Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“I have actual work to do after we eat,” he says as I focus on my pencil and paper.
After I outline the primary lines, I reply, “Great. Let’s go.”
He flashes me a look like he doesn’t understand the language I just spoke.
“You'll just get in my way.”
I narrow my eyes. “I'm supposed to be learning about the orchard and farm. So right now, you're wasting my time.”
He sucks in a deep breath and bites down on his lip as if he’s holding back. “Fine.”
That was too easy.
While we quickly eat lunch at the inn, I can't stop drawing. Usually, I'd give my attention to my company, but Finn is incapable of having a conversation, so I don’t even feel guilty for it. When I'm in the zone, I tend to get lost in my work. It’s obvious he doesn’t care anyway.
“You don't need to look at the pictures you took?” he asks as I perfectly line up the main house and pond.
“I have a photographic memory. Beautiful scenes are imprinted in my mind, and I can draw or paint from memory. The pictures were just for keepsakes and to show my sister.”
“So is sketching a part of your painting process?” he asks around a mouthful.
I give him a smile—appreciating that he’s intrigued—and swipe loose strands of blond hair from my face. “Yeah, kinda. I like to sketch the scene on a smaller scale first, then sleep on my ideas before transferring it to the canvas. It's easier for me to visualize the final product this way. Then when I have actual photos, I use them to color match because I want them to be just as vivid as they are in real life.”
His gaze lingers on the pages and meets mine before bringing his attention back to his food. I can tell he's impressed, even if he tries to act like he isn’t.
“We should probably get going,” he tells me when I take the last bite of my club sandwich.
“As always,” I singsong, then stand and put up my dishes.
We make our way to one of the maintenance barns a few miles past the cottage. Finn pretends I don't exist as he moves inside and grabs different tools.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he lifts the hood of the tractor.
“Oil change. We’ll use it for the tours next weekend.” He gets to work, and instead of watching him, I stand at the entryway and stare at the fields. That is until I hear a thud followed by Finn cursing under his breath.
The oil pan is tipped over, and oil spreads across the concrete and his boots. He grabs a towel, but before he throws it on top of the mess, I stop him.
“You should put sand on it instead.” I point at the fabric he's gripping. “Not that.”
“Sand?” He gives me an incredulous look.
“Yeah, it absorbs the liquid and makes it easier to clean. Can also use kitty litter, but I doubt you have any of that nearby.”
He grabs a shovel leaning against the wall, then pushes it toward me. Wearing a cocky smirk, he says, “Be my guest, then.”
I take it from him, walk outside, and dig into the ground. When I return, I sprinkle half of the dirt on his boots and the rest on the oil. “Now leave it for a couple of hours, then sweep.”
I think I see a sly smile touch his lips for a moment before he turns his back toward me.
“Are you always a smart-ass know-it-all?” he finally asks.
“Yep. Better get used to it.” I throw him the same words he said to me earlier. I can tell he wants to laugh, but he holds back.
After he finishes, Finn grabs a set of keys from the wall and cranks the tractor. Thirty minutes pass as he tinkers with different items, and I can’t stop thinking about getting my paints out.
“You can take me back to the cottage now,” I tell him, ready to get started.
“This too boring for you?” he quips. “Not as exciting as city life, huh?”
“You're not the only person who has work to do before next weekend,” I remind him. “I doubt I’ll find a way to add this into the painting.”
He snorts and shrugs. “Fair enough.”
Finn drives me to the cottage, and before I get out, he speaks. “I'll be back in time to take you to dinner.”
“What if I need something in the meantime or to get ahold of you?”
“I'm sure I can get you a farm truck. That’s if a city girl like yourself can drive a stick?”
I groan, hating that I can’t prove him wrong, again.
“To be fair, there aren’t a lot of big farm trucks in the town I live in,” I retort.
“I bet not,” he muses. “You can call or text me if it's an absolute emergency.”