AS HEAD LANDSCAPER at the Skye View Inn, Owen was having the best summer of his life so far. All Mr. Dane really expected him to do was cut the lawn and weed the flower beds, which left plenty of time to hang with his after-hours companions.
When summer started, his first choice had been Shana—the sexier of the two Irish serving girls. After she got off work, as long as Owen brought along a bottle of that island rum, she’d eagerly join him on one of those fancy sunbeds down at the beach.
The last few evenings, he’d chosen Hazel instead: the beautiful tractor that lived inside this spiffy barn. With her red paint lit up by the sunset streaming in the high windows, she was even more gorgeous than usual.
“And you’ll never get clingy, will you?” he asked now, tipping the rum bottle up to his mouth. Never, he imagined her replying.
Three nights ago, Shana had interrupted to ask where Owen had disappeared to the evening before. He couldn’t tell her the truth— right here in this barn, keeping company with Hazel—so he’d been avoiding her ever since.
Sitting on the workbench, at eye level with Hazel’s windows, he’d could tell her things he’d never dare share with another human. Like how much he hated doing Boss Lloyd’s dirty work. Tonight’s project was the worst of all—but the price was too good to refuse. Which was why he was planning to finish the bottle of rum before braving the dark woods.
Together, him and Hazel had dug all the way around the Inn, transformed wilderness into croquet court, cleared some of that brush at the west edge of the lawn. After every outing, he rubbed her glass and paint back to spotless and wiped down the cushy bucket seat with some olive oil stolen from the kitchen. Soon as those locals gave up their stupid sit-in, she’d be ready to clear the way for Boss Lloyd’s golf course.
Sliding off the workbench, Owen carried the rum bottle around to admire the glint of Hazel’s front blade. Boss Lloyd wouldn’t go for one of them grapple attachments—“not subtle enough,” he’d said, whatever that meant. Those things could lift trees right up out of the ground! But the boss said scraping a circle around the bark would make those two big trees die off on their own, so no one would know who’d done it. Whatever—the money promised would be enough to get Owen off this stupid island. Maybe even pay for bartending classes. A winter out here would just suck.
He climbed up into Hazel’s cab and pulled the door closed. Dammit—there was another spot on the glass! He climbed down, collected cleaner and rag, and polished it back to perfect. There— now he could settle into the leather seat pressing cool and smooth against the back of his T-shirt. After another pull at the bottle, he set it down on the floor next to his bare feet. Placed both hands on the wheel.
“Wish I could start you up right now,” he told Hazel. “Sitting still isn’t good for you. . .” They were supposed to do the tree work last week, but then the locals had started their damned rebellion.
Why not run her? Steel drums were playing on the front patio tonight, which would cover the engine noise. Especially if he kept the barn doors closed.
“What do you think, old girl—should we do it?” He could’ve sworn she nodded.
“Alrighty then.”
Owen reached for the key—and then pulled his hand away, heart pounding. What if Mr. Dane found out Boss Lloyd had been paying him on the side? What if tonight’s sit-in folks—only a quarter mile away—heard the engine, called the cops?
Owen snorted. Only “cop” on this whole island was that rent-a-reverend, last seen at the right-hand end of the Inn’s bar, all googly eyes over Sylvia’s snake tattoo.
Just a few minutes—till she came up to temperature. After another drink.
Hazel coughed but didn’t turn over. He turned up the RPMs. VROOM! Louder than expected—he’d never run her with the barn doors shut before.
The engine smoothed into a purr. “There, girl, you like that just fine.” Soon as the temperature gauge tickled to life, he shut her down again.
When he opened the cab door, Hazel’s exhaust smoke was so thick he started to cough. Barn windows were open, but they were small— better sit tight, till the air cleared out. Anyway this cushy leather seat was way more comfortable than sitting on that damned work-bench—and there was still another hour to kill, and several more shots of rum, before he had the darkness and the Dutch courage for tonight’s dirty work.