8. I looked above the boots. Jeans.
9. I looked above the jeans. Vintage Fugazi concert tee. Green flannel shirt.
10. I looked above the flannel. Two weeks’ worth of shaggy blond beard. Mmm. Country hipster.
11. I looked above the beard. Lips.
12. I looked at the lips.
13. I looked at the lips.
14. I looked at the lips.
15. COME ON.
16. I looked above the lips.
17. I was glad I looked above the lips.
18. The eyes and the hair were a package deal, the hair was falling across his eyes in a careless way that said “Hey, girl. I’ve got peas on my shoes, but who cares, because I’ve got these eyes and this hair, and it’s pretty fucking great.”
19. The hair was the color of tabbouleh.
20. His eyes were the color of . . .
21. Pickles?
22. Green beans?
23. No. Broccoli that had been steamed for exactly sixty seconds. Vibrant. Piercing.
24. I stood—and slipped on the snap peas.
25. At his feet, I stared up at him.
26. One corner of his mouth lifted for the tiniest moment.
27. He looked at my nearly transparent wet T-shirt for the tiniest moment before decency dictated that he not do that.
28. He set down his basket of nuts and extended a hand to me. Callused. Rough. Both corners of his mouth now lifted.
29. I took his hand to stand. Slipped again on a snap. Worlds collided when my skin met his. Heads collided when my forehead conked his.
30. One of my pea pods wedged under his boot
31. He fell down too.
32. His nuts went everywhere.
33. Our legs tangled.
34. His head fell into my . . . lap.
35. Sugar snap peas were my new favorite vegetable.
The guy with the nuts was named Leo. I know this because when my mom came around the corner and caught him facedown in her daughter, she cried out, “Leo!” and rushed to help him up. Him. She never could resist a good-looking man. And once the man was extricated from between my legs . . . mercy . . . he reached down once more to try to help me up.
“For goodness’ sake, Roxie, what’re you doing on the floor?” my mother interrupted, lifting me up underneath both arms and plopping me back on my feet like a flour sack.
“I . . . uh . . . well . . .”
“I think I surprised her, Ms. Callahan,” this Leo said, his voice smooth and rough at the same time. How is that possible? “You okay?”
“I . . . uh . . . well . . .” Where was this coming from? I don’t stammer.
He grinned, a look of curious amusement spreading across his entire face.
“She’s totally fine, aren’t you— Oh dear, it looks like the turkey’s done; you might want to cover up,” my mother said, looking at a very specific part of my chest.
I looked down, remembered that I was on full transparent display here, and quickly crossed my arms over my wet chest. Where my nipples had popped like Butterball turkey timers. My mother, ladies and gentlemen.
“Roxie, go get a fresh apron, and then come sit with Leo here and have a cup of coffee. You’ve got time for coffee, don’t you, Leo? It’s the least we can offer you after you ended up on our floor!”
Coffee suddenly sounded like the best idea in the history of best ideas. Coffee? Yes. Lay on top of me again? If you must.
“Sorry Mrs. C, can’t stay for coffee today. I’ve got a truck full of deliveries to make before five. Rain check?” he asked, unleashing the grin of the ages on my mother, and then turned his grin on me. “You sure you’re okay?”
Absolutely okay. I didn’t get weak in the knees anymore just because a cute guy looked at me, even if my turkeys were done.
I looked up at him through lowered lashes, cocked my head to the side, and let loose my own grin. “Sorry about your nuts.” Then I slowly walked toward the walk-in fridge, putting a tiny extra sway in my hips.