The next afternoon I headed out to Maxwell Farm again, with even more anticipation this time. I was looking forward to the picking of the vegetables, the signing up for the farmshare, the kissing of the lips. Mostly the kissing of the lips.
I hadn’t seen him since the night I’d made him dinner, since the fire department interrupted something that was already smoldering. I’d been busy with the diner—working double shifts, replacing the back door lock, and getting back into the swing of cooking in a professional kitchen. I had new burns on my forearm from wrestling with a meat loaf, a Band-Aid on my thumb when I mistook it for a carrot . . . and a girlish urge to giggle every single time I went into the walk-in. I fought the giggle right now, just thinking about it.
When I arrived at Maxwell Farm, the fields and parking lot were a flurry of activity. I grabbed the square of ginger spice cake I’d brought Leo from the diner and set off across the gravel. It was the day everyone came to pick up their farmshare box, and I nodded to several people I knew. It was late afternoon, the sun shining down through a cloudless sky, and groups lingered around cars, almost like a farm-to-table tailgate. Kids played with barn cats, parents chatted leisurely with other moms and dads, and the easy community feel was palpable. It was a feeling I was familiar with, but I’d never really felt it . . . on the inside before. Since my family owned the most popular diner around, if anyone should feel like they belonged, you’d think it’d be me, right? But now, as a few familiar faces smiled in my direction, and a few casually friendly waves were sent my way, I felt something suspiciously like hometown pride. Interesting.
People were leaving the main barn with large baskets filled with all kinds of produce, cartons of eggs, paper-wrapped cheese, and walnuts. Smiling, I headed inside.
There, in the middle of everything, was Leo. I was struck once more at how truly handsome he was. Women around me were similarly struck, and I felt an odd urge to strike them myself, as a matter of fact . . . He chatted easily with everyone as they came up in line for their box, asking questions about their kids, making recommendations on how to pair this with that, telling them what would be in season in the next few weeks.
The women understandably hung on every word. He was kind, his grin was warm, and his forearms were spectacular. A vintage long-sleeved Beastie Boys T-shirt was shoved up to his elbows, his skin tanned from working outside, faded, ripped jeans hanging low on his hips. When he lifted a box of rhubarb down from the truck behind him, a sliver of skin peeked out, and I saw a woman fan herself with a leaf of romaine.
His eyes rose toward the crowd, and then found mine. His easy smile changed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a sexy grin that made my pulse skippy. He waved me up through the chatting throngs, past the romaine lady, and I felt my cheeks warm at being singled out. He pointed over toward the side, where wooden crates were stacked.
“Hey, Sugar Snap,” he said in a low voice, and my pulse skipped again.
“Hey, Almanzo” was all I could answer. And he called me dangerous.
He leaned in. “Little House?”
“Busted. Are you a fan?”
“Kid sister. She used to make us play Little House in the summer in the big barn,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “You hiding something behind your back?” he asked, and I proudly produced the sweet treat I’d brought for him. “For me?”
“You seemed to like the walnut cake, thought you might like something a little spicier,” I said. Loudly enough for romaine fanner to hear me? It’s a fair bet.
He grinned, lifting the corner of the parchment and peeking inside. “Smells good.”
“Tastes even better,” I answered, giving him an honest-to-goodness eyelash bat. He nodded, set the cake inside the cooler behind the table, and then turned back to me with an expectant look.
“You ready for this?”