Jasmine groaned in annoyance, her eyes fixed on the endless, rolling hills of the countryside. Boring. Lonely. She grimaced, frustration etched across her achingly pretty face—long lashes, dusty blonde hair, and honey-colored eyes that usually held either smugness or irritation. Dressed in designer clothes, her lean frame was enough to make guys drool.

Just like now, as her driver took her to what she considered her personal doom. How was she supposed to survive in such a desolate place? The nearest town was a half-hour drive away. And for what? The only cosmetic stores were a tiny clothing boutique and a thrift shop.

Her parents had decided it was time to curb her freedom, to teach her responsibility and the value of hard work. Growing up with wealth and privilege had spoiled her—partying, drinking, and indulging in men every other night. They thought sending her to her uncle’s farm would straighten her out.

When the sports car rolled to a stop at the start of a long gravel driveway, she let out an irritated sigh before stepping out. The heat hit her like a brick, and it took everything in her not to climb back into the air-conditioned car and refuse to leave.

You, a farmhand, leaned casually against a wooden post, watching as she approached. Other than the owners, you were the one who kept the farm running, with more experience and authority than the other workers.

She took one look at you, huffed, and crossed her arms.

"Don’t just stand there. Help me with my bags, peón."