My New Life as a Rancher with a Hot Billionaire Husband Chapter 07

My New Life as a Rancher with a Hot Billionaire Husband Chapter 07

That afternoon, I tossed a brand-new set of canvas work overalls and a pair of thick-soled work boots at

Caleb.

“Put these on. You’re coming with me.”

Ten minutes later, Caleb stood in my second organic pumpkin field, dressed in rough workwear that

somehow still couldn’t hide that unmistakable old-money elegance.

He stared at the heavy pickaxe in his hands, clearly questioning his life choices.

“Miss Rhodes, you’re sure this counts as ‘therapy’?”

“Absolutely sure!” I planted myself in front of him in a wide-brimmed straw hat, gripping a megaphone like a

drill sergeant.

“Mr. Harrington, see this field? Your mission today is to dig up every single one of these heirloom pumpkins for the Thanksgiving market. If you don’t meet the quota, no dinner tonight!”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Are you seriously threatening me?”

“I’m saving you,” I shot back with righteous conviction. “Now move it. The sun’s already going down!”

Caleb clenched his jaw, raised the pickaxe, and swung it down hard.

Crack!

He hit the ground with so much force that the blade lodged itself into a seam of rock. It wouldn’t budge.

I nearly fell off the fence laughing.

His expression darkened like a storm rolling in.

Over the next four hours, I witnessed something truly spectacular. A billionaire CEO, worth hundreds of millions, struggling in the dirt like a rookie farmhand.

He smashed three perfectly good pumpkins.

Snapped the handle off a high-end walnut tool.

And those hands that usually signed multi-million-dollar contracts developed two angry, blistering welts.

Sweat soaked through his shirt. Even his custom gold-rimmed glasses were speckled with mud.

But somewhere along the way, that stubborn, competitive streak of his kicked in. He didn’t say a word. He

just kept going, locked in a silent battle with the field.

By seven in the evening, the sky had gone dim.

Caleb dragged himself back into the main house, looking like he had just crawled out of a wilderness

survival show. All dignity was gone.

I set a large platter in front of him. Maple-glazed applewood smoked chicken, still steaming. Alongside it,

cinnamon-roasted pumpkin he had harvested himself, fresh out of the oven.

“Eat, Mr. Harrington. This is what we call the ultimate farm-to-table experience.”

He glanced at me, surprisingly without a comeback.

Then he picked up his knife and fork and took a bite.

For a split second, I swear I saw something soften in his eyes. Like the food actually reached him.

He said nothing. Just kept eating.

And eating.

He polished off enough for two people.

Afterward, he didn’t even have the strength to make it back to his suite for a soak. He collapsed onto the

oversized leather couch in the lounge.

Within five minutes, his breathing evened out.

I walked over to check.

Well, I’ll be damned. He was out cold.

Not just asleep. Lightly snoring, too.

I let out a long breath.

So this was all it took to cure a top-tier capitalist’s insomnia.