“A painting party?”
“Yeah, all the new Sheetrock just went in, and the floors are being sanded this week. Now it’s time for paint,” Logan explained. “Please come.”
I smiled and raised my bagel in solidarity. “I’m in.”
And just like that, I had a date with Chad Bowman. And his husband. I had a sudden mental snapshot of what an actual date with these two gorgeous men might entail, and I filed it away for a lonely night with a deliciously naughty shiver.
I visited with the two of them for another half hour or so, catching up on all the high school gossip, town gossip, and gossip in general. Chad had gone from our small town to Syracuse, then on to grad school in the city, getting his MBA. He was working for a financial firm on Wall Street when he met Logan at a competing house. They’d dated, fell in love, and decided to move upstate. Investing everything they had, they opened a financial advisory company and now The Chad Bowman helped little old blue hairs with their retirement plans.
“So now you’re back from LA to run the diner while your mom’s out of town. Are you here just for the summer, or . . .” Chad asked as we were finishing up our snack.
“Is there a town crier?” I asked, making a show of looking around.
Chad rolled up his menu and held it to his mouth like a megaphone. “Oh please, like you don’t remember how fast news travels in this town. For instance, how in the world did you manage to catch Farmer Leo between your thighs?”
I choked on my chai. “Keep your voice down!” I whisper-yelled, horrified.
“Oh please, you’ve got all the single ladies in this town pissed, not to mention half the married ones. Everyone wants to know how you made that happen, on your first day back in town, no less!” Chad exclaimed, and Logan nodded agreement.
“Okay, seriously, stop. I slipped and fell, and took him out as well. I don’t know anything about him, except that I heard that he works over at Maxwell Farm—”
“Works over at Maxwell Farm?” Logan interrupted.
I nodded, continuing, “—which I think is great. I can’t believe those blue bloods let that land just sit around for so many years. What a waste! And if he works there and is helping that family do something good for a change, instead of just sitting back and counting their money, then good for him.”
They grew silent.
“Owning a farm, ha! It’s not like a Maxwell is ever going to get his hands dirty—that’ll be the day.”
As I paused to sip my chai, two hands suddenly appeared in my field of vision. Rough. Ready. And . . . dirty? These hands set a small basket on the table, filled with . . . sugar snap peas. Oh man. I looked at Chad and Logan, both of whom looked positively delighted at the turn this morning was taking. Dammit.
I sighed, then turned slowly in my seat to find Leo standing behind me, wearing an equally delighted look.
“Your last name is Maxwell, isn’t it?” I asked, looking up into his eyes.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, making sure to wave his “dirty” farmer hands. “Brought you some sugar snaps. I picked those with my very own blue-blood hands.” His eyes danced.
I picked up the peas, prepared to eat crow. Standing up, I turned toward him to apologize for the other day and the snarky comments I’d just made. But as I turned, I tripped on the leg of the chair, my forehead hitting his chest as I pitched forward into him, taking us both to the floor once more, sugar snap peas flying everywhere again. Only this time I landed on top of him.
Facedown. Between his thighs. As you do.