It’s not just the orgasm . . .
No, it wasn’t. It was just Leo. Who took up too much space in my twin bed. His hands were rough, his feet were cold even on the hottest night, and the hair on his chest tickled my nose something awful.
And I loved sleeping with him. Back to front, head to chest, butt to butt—it didn’t matter, I loved it.
My hands groped across his side again, searching for a handful of warm Leo, but he was gone. My eyes opened sleepily, and I saw that he’d left me a note on my pillow.
Sugar Snap,
My heart went pitty pat to see my nickname written down. Why was that so thrilling? Anyway, back to the note.
Sugar Snap,
Got a busy day today. I’m helping Oscar move some cows onto a new field and I’m replacing the sink in my kitchen. Should be done by five though—dinner tonight? I’ll bring you some of those strawberries . . .
Leo
P.S. Looking forward to getting you green in less than one minute.
I blushed, thinking of all the things he could to do to make my eyes change color. Then I blushed again when I realized I was holding the note close to my face, as if I would kiss it. I rolled over in bed, squealing like a schoolgirl with her first crush. I sighed into his pillow and breathed in the lingering trace of his scent. I giggled out loud, kicked my feet into the air, and realized again that I was moving beyond a crush.
I reread his note, eager to see his nickname for me again, and I noticed at the bottom that he’d made a little drawing.
A loose interpretation of an Airstream trailer, with a girl smiling wide, hanging out of the side window. And a line of customers leading up to it. A thought bubbled up, the same thought I’d had last night while watching fireworks from within the circle of my Almanzo’s arms.
My Almanzo?
Shush. Trying to daydream here.
I coaxed the thought back up again.
A food truck. Could I do that? Could I actually decide to stay here, instead of heading back to Los Angeles? It was no longer out of the realm of possible. The cakes were certainly selling. I’d have ready access to Leo, and all that would entail. And I was very fond of his entail.
I flopped over on the bed, rereading his note for the fourth time. He was going to bring me strawberries. I could bake a strawberry pie. I should bake a strawberry pie. I had the day off since the diner was closed.
. . . I’m replacing the sink in my kitchen . . .
I’d never seen his kitchen. I’d never seen his house. I knew the way, though; he’d pointed out the side road that led to his part of the property, on a quieter part of the farm. Hmmm.
I could head over early, surprise him, get him to pick me some strawberries, and bake him that pie while I watched him replace his sink. I’d love to see him holding a wrench. The image of him holding himself last night popped into my head, and I shivered.
I headed into the shower, creating a mental list of everything I’d need to bake the surprise pie. And anything I wouldn’t need . . . like panties. God willing.
Two hours later I was driving down the country road, my favorite pie plate on the seat next to me, along with all my ingredients. U2 was on the radio, “So Cruel.” I’d been smiling since I woke up, and the realization made me smile even bigger.