The rumble of the well-tuned diesel clued Beck in to Jordan's arrival. He was early, but Beck wasn't surprised. He was up before the sun himself, so he already had the box truck mostly loaded with the goods. He'd backed it right up to the processing barn, and used the dolly to move the packed crates onto the truck. When he emerged from stacking his most recent load, Jordan was standing off to the left.

"I like the label," Jordan said by way of greeting. He gestured to the stacked one-pound bags.

Beck grinned. The new label was his own redesign, something he'd been tinkering with since high school. For years he'd doodled and tweaked it, changing colors and fonts. Every once in a while, he'd pull it out and work on it, even though he knew it would never be used -- not as long as Lyndon was in charge. When he took over, it was an easy enough change to implement.

"Thanks." Beck walked closer and drank in his fill while trying not to leer. Jordan was compact and solid. His corded muscles stood out even beneath his loose T-shirt. The plain gray did nothing for him, but even so, he made Beck's mouth water.

He shook his head. He'd resolved to get himself in check, and here he was, ogling the pretty man. He needed to knock that shit off.

Beck reached for the T-shirt he'd set aside and tossed it at Jordan. It was exactly like the one Beckett was wearing -- navy and with the farm emblem screen printed over the left breast. Jordan held it up to examine it and quirked a brow at Beck. Then he shrugged, set it down, and pulled off the shirt he was wearing. Beckett nearly choked on his tongue when he saw the expanse of hard, toned muscle. But Jordan was quick and efficient, and in seconds he had the company T-shirt on.

Beckett completely ignored the weird sense of satisfaction he got from seeing his name on Jordan's chest.

With a concerted effort, he turned his attention back to the work. "And thanks for coming. I just have these three stacks left to load and we can be on our way." Beck motioned to the left to indicate the crates he meant, even though they were the only ones in sight. Focus, Shaw.

Jordan nodded, gave him the smallest smile that lit up his dark eyes, and then proceeded to pick up a crate and cart it into the truck. It weighed roughly fifty pounds, but Jordan handled it like it was nothing. Beck tore his gaze away and focused on the remaining crates.

Jordan was doing him a favor by working for him. He wasn't there so Beck could get his rocks off. Enough was enough.