a lung, I promise to call 999.”
Now I’m pissed again, because who the fuck jokes about puncturing a lung? “I know you think you’re the smartest man on the planet, but unless you’re a bloody doctor, you need to respect my authority here.”
He barks out a laugh, then screws up his face and releases a ragged groan of pain. My hands are humming with the need to reach for him. You know, to make sure he’s okay. “Hate to piss all over your authority,” he says with a weak, wicked smile, “but I fucked a doctor on and off through med school. I do believe that gives me the edge over first aid training—unless you’re a nurse as well as a farmer?”
He’s doing it again; shoving me, without hands this time. He wants me to tut and glare and turn away in disgust. Instead, I snap, “Do you think knowledge travels from body to body through come?”
Now he looks scandalised, which is sweeter than it should be. I’ve wiped the tiny, smug smile right off his face. He takes a breath, winces, and cuts it short. Croaks out a sharp, “Shut up.”
I think I want to grin.
“Keynes! I saw you go over, my love. Are you alright?” Holly from HR has hurried over and a crowd of concerned staff members are bringing up the rear. That snuffs out the light in me, replacing it with a jealousy that swallows everything else. I watch, grim and speechless again, while everyone who knows and avoids me drowns Keynes in worry and affection. At times like this, the truth about me is as unavoidable as rain in England: I’m so difficult to care for that the people I’ve lived with all my life still hold me at a distance, but they fall all over this outsider with ease. Twenty-eight years versus, what, three fucking days? The numbers speak for themselves and they’re damning.
I sigh and raise my voice over their questions. “Keynes, come with me. The rest of you, finish up here.”
They nod solemnly because I’m the production manager. But they smile and wish Keynes well as I lead him away, because he’s more than that.
5
Griff
Walking back with Keynes is proper slow, since he’s wincing, and he won’t lean on me. Rain is dripping from the tips of our eyelashes, and my patience is dissolving in the downpour like sugar. He’s stubborn as the fucking sheep and twice as annoying.
He also looks damn good wet, though I wish I didn’t notice. His hair seems darker, his shirt is see-through, his skin glistens in a way that makes me want to run my tongue over my teeth. I do, behind the safety of my closed mouth, and my thoughts spiral into patterns so fast and wild, I can barely see them anymore.
Giving orders is my only social strength—but by the time we reach the staff kitchen, I forget I’m even capable of that. I’m too busy worrying. Worrying about him, worrying about the farm’s insurance if he tempts fate and really does puncture a lung, worrying about whether or not he’ll let me touch him to check the injury, worrying about why I’m worrying so much. Thinking so much. Staring at him. I’m staring at him. I drag my eyes away and find the first aid kit in a cupboard.
