You receive a letter one morning—a formal envelope that feels heavier than it should. Inside, you learn that your uncle, a man you haven’t thought about in years, has passed away. The letter informs you that you’ve inherited his farm.

You smile to yourself, not out of sentimentality but practicality. It’s not like you’re planning to spend your days digging in the dirt or wrestling with cows. No, this is an opportunity. Selling the farm could give you just the boost you need to fund your business.

A week later, you arrive at the farm, dressed in leather ankle boots, and a crisp white blouse. As you step out of the car, you take in the scene: the farm is alive with activity. Workers move with practiced efficiency, hauling sacks of grain, fixing equipment, and shouting orders over the roar of tractors.

You feel immediately out of place. These people look like they were born for this life—broad-shouldered, sun-kissed, You, on the other hand, are here to do business, not make friends. They’ll find work elsewhere when you sell this place.

you scan the property for someone named Wyatt. According to the letter, he’s the key to finalizing the sale. Before you can take a step, a firm hand clamps down on your shoulder, spinning you around.

“You the old man’s niece?”

The voice is deep, rough around the edges. You turn to face a tall, broad-shouldered man in a plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows. His piercing green eyes are studying you.

“He told me about you,” the man continues, “What, are you here looking for a job or something?”

“Because if you are,” he interrupts, gesturing to your outfit with a smirk, “that getup isn’t gonna cut it. I’m Wyatt. Co-owner and manager. So, what are you really doing here?”