My Farm Client Asked Me To Be Her Fake Date — And I Ruined Everything With My Temper.

Part 1

I was known as the mechanic who could fix anything with an engine and then disappear.

I liked things working, and I liked them quiet.

Brenda, however, was beautifully chaotic.

She ran her family’s farm stand from dawn until dusk, fighting a constant battle to prove she was capable of running it on her own.

I had spent the last hour under the belly of her stubborn green tractor, getting the fuel line clear.

I wasn’t even scheduled to be out this far.

I had just heard the engine coughing from a half-mile down the road and pulled my truck in.

She stood there in a loose denim shirt, pointing at me as if she had just caught a stray bull.

She asked me if I was waiting for someone.

Her question landed right where I kept the softest part of myself locked up.

I always fixed things before people even had to ask, then vanished before they ever had the chance to ask me to stay.

I wiped a glob of black grease onto a rag, refusing to look up.

I told her I was waiting for the machine to learn some manners.

She leaned against the massive rear tire, the toe of her boot tracing a line in the dirt.

She pointed out that I didn’t charge her full price for labor and had a truck that mostly ran.

Then she asked if I was free this Saturday to sit next to her at a family supper.

I stopped moving.

Her smile was still there, but her eyes were tight.

Her financially anxious aunt had invited Tyler to the meal.

Tyler owned the biggest vineyard in the valley and had been trying to buy his way into Brenda’s farm stand for six months.

Sponsoring, in Tyler’s vocabulary, meant slapping his corporate logo over her family’s name.

Megan thought Tyler was the savior of their financial problems.

Brenda knew that if she sat there alone, they were going to spend two hours wearing her down.

I felt a low hum of irritation start in my chest.

I set my wrench down on the metal fender.

I told her I wasn’t a prop.

She crossed her arms and quickly apologized, turning away.

That was her defense mechanism.

Whenever she felt like she was asking for too much, she made it a joke and bolted.

I picked up my toolbox.

I told her to tell her aunt that a thunderstorm was coming to dinner.

For the next two days, my regular maintenance route felt twice as long.

I serviced irrigation pumps and replaced flatbed clutches, but my head was at the peach stand.

My temper was usually a fence that kept people at a safe distance.

If they thought I was a hothead, they didn’t expect small talk.

But I couldn’t keep that fence up around Brenda.

On Thursday afternoon, Aunt Megan pulled into the dirt lot in a sleek silver SUV.

I was under the tractor again, replacing a slipped fan belt.

Megan stepped out looking like she belonged in a boardroom, eyeing my grease-stained boots with polite horror.

She mentioned that Tyler had his own people on retainer for equipment issues.

Brenda’s knuckles went white on her clipboard.

She took a breath and announced that I was coming to the dinner on Saturday as her date.

Megan froze.

I slid out from under the tractor, wiped my hands on my jeans, and gave Megan a sharp nod.

I hated the implication that Brenda needed a guy in a polo shirt to make her legitimate.

After Megan drove off, Brenda let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire.

She panicked, terrified that I was going to lose my temper and give Tyler exactly what he wanted.

I snapped my toolbox shut.

I told her we were going to practice.

Saturday night arrived, and the porch was lit up with string lights.

I wore a clean button-down shirt, but there was still a faint shadow of grease at my knuckles.

Brenda sat next to me in a yellow sundress, her leg bouncing nervously under the chipped dining table.

Tyler sat across from us, wearing a pale linen shirt and a watch that cost more than my truck.

He poured himself a glass of wine with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

Megan spent the first course treating my job like a tragic affliction.

Then Tyler pulled a sleek folder from the chair beside him and slid it across the table.

It was a complete corporate takeover of her farm tours.

Brenda glared at the glossy proposal, refusing to lay a hand on it.

She quietly insisted that she wanted to keep the farm independent.

Megan sighed, putting her fork down.

She told Brenda she was working herself to the bone and needed the stability of someone who understood business.

She glanced pointedly at me.

Megan said Brenda needed someone who could offer real security.

I felt the blood rushing in my ears.

I looked at Brenda.

Her jaw was tight, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth, shrinking under the polite, smiling pressure.

I leaned forward.

I told them she didn’t need a safety net.

My voice cut right through the crickets chirping in the yard.

Tyler looked amused, patronizingly telling me that repairing a tractor wasn’t the same as managing a business portfolio.

I placed my hands flat on the table, my voice dropping an octave.

I told him repairing a tractor meant I knew what a broken machine looked like.

I said they were trying to break her steering column just so they could drive for her.

Megan gasped.

Brenda put a hand on my arm, whispering my name.

I looked at her and saw pure panic in her eyes.

I realized in a cold flash that I was doing exactly what I feared—I was taking the wheel out of her hands, and I had no idea if she would ever forgive me.