He gave me a funny look but sketched a trio of beets on the napkin. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” Biting my lip, I added a little banner across them and inked the words Can’t Beet Valentini Brothers Farm on it. A little shyly, I turned it to face him.
He groaned, but he smiled too. “What is that?”
“Just an idea for a logo. Wouldn’t that be cute on your tablecloths and your banner? On t-shirts? Shopping bags?” I was getting excited.
“Are those beets me, Pete, and Brad?”
I nodded happily. “We could even give the beets little faces!”
“You’re killing me.”
“I’m branding you.” I took the napkin back and stuck it and the pen in my purse. “And I had lots of ideas today.”
“I had some too. But none of them involved beets.”
Our eyes met, a hot little current passing between us.
He still wants me! My heart beat faster. I’d been nervous that seeing Suzanne today and the blow-up afterward might dampen the fire between us, but it still burned.
We ate quickly.
On the way home, I asked Jack what his favorite meal was. I had this crazy idea I’d try to cook it for him—that would probably give him a laugh.
“Hmm. Probably a steak on the grill. Twice baked potatoes. Some kind of vegetable from our garden.”
Damn. That was a tall order. I’d have to learn to grill. And twice-baked potatoes? What the heck was that? Why would you bake a potato twice? Wasn’t once enough?
He glanced at me. “Why do you ask? Are you going to cook for me?”
“You don’t have to sound so amused.” I frowned slightly. “I think I could do it, but I’m not sure how to work the grill at the cottage.”
“Why? Is it complicated?”
“I don’t know. I asked the property manager how to turn it on but she started talking about charcoal and lighter fluid.” I shook my head. “That sounded dangerous to me.”
He burst out laughing. I’d never get tired of that sound, even if it was at my expense. “Jesus. You really have led a sheltered life.”
“Not that sheltered,” I said defensively.
“Oh no? Let’s play a game.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “I’ll name something, and if you’ve never done it, you have to take off a piece of clothing.”
“What?” I said indignantly. “OK fine, but if I have done it, you have to.”
“Fine with me,” he said.
“OK, then. Go.”
“Changed a flat tire.”
“Oh, come on!” I scoffed. “Start with an easier one. Who does that for herself?”
“Plenty of people. You should learn how. You’ve got that old car, what are you going to do if you get a flat tire?”
“Call triple A.”
“What if you don’t have a phone?”
I sighed.
“One piece of clothing.” He said it like a warning.
“Fine.” I tugged off one boot. “Next.”
“Pumped your own gas.”
“Ha! I’ve totally done that.” I pointed at him. “Take something off.”
He grinned. “Take the wheel.”
I did, and he whipped off his t-shirt. My mouth watered. Even in the shadowy dark of the truck’s cab, I could see the bulges in his arms, the lines on his stomach.
He grabbed the wheel again. “Waited tables.”
“Oh, Jesus.” I took off the other boot. “I didn’t have summer jobs. We traveled abroad.”
Jack thought that was hilarious. “OK, OK. An easier one. Plunged a toilet.”
Off came one sock.
“Mowed a lawn.”
Off came the other.
“Smoked a joint.”
There went my t-shirt.
“Slept in a tent.”
I shimmied out of my jeans.
He was smiling. “This is fucking fun as hell.”
“I hope we don’t get pulled over,” I said, crossing my arms.
“I might pull over anyway.”
My bare toes tingled.
“Been in a fight.”
I thought for a second. “Like what kind of fight?”
“A fight. Where punches are thrown.”
“Punches, huh? Not scones?”
“What?” He glanced at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I started to laugh. “My weasel ex came over a couple weeks ago at two AM and proposed to me. I can’t even believe it now, but I sort of said I’d think about it. The very next night, he and his stupid girlfriend showed up to a fundraiser for my father’s campaign, and she was wearing the very diamond ring he’d proposed with. He’d gone right from my house to hers.”
“That is fucked up.”
“Yeah. Come to find out, his father said he had to quit dicking around with his life and get serious, and I guess getting married would show he was serious. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t inherit his trust fund, which he needs to pay off gambling debts.”
“Man.” Jack shook his head. “Guess having money doesn’t solve your problems.”
“Nope. Anyway, I was so mad that night at the fundraiser that I started screaming at him and throwing scones.”
He looked at me. “Scones? That was the best you could do? There wasn’t a vase or something? In movies, rich people throw vases around.”