looked, and sure enough, Trent was standing by the barn. He leaned against one of the first peach trees, his long torso and narrow hips looking ridiculously sexy, considering he was wearing just jeans and a T-shirt.
He was talking on a cell phone. To Missy Snowdon, no doubt.
She turned to Zander. “I’m sure he’s here to talk to you. I’ll start briefing the workers.”
“No. I’ll handle them,” Zander said flatly. “You go talk to Trent.”
It wasn’t something she liked to do, but occasionally Susannah had to remind Zander exactly what was—and wasn’t—listed on his job description. Nowhere, she was quite sure, did it include the words “marriage counselor” or “matchmaker.”
“Zander.”
Her foreman blinked innocently, and she realized just in time that one of the new workers was watching. She sweetened her voice, remembering that a rumor could race through this orchard faster than San Jose scale. “You decided how the pick-your-own acres should be handled, Zander. I expect you to deal with it.”
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