There were a few cartons of eggs left, and I was delighted to see that they not only were a beautiful speckled brown, but there were a few pale blue eggs tucked inside. My share that week also yielded a big wheel of local farm cheese, a pound of fresh butter, some locally raised trout, and two roasting chickens. And some of that thick-cut Maxwell bacon. I did enjoy a thick-cut Maxwell.
By the time we finished up, the parking lot was nearly empty. It was almost dusk, and as he said good-bye to the last stragglers, I wandered into the back corner of the original dairy barn, with its enormous stone silo. It now housed a reading bench, a bookshelf, and a collection of framed photographs spanning the history of the farm. I stood in the doorway, marveling at the workmanship that had gone into the silo. How perfectly constructed it was, with a nod here and there to design, even though it was made to simply store grain.
I heard Leo saying good night to some of the guys who worked the farm, then heard his footsteps. Which came to stop just behind me. I walked through the old oaken doorway of the silo, and he followed. Once the door closed behind us, it was quiet. And dark.
“So which came first, the barn or the silos?” I asked, looking at the soaring stone walls. Perfectly cylindrical, the four silos were almost three stories tall and could be seen from all over the farm.
“The barn,” Leo answered, walking toward me.
I backed away slightly, letting my gaze linger on the stone walls, and not the farmer who was now circling behind me.
“And when did you say the barn was constructed?” I asked, moving closer to the curved wall.
“Weren’t you paying attention on the tour the other day?”
I traced the line of one of the fieldstones, fitting my fingertip into the groove between it and the one on top. Though the day had been warm, inside the silo the stones were cool. “I was mostly paying attention,” I admitted.
“Mostly?” he asked, now directly behind me.
I shivered a bit, and not from the cool rock wall. I could feel the heat of him on my body, not yet touching, but fitting against my skin.
“I was a little”—I inhaled sharply, as those strong hands lifted my hair off my left shoulder, leaving my freckled skin exposed—“distracted,” I finished weakly.
Because now he bent his head down to my skin, nuzzling into my hair. Little flickers of desire were starting to smolder all over. Thinking someone felt the same attraction you were feeling was one thing; knowing that it was mutual was an entirely different kind of awesome. His nose brushed against my shoulder, and my fingers opened wide against the stone.
He pressed one solitary kiss into the hollow between my shoulder and neck, and my brain went a bit fuzzy. His lips, warm and wet, continued a path up along my neck, dragging his mouth, a little bit nibbling and a lot bit incredible.
His hands settled on my hips, curving around and up as his thumbs brushed the skin exposed by the dip in my dress. My back arched as my body reacted to having him so close. Once again he nuzzled at my neck, his breath now heavy in my ear.
“If you still want to talk about construction dates and historical significance, I’m happy to oblige,” he told me, then swept another line of kisses along my jawline.
I turned my head to let the man do the job he was clearly so good at. “I like history,” I replied, my voice husky.
“History . . .” he said, closing his mouth around my pulse point. Pretty sure my heart tried to move closer to his lips. “. . . has its place.”
“I like the present too.” My hands finally tangled in his hair. “The present can be just as interesting.”