“He’s crushworthy for sure,” Chad said dreamily. As we sat there, in the fall sunshine, watching tiny football players running here and there, I had another flash to what it must have been like to go to high school in a town like this. Hayrides, apple picking, Friday-night football games, and crepe paper homecoming floats.
A homecoming float has nothing on the balloon inflation party that takes place at Seventy-seventh and Columbus the night before Thanksgiving.
True. Grass is always greener.
Or concrete’s always grayer. People would kill to live where you live.
Also true. But as I thought of grass versus concrete, I suddenly felt tingles all over. I looked up, across the huddle and the tackle, and saw Oscar staring at me. I wiggled my fingers hello, he lifted his chin back.
And grinned.
“I feel like you might be adding a chapter to Oscar’s nonexistent story,” Chad murmured.
“Everybody has a story,” I murmured back, and set off across the field toward him, determined to elicit that chapter.
“Hi,” I said, a little breathlessly. That hike across the field had been murder on my boots. Heels made for concrete and cobblestone didn’t fare as well in ankle-deep leaves and mushy soil. But I’d made it.
“Hi,” Oscar said, glancing down at me. “Great turtleneck.”
“Thanks.” I laughed, delighted that it’d only been five seconds and I was up to three words already. “Great footballs.”
He arched an eyebrow at me, but said nothing, eyes on the field and intently following the action. “Right, so, I was thinking, maybe after the game I could stop by? See that barn you’re so proud of?”
“You’re inviting yourself over?” he asked, eyes still scanning the scrillage. Another football term I’d picked up from Chad. A scrillage is more than a practice, not quite a game. “Toby! Get your head down, or number seventeen is gonna take it right off!”
An enthusiastic “Okay, Coach,” floated back to us on the magical autumnal breeze as I considered what he’d said. I was inviting myself over. Somewhere between putting him in his own stall, and him invading my stall and kissing me so hard my lips could still feel it, I’d lost my uncharacteristic shyness. I was getting back on sure footing with this guy, back to where I knew what I was doing.
“I feel no qualms about inviting myself over. Especially when I’ll be there on official research purposes only. Scouting locations for publicity shots, you know. Checking out that barn, which could be featured in the Bailey Falls campaign. Maybe even the money shot.”
Even though he was trying like hell to keep his eye on the ball, he was also trying like hell not to smile. He covered the smile with a whistle, blew it, and yelled out, “Okay, team, that’s enough for the day. Huddle up!”
“Wow, you must really want me all to yourself, to call off your scrillage just to take me up on my offer,” I purred in a husky voice I knew drove men crazy.
He pulled something off from around his neck, underneath the whistle. A stopwatch. “The scrimmage was over—see?” He showed me the countdown, then took off toward the huddle of boys, turning around as he jogged backward. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called back.
Several of the mothers on the benches stared at me, half of them adding a side of nasty to their stare. Chad was nodding proudly, my own personal cheerleader. Inside my head, I fist-pumped.
Chapter 10
I bounced along the country roads, following Oscar’s truck as he led me to his farm.
A phrase never before thought, much less uttered, by this city girl. He put me in his town car and rubbed my feet on the way back to his townhouse? Yes, that sounded like me. He went down on me while I sprawled across the back of an Uber Escalade while we drove through the Bowery? Mmm, nice memory. But being led to his farm? Not in my wheelhouse.
For the record, I had an entire cupboard back home devoted to this exact wheelhouse: chickens and woods and hayrides and a farmer with a truck and a big barn he seemed willing to show me. This was the secret dream, the secret wish.
Bam! The Wagoneer slalomed around rut after rut, pothole after pothole. Say what you want about city driving, they were consistently fixing the streets. Out here, in the sticks, I didn’t get the sense that the roads were repaved very often.
Oscar turned off the country highway and onto a road that was dirt mixed with the teensiest bit of gravel that led up a steep hill. I bet this was a bitch in the winter. I also bet that if this were a horror movie, this would be where the audience would begin yelling at me to turn back, turn around, don’t be so stupid, and why are you following this man into the woods.
It was a rather creepy dirt road. But waiting for me at the end of it was a gorgeous dairy farmer, the aforementioned barn, and hopefully more of that kissing.