Will put two fingers up to his handsome, full lips and whistled, a loud, piercing whistle, and yelled, "C'mon girl!"

For a second, I thought he was talking to me, and I went to put my hands to my hips and say "excuse me?" (or a whole lot worse), but then a beautiful, fluffy, white and mottled gray Australian Shepherd dog came bounding up to him, circled around him in excitement wagging its tail, and then clambered into the back of Will's truck. So he was calling the dog, not me. Serves me right for making assumptions.

"This is Trixie," he said, introducing me to his dog. Then he paused a second, eyebrows closing in on each other, looking at me. "You okay with dogs?"

Was I okay with dogs? I loved dogs! "Hel-lo, gorgeous," I cooed, rubbing behind her ears and putting my face in her ruff. She was soft to the touch, and licked my cheek thoroughly, while I giggled.

Will let out a breath and looked at me, somewhat satisfied, like I had passed a test.

After lunch, we had bussed our dirty dishes to the kitchen window and then I followed Will out to his truck to get my tour of the top secret quantity of acreage of Headlands Ranch.

This cowboy drove the biggest truck I'd ever seen, a brand new, white Ford F-350. It was silly big. I hated to think of its freeway gas mileage, let alone "in town," and I had practically needed a stepladder to get up into it. His truck would totally eat my car for dinner and still have room to spare. Although his truck was so new that it did not have license plates, most of the sides were covered in mud and the inside was dirty with dried clumps of mud that were clearly from his boots. I wondered why there was so much mud, because it was the dry season, and then I remembered that he was probably going around fields as they irrigated, which would explain it. As he saw me gingerly put on my seatbelt, he gave me a half grin. "You okay with things being a little dirty?"

"Of course," I chirped, more heartily than I felt. Ignoring the double-entendre, I wasn't about to complain and make him think that I was more of an elitist than he already seemed to think. It was strange: part of me could care less what he thought of me because he was an asshole with whom I didn't agree about anything, and who therefore deserved a tongue lashing, and part of me told me to be quiet and polite because he was my boss. These sides were at war with each other and it was anyone's guess as to whether the mouthy me or the agreeable me would come out. Throw in the fact that he was gloriously handsome, and I knew what was under his big belt buckle, and it was extremely difficult to know what to do from moment to moment. I figured that I would continue to wing it, because this was my summer adventure, after all. I liked not knowing what would happen next.

He shifted the truck into reverse, turned on country radio — ugh! — and started down the rough, dirt road.

I had already figured out that Will was not much of a talker. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I was, so I decided to drill him with questions as we drove.

"So. You grew up here, huh?"

"Yep."

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope."

After a few more one word answers, I realized that this wasn't working well. Still, I kept on.

"What are we listening to?"

"George Strait."

"It's, uh, not bad." This was a white lie. It was definitely country music, and twangy, so it was not my style (since I listened to "anything but country"), but the song was cute, about a girl passing a guy a note in school to "check yes or no" if he liked her.

He turned and looked at me hard, and then put his eyes back on the dirt road, as we bounced along. "Not bad? He has more number one hits than anyone. More than fifty, I think. Not bad. Christ. What do you listen to?"

"Anything but country."

At this, he let out a chuckle. "Shoulda figured."

As we drove, I watched the landscape change. The compound with the buildings was located West, towards the ocean, sheltered by a few small rolling hills. We were headed east, going inland, where there were different topographical features. At first, we went through some low plains of strawberries.

Braking the truck and leaving it running, Will got out and I hopped out my side of the truck, with Trixie at our heels. "We put in strawberries twice a year. Winter crop and summer crop. This crop will be ready to pick soon. They're organic, so we have to paint an organic pesticide on the flowers when they open to keep the bugs away."

"Really? How much effort does that take?"

"It's a lot of labor. That's one of the reasons why you can charge more for strawberries. On this plain, near the coast, it's cool enough for them. Pretty good growing conditions, although on some days like today, it's a bit hot." We walked up and down the rows, which were covered in black plastic.

"Why do you use all this plastic?"

"Keeps the berries clean."

"Oh, I figure it was for mulch or something."

"It does regulate temperature and weeds, but the main thing is that it keeps the berries pretty."

He stopped at a row. "These were planted a little earlier. Want to try one?"

Of course! I nodded enthusiastically.

He picked me a berry and handed it to me. I had never had a strawberry out of the field. They had always been in plastic containers in supermarkets, and they were normally grown to be almost woody, with white insides, so that they could make the journey from field to market. If you were lucky, you could get little strawberries from farmer's markets or smaller grocery stores, that had real taste and flavor. But this small, red berry that Will gave me? Yum. The flavor exploded in my mouth. And it was organic to boot.

"Some saps call that a country valentine," he muttered.

I didn't know what to make of that statement so I let it slide and we got back into the truck.

As we drove, the landscape changed and we were in some new avocado orchards. "We put the avocados here, because it's buffeted from the colder areas. We use a Chilean intensive agricultural method. The spacing is closer than they used to do in the old days, and we keep the trees smaller by girdling and pruning them. We have to monitor the water and nutrients to do this but it increases yield."

We kept going and went to a higher area, with long rows of large metal hoops, most of them covered in plastic. "What's growing here?" I asked.

"Blueberries."

He stopped the truck, again keeping it running, but this time, he scanned the area and pulled out his cell phone.

"Guillermo?" He waited for a response.

"Se hace falta cubierta para las moras." My dad spoke Spanish to me. The berries needed to be covered. Still, interesting that he spoke Spanish.

"Bien. Bueno. Adios." He hung up.

"Where did you learn to speak Spanish?"

"Here." I looked at him, feigning patience, willing him to go on, and surprisingly, he did. "I grew up with these guys and you gotta talk with them."

"So are you anti-immigrant?" I had to know the extent of his assholery.

"I'm a farmer. I follow the laws."

"Yeah, but..."

"Folks from other countries put their pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else."

"Then why the fuck are you always calling me a fucking liberal?" I screeched, exasperated, "if you're Mr. Everyone is Equal?"

"Because you are a fucking liberal."

"So? I'm not going to apologize to you, asshole. Why the fuck are you judging me like that? You don't even know me."

He just shook his head and started, "You come here from the city and you have no idea what the fuck goes on in a farm," but I interrupted him.

"Oh no? My dad grew up as a migrant farmer," I countered. "His parents traveled up and down California and Mexico looking for work. He worked hard and saved his money and then got a job as a janitor and then moved his way up the company so that my brother and sister and I would have a good life. So don't give me that 'you have no idea' shit. I'm no princess. I work hard and I play hard and I go about my business and try not to hurt anyone."

"Then what's with the fucking hippie-mobile and the crazy shit you eat?" he hurled at me.

"I care about the earth and I don't want to wreck it," I yelled.

"Neither do I," he argued back. "That's why I work a ranch."

Hmm. He had a point.

"Are you homophobic?" I asked.

"No. They put their pants on one leg at a time too."

"Some wear dresses," I said.

He laughed. "Yeah. Whatever. I don't need to know but no, people can do what they want in their own bedrooms. I like to do whatever I want in my own bedroom."

Interesting statement.

"So you're more of a fiscal conservative?"

"Yep."

Hmm.

"Are you going to stop calling me a 'fucking liberal?'"

He looked at me.

"If I do, can I kiss you?"

Holy shit.