What would Leo think of my tiny childhood home? I wasn’t ashamed of where I’d come from, but it was striking to think of how different our backgrounds were.
But I couldn’t marinate on this too long, I had actual marinating to do. Tossing together some Meyer lemon, fresh tarragon, olive oil, and a pinch of salt, I poured this over the beautiful diver scallops I’d picked up at the fish market—something else new in town. I set the scallops and their marinade in the fridge, assembled the Stilton with some early cherries I’d picked out, then set about peeling the beets I’d roasted at the diner.
I was slicing the beets when I heard a car coming down the drive. A glance through the curtains showed Leo’s Jeep pulling to a stop, kicking up dust. Even under his shirt, his muscles were evident as he swung down, his back strong but not rippling in a beefcakey way. Just plain awesome strength, honestly come by. I’d seen how hard he worked on his farm. And speaking of awesome, he’d ditched the T-shirt/flannel workingman’s combo and was rocking the shit out of a white button-down and comfortable-looking jeans.
That beard was still there, gorgeously scruffy yet neatly trimmed, and I wanted to kiss him just to feel the tickle. I felt a thrill run up and down my spine as I imagined what it would be like to be the girl he came home to every night. Whoa. Where did that come from?
Shaking it off, I leaned out the window and called out, “The door’s open, go ahead and let yourself in!”
I had the pleasure of watching his face light up at my voice. Wow, look at that.
“Well, hey there,” he said, coming around the corner with a bottle of wine. “I wasn’t sure what you were making, so I went with a Riesling from—wow, did you murder someone this afternoon?”
“Ha-ha,” I replied, holding up the last beet I was slicing and showing him my pinky-purple hands. “Someone brought me beets, and that same someone knows exactly what they do to your hands when you mess with them.”
“If I made a joke about catching you red-handed, would you laugh?”
“I think so,” I said, blowing a piece of hair out of my face.
He waited a moment, looking at me expectantly.
“What’d I miss?”
“You’re not laughing,” he said, setting the wine down and moving a little closer.
“I was waiting for your joke,” I said, blowing again at a piece of hair sticking to my face. I didn’t dare touch it; the beet juice would stain almost anything it touched.
His cheeks crinkled as he laughed. “Forget it. Can I help you with that?” He leaned in and plucked the piece of hair from my face, tucking it neatly behind my ear. “Better?”
“Better,” I agreed. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” he replied, stepping even closer. “Famished.” His hand lingered on my neck, fingertips dancing across my skin as he skimmed around to the nape, warm and heavy. “Can I kiss you without you getting my shirt all beety?”
“You can sure try,” I answered, letting him pull me into him. I kept my hands straight out to my sides, trying to keep from marking him. He kissed me slow and sweet. Little fleeting brushes of his lips, first on one side of my mouth, then the other. By the time he made it to the middle of my mouth, I was rising up on my tiptoes to get closer, still keeping my beet hands out to my sides. He held my face in his hands, thumbs sweeping across my cheekbones, feathering and light. In the walk-in this afternoon, there was surprised passion. Now it was a slow burn.
His kisses swept down along my jawline, and right about the time he got to my earlobe, I had to warn him that my hands were beginning to have a mind of their own.
“If you want to keep that shirt from being ruined, you better quit while you’re ahead.” I groaned, lowering my head and beating it against his chest a few times.