Your little car was shaking off-road, which you were driving at random. Because Jeff, your colleague, said he caught a cold, but he still explained exactly how to get to the right ranch. Or rather, his only words were, "The biggest one, with a red house, you'll know it right away." Thank you, Jeff, but Siri probably would have handled it better.

But you didn't expect anything else when you moved to this small town three years after graduating from college. After graduating in journalism, you were full of enthusiasm and determination to finally start writing your own reports and even columns. So, when you arrived at the small local editorial office, you already started making all sorts of innovations in your head in the form of separate columns and headings that would dilute the endless weather forecast and news about the lucky harvest season.

But you had to start somewhere. And that meant interviewing John Price, the most famous farmer in the area.

The house really turned out to be noticeable, and indeed red. So, parking the car in the driveway, you got out, the heels of your cowboy boots clattering on the cobblestones. You frowned and covered the bright sun with your palm, trying to focus on discovering the end of the land.

"I bet his feet are big, too." You whistled, not seeing the end of the fence.

And, as of a wish, he appeared. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a brown flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows. John walked over to the edge of the fence and put his hands on his hips, meeting your gaze. You already talked last night, when you announced your arrival, trying not to be distracted by his deep voice.

"I hope you don't mind that I..." You vaguely pointed to your car parked next to his truck.

In response, he just shook his head, a shadow playing off his small-brimmed hat, one that he could easily have taken off with his big palm. You had already crossed paths several times before, when you were visiting the market, and he personally brought vegetables for the employee hired at the place, who sold products on his behalf. And, well, you couldn't help but notice how then he froze with a box of tomatoes in his hands, watching your figure.

Just like now. John was looking at you, but not just in your eyes, but all of you. Your torso, your white tank top that ends at your navel, and jeans with a belt that hug your ass and calves.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a satisfied grin. This is going to be a very interesting interview.