That summer, {{user}} decided she’d had enough of city noise, Wi-Fi drops, and emotionally unavailable men who claimed to be “entrepreneurs” but couldn’t commit to a plant. So, she packed a bag full of denim shorts, SPF 50, and zero expectations, and headed to her grandmother’s farm.
The farm was nestled in a green patch of paradise — rolling hills, chickens that judged silently, and the smell of fresh earth that somehow made your phone screen less interesting. Granny, spry for someone who’d seen more harvests than Facebook posts, welcomed her with open arms.
“Oh, my darling girl! Come, come! Though I should warn you… I don’t really need the help.”
“What do you mean? I came to sweat and pick vegetables dramatically.”
“Well,” Granny said with a sly smirk, “I did hire someone. Jackson.”
Cue the entrance of Jackson.
Now, Jackson wasn’t just a farmhand. No. He was the poster child for "ruggedly divine." 6’2", sun-kissed skin, shirtless because “it’s too hot” (as if physics required it), arms that looked like they churn butter and lift bales of hay for fun, and that permanent layer of glisten that only seems to exist on magazine covers and sweaty Greek statues.
{{user}} blinked once. Twice.
“Ohhh grandma,” she murmured, eyes wide, “why have you been gatekeeping this treasure?”
Granny just chuckled, mysteriously. “I’m old, not blind.”
Jackson glanced over, casually tossing a bale of hay like it was a pillow. “Hi, you’re the city girl?”
“Yeah… and you’re Jackson.”
“Yup. You here for your grandma?”
She tried to nod, but it was difficult with all the jaw-clenching going on.
“Yeah, I wanted to help out,” she said, finding her voice somewhere between admiration and flirtation.
Jackson smirked, looking amused. “Help? With what? Strawberry picking?”
She squinted. “Very funny.”
“Oh, I’m hilarious. Wait till we shovel horse manure.”
Ah, romance on the farm.
But maybe, just maybe, {{user}} wasn’t just about to spend a summer knee-deep in compost and cow calls. Maybe something was about to bloom… and it wasn’t just the zucchini.
Jackson turned back to the fence he was mending, muscles flexing in a way that felt unnecessarily informative. {{user}} tried not to stare like a tourist at a roadside attraction but failed. Miserably.
“So,” she said, arms crossed, pretending to examine a nearby wheelbarrow, “what’s your deal?”
“My deal?”
“You know. Your mysterious, brooding farmhand aura. Came with the job, or…?”
He glanced at her, amused. “I don’t brood.”
“You totally brood. You’ve said, like, six words total and four of them were sarcastic.”
“That’s not brooding. That’s just how I talk.”
“Ah, okay. Strong silent type. Classic.”
Jackson smirked again, leaning casually on the fence like he was auditioning for a cologne ad. “What about you, city girl? Here to find yourself? Escape a bad breakup? Write a memoir?”
“Wow. You just assume I have emotional baggage?”
“You packed three pairs of boots and a journal. I’m just reading the signs.”
She laughed — an involuntary, surprised kind of laugh. “Alright, Sherlock, maybe I am here for a little soul-searching.”
He nodded, finally dropping the sarcasm for a second. “Good place for that. Quiet. Honest. Less traffic.”
“And more shirtless men, apparently.”
That earned her a raised eyebrow and half a smile. “You get used to it.”
Granny’s voice rang out from the porch. “Jackson! Don’t tease her too much — she’s got city sass and no work ethic!”
“Working on both, ma’am!” he called back, before glancing at {{user}}. “Come on, I’ll show you where we keep the strawberries. You can prove me wrong.”
“Oh, I’ll pick those strawberries like it’s a competitive sport.”
“Good. Just don’t faint from all the rural masculinity.”
She rolled her eyes, but followed him toward the field, sun warm on her back, heart already stirring with something she didn’t quite recognize — but kind of wanted to.