Page 237 of Beautiful Collide

Hudson

The sun isn’t even up yet,but the farm is alive.

I head toward the barn, the morning air biting at my skin.

Dad’s already there, of course, waiting like he’s been up for hours.

Most likely, he has.

He always beats me to it, no matter how early I get out of bed.

The man is a legend.

Too bad the farm hasn’t been profitable enough for him to retire yet or that he won’t let me help, because when I see him here, at this insanely early hour, I want to beg him to take my money.

His hands are currently wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, steam curling into the crisp air.

“Look who finally decided to join the party,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar mix of humor and pride.

“First off. It’s too early to make jokes.” I smirk, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Also, you could’ve—you know . . . waited for me.”

“Not my style,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Ready to get to it?”

“As I’ll ever be.” I roll up my sleeves.

Today is going to suck.

But I wouldn’t miss this.

It’s worth it to spend time with Dad.

Working with Dad was my dream a long time ago. If it weren’t for hockey, I’d probably be doing it.

I’d be happy doing it too.

Because out there, it’s just Dad and me.

Dad climbs into the cab of the combine.

Once he’s seated, he settles into the driver’s seat.

I take my place beside the auger cart, ready to guide the process.

“Remember the first time I let you help with the harvest?” Dad asks over the noise.

I shake my head in jest.Of course, I do.“Yeah, and you yelled at me for almost running over your boots.”

“You were so scrawny back then,” he says with a chuckle. “Could barely lift a bag of beans without tipping over.”

“Hey, I’ve bulked up.” I flex.

He laughs, the sound warm and familiar.

It reminds me of why I love this place.

Even if it interferes with the beginning of the hockey season.

The morning flies by as we work.

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