Kathleen O'Brien - Rescued by a Wedding - Texas Wedding / A Marriage Between Friends

Zander hitched his jeans, clearly irritated by her silence. “What’s the problem? We haven’t hired anyone to run those acres yet. If Trent takes over, we can open them today.”

Practicality warred with emotion. She couldn’t deny it would be a help.

Other growers made lots of money with pick-your-own acres, but Everly had never offered the feature before. Her grandfather had thought it would cheapen the orchard’s name.

Susannah couldn’t see how it could cheapen their name any more than covering half the county in the stink of Everly peaches rotting on the pallets. So she’d decided to try it with a few acres of Gold Prince, one of the few early-ripening semiclings that actually sold well for anything other than canning.

“All right.” She tried not to sound ungracious. Zander was doing everything he could to help unload the peaches. At least the pick-your-own acres were on the other side of the property. “Do you think his stitches are healed enough? He’ll be up and down ladders all day, helping people.”

Zander snorted. “He’s fine.”

“Did you check the new ladders?”

Immediately after Trent’s fall, she’d replaced all the old ones on the property—about half of everything they owned. The expense of the new ones pinched, but she couldn’t risk letting someone else get hurt. Trent might laugh off stitches in his usual macho way, but the next tumble might leave someone truly injured.

“Checked ’em all. Old and new. They’re as safe as aces.” Zander shook his head. “I don’t know what the heck happened to Trent’s ladder. I had used that same one just the day before to get to the garage shingles. I didn’t break the step, and I’m about fifty pounds heavier than Trent.”

“I know. It seems so strange that—”

“Why look!” Zander gestured broadly. “Isn’t that your husband over there?”

She looked, and sure enough, Trent was standing by the barn. He leaned against one of the first peach trees, his long torso and narrow hips looking ridiculously sexy, considering he was wearing just jeans and a T-shirt.

He was talking on a cell phone. To Missy Snowdon, no doubt.

She turned to Zander. “I’m sure he’s here to talk to you. I’ll start briefing the workers.”

“No. I’ll handle them,” Zander said flatly. “You go talk to Trent.”

It wasn’t something she liked to do, but occasionally Susannah had to remind Zander exactly what was—and wasn’t—listed on his job description. Nowhere, she was quite sure, did it include the words “marriage counselor” or “matchmaker.”

“Zander.”

Her foreman blinked innocently, and she realized just in time that one of the new workers was watching. She sweetened her voice, remembering that a rumor could race through this orchard faster than San Jose scale. “You decided how the pick-your-own acres should be handled, Zander. I expect you to deal with it.”

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