“My grandpa would kick my ass if he were alive. He taught me better. But after my dad—” Beckett snapped his mouth shut and shook his head again. “Doesn’t matter. It’s done. Are you sure it’s doable? It’s going to make for some long days if you’re working late into the evening.”
Jordan shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have to be up with the sun and out there rounding up hazelnuts. I can get a later start and work on the other tractors until you bring the windrower in.”
“It’s a deal.” Beckett stood and offered his hand, and Jordan rose and shook it. “How much were you making at your last job?”
Jordan averted his gaze. He hated talking about money. But it was necessary, so he took a breath and raised his gaze to look Beckett in the eye. “Twenty-two an hour.”
A nod and then a breath. “And is that a fair wage?”
“More than,” Jordan responded instantly. He was nothing if not honest.