Blog Chain: Summer Flings: Do they really exist?

I chose the topic for Blog Chain this time around:

Have you ever written a summer fling? Or are all your fictional relationships the deep, forever kind? If you did write one, how would it begin (the meet cute)? Where would it be set? Give us a few paragraphs sample. 

Surprisingly, though I wrote this prompt, I haven't really written a summer fling. I'll have to think of a new one for the assignment. 

Synopsis: Jaron, a philosophy student visiting hick cousins in Ohio, falls off a hay wagon and lands on a stranger's farm in the middle of nowhere. After blacking out, he comes to with the barrel of Agnes' rifle at his nose. An endlessly practical but lovely corn farmer, she's in the middle of a feud with the mega-farm ten miles upwind, who claims she's growing their patented seeds. The last thing she needs at her door is one of their spies. While Mr. Philosophy waxes poetic about her corn-silken mane and muses over the possibility that reality is completely subjective, Agnes tries to get in touch with his cousins so he can do what men do best and leave. Jaron doesn't remember their phone number, he lost his phone in the fall, and can only tell her their names and horribly mispronounce the town where they live. 

Sample:

"Coshocktown? You mean Coshocton?" Agnes rubbed her forehead with her whole palm. "You're in Plainfield. That's at least ten miles and it ain't flat."

"Well, could I trouble you for a ride?" Ten miles didn't seem that far. Maybe he could take a hike in the morning, after the rain stopped.

Her hand fell to her side and she stared. "Our truck mysteriously stopped working two days back. About the same time another young gentleman came poking around the farm. Another spy!"

Back to the conspiracy theories again. Her patience for his theories on existentialism wasn't likely to improve, either. He'd have to try another tactic. "Our? Is there a Mister Cornsilk?"

Her eyes went from narrowed to slit-thin. "No. And there never will be. If it weren't for this stupid rain and the flash flood warning I'd send you on your way on foot." 

She spun around and tossed a folded quilt. He caught it with his stomach.

"This must be the Midwestern hospitality I've heard so much about," Jaron mused.

"Don't get too used to it."

A little boy with brown hair like a sheepdog and brand new Levi denim walked into the room with a math book. "Explain it again, Aggie? I can't figure out these stupid fractions! Who's that?"

With a deep sigh, Agnes took the boy under her wing and gestured toward Jaron. "This is what a city boy looks like. Take a good look at those skinny limbs and baby-soft hands. It's what happens to a person who forgets how to work." She gave the boy a swat on the bum and told him she'd be in to tuck him in soon. 

Jaron's made-for-children grin collapsed. "Nice. Really nice. You know, you're shaping his reality, too."

Agnes groaned. "Good night!" 

Before he could even think of a response, Jaron found himself alone in a dark, wood-paneled room on a tattered sofa, with only a mutt for company.  

Make sure to check out the other links on the Blog Chain! Catch up with Christine Fonseca to see yesterday's blog chain post,

and check out Demitria Lunetta's tomorrow.