“God, you’re cranky.” “It’s fucking humid as shit out here, and according to Barry, the resident farmer, we have another forty-five minutes before we head back to the main farm. I’m starving, hungover, and thirsty. So, yeah, I’m fucking cranky.” He points the machete at me. “And if you were a decent fiancée, you’d have a snack for me in your pockets.” He stares me down. “Do you? Do you have a snack?” “No.” “Christ,” he mumbles and starts moving down the row again. “Carrying this fake fiancé team on my back. The least you could do is have a snack for me.”
