It was the first thing in the morning on a Saturday.

I put on my best outfit—a pair of washed-out jeans, a relatively new beige knit cardigan, and a pair of clean canvas shoes.

Standing at the mouth of the tight alleyway, I held two bulging fertilizer sacks, still smelling of earth, between me.

I whipped out my phone and opened the navigation app before punching in the mouthful of an address. “7 Maple Street, West Hills.”

Taking a deep breath, I trotted ahead on my journey with doomed determination.

It was a nightmare to take the bus during the morning rush.

My sacks of local produce were in everybody’s way, earning me eyerolls and disgruntled mumbles.

“Hey! Watch it! What is this so heavy?”

“Stop pushing! Go to the back! Go!”

“Are you seriously hauling sacks on the bus? Who does that anyway? Are you like, moving house?”

Keeping a smile on my face, I kept apologizing and moving out of the way.

This was all for love, or rather, truth. All I needed to do was suck it up.

The bus swayed back and forth. Just as I was nodding off, a notification came on my phone.

“You are approaching your destination at 7 Piggery, West Hills. Please be ready to disembark.”

I was taken aback.

7 Piggery?

I jolted awake, nearly falling out of my seat.

Clutching my phone, I stared at the screen with bulging eyes.

The GPS labelled my destination as a pigsty.

I wonder if my navigation system was glitching out.

Maybe Terry’s family was in the pig business.

It must be on a large scale to have its own address.

He could be the new-age swine prince.

I suppose that would make Terry more relatable next to a secret billionaire heir.

After all, farming, bringing home the bacon included, was the backbone of a strong economy.

I jumped into a rabbit hole of pig-farm heir romance fantasies.

The bus driver, his accent thick, called out, “The stop to the pig farm is here.”

Snapping out of dramas playing out in my mind, I scrambled out of the vehicle.

I looked around, dumbfounded.

Aside from a lonely bus stop sign, there was nothing else.

Dragging along two heavy sacks like a lost refugee, I stood in the middle of nowhere in a daze.

Just then, a black sports car pulled out right in front of me.

Lambo doors!

The door swung open vertically at the hinge.

Someone stepped out of the driver’s seat.

It wasn’t Terry, though.

A woman, possibly in her fifties, emerged with such grace.

“Hello there, are you Miss Samantha Horten?”

I was sweating out of my palms. “T-That’s me. Hello, ma’am! A-Are you in charge of the pigsty?”

The faint tremor in the elegant lady’s lips didn’t slip my notice when I mentioned whether she was responsible for the pig farm.

“Miss Horten, I believe you are mistaken. This is the estate on 7 Maple Street, West Hills.”

The car arrived at the stop.

The lady gave a nod. “Young Rigsby is expecting you. His instructions are to consult you in choosing the diamond ring for the engagement.”

Engagement? Diamond ring?

A vast, absurd sense of wealth disparity crashed down over me.

By my feet were two sacks of earthy and plain potatoes and sweet potatoes.

My eyes locked onto the inside of the iron gate.

A silhouette emerged from the estate.

It was Terry.

The face I’d come to know over months through the screen now stood under real sunlight. He was a lot more good-looking, defined, and… distant.

He approached with quick paces, the distance between us cutting short.

Then, the words just came out of my mouth. “U-Um… Ma’am! D-Do you think the potatoes are enough for stew?”