Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

“Shit.” I pull off to the dirt embankment on the side.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think we have a flat.”

Murphy groans. “Seriously?”

I get out and, sure enough, the back right tire is flat.

“Must have popped on that dirt road,” I say as I step back up into the cab. “Looks like you are officially the bringer of flat tires.”

Murphy laughs and pulls her phone out, glancing at it before showing me her home screen. It’s a picture of the beach at sunset, and the time says 1:45 p.m.

I must look at her for too long because she points to the top corner. “No service,” she says. “We can either try and flag someone down who will drive us to the vineyard, we can walk back to the Trager farm, or we can walk home. We’re kind of at the halfway point, so”—she shrugs—“it’s up to you.”

Chuckling, I step back out of the truck. “Looks like we have a bit of a walk ahead of us, then, don’t we?”

“Looks like it,” she echoes, hopping out and eyeing me across the bench seat. “Too bad there isn’t some heroic Good Samaritan ready and willing to help this time around.”

“Oh, I’m willing. I just gave you my spare already.”

We laugh and round to the back, tugging out the boxes of produce and moving them to the cab before I lock up and we begin our walk west. Thankfully the spring weather is still just cool enough that nothing will go bad before we get back.

“You said your mentor was into farm to table,” Murphy says after we’ve been walking for a few minutes. “Have you been cooking that way your whole career?”

I kick the dirt slightly. The question stings a little bit. “I wish. It’s hard to put those kinds of boundaries on a job search when you’re in desperate need of one that pays well. There are plenty of times people are forced to sell their soul in the restaurant industry.”

And that’s not nearly the whole story. Just about everyone I know has been through it. Half make it out alive, the other half get burned.

I’m in the latter group, unfortunately.

“What do you mean?”

I tuck my hands in my pockets, the direction of Murphy’s questions making my palms more sweaty than the sunny walk is.

“Oh, you know. Everyone has their own idea about how things should be run, that’s all. And if you really need a job, you just have to follow orders and bank the experience so you can do it your own way one day.”

Murphy hums, but it sounds like she doesn’t exactly agree with me.

Instead of prodding, I decide to turn the spotlight back on her. We’ll see how she likes all the invasive questioning.

“You were a waitress back in LA, right? You know how toxic restaurant culture can be.”

“I do. It’s rife with big egos and alcoholism, and it’s incredibly incestuous.”

“Incestuous?” I repeat, laughing.

Murphy laughs, too. “Oh, you know what I mean. Everyone sleeps with everyone.” Then she pins me with a look. “And don’t try to deny it.”

I give her a tight grin. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“I wasn’t really that person, though. At my first job, almost the entire restaurant got gonorrhea from one guy, and that was enough of a warning for me to keep my lure out of the company pond.” Then she looks at me again. “For the most part.”

At that, my smile comes a lot easier and something inside me becomes lighter.

I don’t know what it is, but talking with Murphy just makes me want to smile. When her brother isn’t talking down to her, and when I’m not being an asshole pushing her away, she’s a pleasure to be with. Our conversations are relaxed, and I can’t remember the last time I had something like that. Something that felt equal parts fun and good and easy.

That’s what it is. Talking with Murphy is easy.