“Yes,” I whispered, answering his question as well as my own. It was out there now. We had gone beyond the simple pleasure and were into something deeper, unexplored on my end, and likely scary on his.
“And then Polly came home early, with almost no warning. I would have told you, Rox, but she came back while her nanny was on vacation. I had no one to watch her so I could come talk to you, and that’s not the kind of thing you want to say over the phone. I was already trying to think of a way to tell you about her, about us, to make staying here a . . .” He trailed off, not finishing his sentence.
I finished it for him. “A possibility?”
“Is it?” he asked.
I sighed. “I don’t know Leo,” I admitted. I felt him exhale. “But I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Obviously its gone beyond a summer fling for me, too. Dammit, why the hell are you so awesome?” I laughed, sliding off the swing and pulling him with me. He had baggage, Lord knows I had baggage, but maybe. Just maybe. “Just let me think a little bit, okay?” I said, letting my hands creep up his chest and around his neck, feeling his good heat soak through my shirt and into my bones. He killed me.
“We can still have fun, you know,” he whispered, his hands sliding down to my backside, crushing me further into him.
“I’m going to need you to prove that, please,” I laughed, bumping my hips against his, “because this day has been weird long enough.”
He proved that we could still have fun. And that farmers are hot. But damn near nothing is as hot as Farmer Dad.
Chapter 19
“You are the best goddamn thing I’ve seen all day.” I inhaled deeply, reveling in the fresh, earthy smell, even salivating a little. I looked around to make sure no one was looking, then I rubbed my cheek over the firm, thick loaf of artisanal sourdough rye that the bakery just delivered. Tender, crumbly, with a beautiful brown scored crust, I was delighted to find that it was still warm.
“Ahem,” I heard, bringing me out of my doughy reverie.
“Oh, sorry,” I said to the scandalized driver.
I signed for the delivery and paid the poor man, who backed out of the door, clipboard in hand, as I stood cradling the bread like a baby.
“Get a grip, Roxie,” I told myself. But two seconds later, I smelled the loaf like I’d seen mothers sniffing their baby’s head. Something about the smell of a newborn? Is it wrong that I feel the same way about a warm swirled rye?
Racks of gorgeous bread were waiting to be sliced for sandwiches. My mother had been ordering white bread from the local bakery since before I was born, sliced thin for toast and thick for sandwiches—which she almost endearingly called sangwiches.
I’d altered her order, keeping the traditional white bread but adding a few other varieties, mostly for the new line of deli sangwiches I’d premiered to great fanfare.
Swirled rye for the Reuben. I’d updated the classic by adding a little lemon to the Russian dressing, and a very thin slice of smoked Gouda hidden between the Swiss.
Dark, dense pumpernickel. I paired it with thinly sliced Vidalia onions, horseradish cream, and thick slices of Polish ham.
Caraway rye for the pastrami. Cut thick from whole briskets that I sourced from a local butcher in Hyde Park, the pastrami was reminiscent of that from 2nd Ave. Deli in the city. It was slathered with teary-hot deli mustard . . . and nothing else. Come on, I was still a New York girl.
I used other breads in other ways too. We still made our traditional French toast with thick-cut white bread, but I’d added a brioche bread pudding to the menu. Eggy brioche slices soaked in vanilla egg custard, then baked with currants and pecans in between, topped with powdered sugar and allspice? It might have sold out every day since I’d added it to the menu.