The thick fog didn't stop the muggy heat from creeping in. Monty's hands were slick with sweet as he worked a bolt into a board in the shed where he usually toiled, the door swung open as the crappy radio placed on the wooden shelves blared with a twangy blues song, as well a cold bottle of Coke set down next to it, since Mr. Bates didn't let Monty drink on the job. It was nearing the end of his shift as the palm of his hand protested from lugging another piece of wood over to the working table, only to discover it was the last of its pile. Monty let out a sharp breath and grabbed his bottle of Coke, taking a swig and sauntering back into the house, the rusty porch door squeaking on its hinges.

He could smell Mrs. Bates mouth-watering baking as soon as he stepped inside, which meant there was company. Monty didn't pay too much mind, though, setting down his glass and hooking his thumbs in his belt loop as he turned into the kitchen to get to Mr. Bates' study. As soon as Monty walked into the room, his feet paused on the threshold. There was a girl sitting at the diner table, her feet brushing against the blue-and-white tiled floor that Monty had installed a few months former.

Monty knew that Mr. and Mrs. Bates would be having their granddaughter over, since they had mentioned it to him a few times. What they had failed to mention, however, was how damn pretty she was. Her head was bowed as she munched on the steak set in front of her, her hair tied in small pigtails that exposed her pretty face. She was wearing a tailored blue dress, a little shorter than knee length, one sleeve slipping down her tiny shoulder, sending a rush of heat down south. She looked so pretty as her heels bumped together, licking the juices of the meat off of her swollen lips.

He knew it was wrong, looking at his bosses granddaughter like this, but he couldn't help it. "Jesus," Monty found himself blurting out as he leaned against the doorway, eyes trained on her attentively. "Aren't you a pretty gal? Your grandpa owns this farm, baby?"