He walked like he was in a Michael Bay film, striding across the tarmac to save the world from a rogue asteroid or kamikaze fighter planes. I could only stop and watch and admire the pretty.
Wearing faded jeans, scuffed work boots, a holey old off-white Irish sweater with big cable knits, just the edge of a white T-shirt peeking out of the collar, he was right off the pages of Fuck Off He’s Beautiful monthly. He could have been wearing clown shoes and a sandwich board that said Eat at Joe’s for all I cared, because what really made me gulp in air faster than I could actually breathe it was his face.
He might be the best-looking man on the planet. On any planet. His hair was tied back in his usual leather wrap, which accentuated the cheekbones, the jaw, the strong brow, the full, kissable lips. But what was most striking today was the measured joy. He was obviously happy to see me, but he was working to hide it somewhat, allowing only bits and pieces of it to show through. Wanting to hold something back, perhaps? I could understand that. It was early in whatever this was, to be showing every card. But I enjoyed the fact that he was happy to see me.
And once more, he surprised me. Before I could say hello or ask what he thought of the meeting, he slung one big arm around my shoulder, grabbed my bag and put it over his other shoulder, and said, “Let’s go make some cheese.”
In the history of romantic opening lines, it probably wouldn’t make anyone’s top-ten list, but it was music to my ears.
Chapter 13
He opened the passenger door to his truck, and once he had me tucked inside, he went around to his own door. Score another point for being a gentleman. Inside, he turned the key in the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot, and headed in the direction of his place. All of this he did with his right hand firmly on my thigh, which he’d exposed almost immediately by pushing up my black tweed pencil skirt. It was luxurious, the ease he had with touching my body so freely, and the slightest bit possessively? Hmm . . . caveman.
“So, hi,” I offered.
He shot me a brief side glance. “Hi.”
Silence. Driving. Silence.
“Good week?”
“Good week,” he stated.
I was unable to take my eyes from the sight of his hand on my leg. Had I planned this when I picked out a skirt this morning? Not purposefully. Had I wondered, however, when I was standing in front of my overnight bag this morning and looking at the black peep-toe Manolos with the sparkly jewels, if I did happen to see Oscar today, would they drive him crazy?
You bet your sweet ass . . .
“So you had a good week. That’s great. I did, too. So . . . thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t ask,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, but his fingers slid half an inch higher on my thigh—his caramel skin on my Irish cream—and I felt myself growing more and more excited. I was also growing more and more irritated that he wasn’t at all interested in having even the most cursory of conversations with me, when he finally looked my way. “But I’m glad to hear it.”
My ears pinked up, I could feel it.
He continued. “I was distracted all week. I thought about you, thought about when I might see you again.”
“You did?” I asked, trying like hell not to squeak out the words but failing miserably. My cheeks pinked up, I could feel it.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, sliding that hand north another inch. “Thought about those sounds you made, how sexy you looked.” He stopped at a railroad crossing and looked me straight in the eye. “In the barn.”
“Oh,” I managed, not even bothering to squelch the squeak. Something else pinked up, I could feel it.
“You here till Sunday again?” he asked, the railroad light flashing. Vaguely, I could hear a ding-dong ding-dong from the signal . . .
“Uh-huh.” This time I sounded like I smoked eight packs of cigarettes a day.
The lights stopped flashing. The dinger quit donging. And I was lost in those smoldering eyes, which were touched by a bit of happy. “Good,” he said, all heat and smooth and sweet and rough at the same time.
“Good,” I repeated, reaching down and sliding his hand up another inch.
“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”
“What did you think I meant, when I said let’s go make some cheese?”
“I thought we’d be wrapping those cute little Bries that I buy from you, in the sweet blue and white gingham paper?”
Oscar had driven me back to his farm. Over the hill and beyond some of the pastures was a large secondary barn proudly bearing the name Bailey Falls Creamery over the entryway.
“No way, Pinup. We’re making cheddar today.”
This was it! This was my dream, the secret dream tucked away in the back of a kitchen cupboard in the form of cutout pictures of sweet cows and rolling hills and cardigans.
“I’m not really dressed for cheese making, am I?”