Young Millionaire Booked A Quiet Farm Stay. He Never Thought He Would Fall For The Farmer’s
A Harsh Welcome to Deubberry Farm
Landon Thorne stepped out of his matte black Range Rover. He stared at the crooked wooden sign that read, “Deubberry Farm Vacancies Welcome.” A rooster crowed in the distance and a goat bleated from somewhere behind the barn.
He blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sudden absence of steel and glass that made up the Manhattan skyline he had left behind only six hours ago.
“This is it,” he muttered, dragging his designer suitcase along the gravel driveway.
“No valet, no reception desk, and definitely no espresso bar.”
The door of the farmhouse slammed open. A girl in cut-off denim shorts, muddy boots, and a baseball cap walked out, wiping her hands on a towel. She was holding a wrench, her arms smudged with grease.
“You Landon?” she said, her voice strong.
“No nonsense.”
He paused. She was stunning. She had sharp cheekbones and wild brown curls tucked under her cap. Her eyes were so green they made the surrounding trees look dull.
“Yeah, I booked the week,” he said, distracted by the way the sunlight caught her skin.
“You must be Zara.”
“Zara Dubberry,” she interrupted.
“My dad owns the place, but he’s laid up with a busted knee, so I’m running things.”
Landon looked down at his leather loafers, then back up at her.
“Right. I, uh, was hoping for a quiet stay. No distractions.”
Zara raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Then lose the loafers, city boy. This is a working farm.”
“We’ve got chickens to feed, fences to mend, and a tractor that won’t start.”
“You’re welcome to sit on the porch and sip lemonade, but don’t expect a massage.”
He almost laughed. Almost.
“I’ll manage.”
She nodded and turned, motioning for him to follow.
“Guest rooms upstairs. Don’t let the floor creak scare you; it’s just old wood, not ghosts.”
The farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and pine. It was warm and lived in, nothing like the cold marble of his penthouse. The walls were lined with family photos and antique clocks that ticked out of sync.
Zara led him upstairs, opened a door, and pushed it wider with her boot.
“Here. Sheets are clean. Window sticks, so don’t force it.”
“Breakfast is at 7:00. If you sleep through it, you go hungry.”
Before he could respond, she was gone. Landon dropped his bag and sat on the edge of the bed. What the hell had he signed up for?
The next morning he woke to the sound of chickens and Zara yelling at something outside.
“Jasper! I swear, if you don’t stop chasing the geese!”
Landon peeked out the window. A little boy with curly dark hair and overalls was running in circles, laughing as two geese flapped wildly behind him.
“Jasper!” Zara shouted again, chasing after him with a towel in one hand and a slice of toast in the other.
“You’re going to scare them into the pond again.”
The boy skidded to a stop and pointed up, spotting Landon.
“Is that the fancy man?”
Zara looked up.
“Yep, that’s him.”
Landon grinned and waved awkwardly.
“Hey.”
Jasper waved back.
“You look like you don’t know how to hold a shovel.”
“He doesn’t,” Zara called.
“But we’ll fix that.”
By noon, Landon had mud on his jeans, hay in his hair, and blisters forming on his palms. Zara didn’t go easy on him, not once.
She tossed him a rake, pointed to the barn, and said, “Muck it out.”
He did. Every time he tried to complain, she shot him a look that shut it down. But she wasn’t mean, just real. There were no fake smiles and no flirty games, and that was new.
