He preened, his tan skin pinking under my praise. “As Queen Bey says, I woke up like this.” Smirking, he gave me the once-over. Then he gave me a twice-over.
I smoothed my hair automatically, straightening my apron. Could he see? Could he tell? Surely he couldn’t—
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, settling onto a stool and giving me a knowing look.
“Mmm-hmm what?” I asked, smoothing my apron again.
“Oh, you know exactly what, Little Miss Crushing on a Farmer.”
“I am not crushing on a farmer!” I snapped, loud enough that the entire diner fell silent. Which never happens. Forks hovered, mouths hung open, and every pair of eyes was on me. I’m pretty sure they were all picturing me naked.
Judging by the glint in his eye, Chad was picturing Leo naked.
A wave of embarrassment flashed over me, hot and fast. I didn’t like my business being put out there. And I was pretty sure Leo wouldn’t like his business out there either.
“Mmm-hmm.” He lifted up his menu, which shook as he laughed quietly.
“Don’t start rumors, Bowman,” I said quietly, straightening the tines of his fork to line up with the paper placemat. “It’s just . . . it’s not like that.” I looked around to see if people were still watching. And listening. . . .
Ninety-nine percent of the diner’s customers went back to their breakfasts, busily gossiping and doubtless passing it through the town’s phone tree. But one older fellow at the counter was glaring a hole into the back of Chad’s shirt.
I blinked. Surely he couldn’t have a problem with Chad?
“Pay the bigots no mind, lovey,” Chad said, turning me to face him. “That’s Herman.” He smiled and tipped his coffee toward Herman, who looked irked that attention was being volleyed back at him.
Throwing back his coffee, the man tossed a few bills onto the counter, then stormed out of the diner. Unfortunately, the door did not hit him in the judgmental ass on the way out.
“A good friend, I see.” I leaned my elbows on the counter across from Chad. Though he’d brushed it off like it was no big deal, I could see that it bothered him. “Do you get that a lot? The nasty staring ?”
I hoped that the answer was no, that most people were accepting, and only a few were assholes. Especially in this town, where half of the businesses flew rainbow flags outside.
Chad shifted on his stool. “No, that doesn’t usually happen here. That’s a big part of the reason we decided we could move back. And I can handle that crap now, but just after high school, that kind of thing would have killed me.” He smiled. “I would have panicked and said nothing, and then thought of ten great comebacks an hour later.”
His admission gave me such a new perspective on him. I couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to hide that big a secret. To pretend to be something I wasn’t.
“I wish I knew then, in case you wanted someone to talk to or whatever.”
“Enough about this,” he said dismissively. “I want all the explicit details about last night!”
“Phone for you, Rox,” a voice rang out from the kitchen, and I grinned in relief.
“Gee, looks like I have to take a call.”
Chad pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at me, telling me he that knew something was up and he’d be watching me.
I grinned and grabbed the phone off the wall. “This is Roxie.”
“Hello, Roxie, this is Mrs. Oleson, from the mayor’s office.”
“Oh hello, Mrs. Oleson, how are you?”
Chad’s eyebrows went up. Mrs. Oleson had worked in the mayor’s office for as long as anyone could remember, no matter who the mayor was. She had her hand in nearly everything that happened in town. Huh. Not unlike a Mrs. Harriett Oleson from Walnut Grove. I allowed myself a few seconds of Almanzo fantasy.
“Roxie, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. What can I do you for, Mrs. Oleson?”
“I’m in a bit of a pickle, dear, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“I’ll do what I can. What’s up?” I replied, confused but intrigued.
“Well, you know I always bring cakes to the ladies’ luncheon, and this year I’ve just totally overextended myself. Linda and Evelyn were positively raving over the walnut cake they had at the diner last week, and I wondered—”
“You want a walnut cake too?” I finished.
“Actually, I’d need four. And maybe . . . do you have something different you could make? They’ve already had the walnut cake, so I thought maybe we could surprise them with something new,” she said, her voice getting quiet and sneaky. “Eleanor made her famous sponge cake last week, and I need to step it up a notch or two.”
“Something new,” I repeated, glancing over at the barren cake display case with worry. Not about how I was going to bake more—but because I wanted to do it. “When do you need these?”
“Tomorrow?” she asked hesitantly.
Yikes. I looked again at the display case. This morning it had held eight cakes, each sliced in eighths, individually for sale. Now there were only crumbs.
Did I want to do this? Could I do this was a better question, adding another thing to my already packed schedule.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked, decision made, grabbing the yellow order pad out of Maxine’s apron pocket as she passed by. She frowned, eyeing me from under the beehive hairdo that held a—
“I need this too,” I chirped, plucking the pen from the hairspray-stiffened swirl. She cracked me on the ass with a dish towel in complaint.
“Carrot?” I parroted back to Mrs. Oleson, my mind immediately racing. “Traditional? With nuts?” I was giddy at the thought of shopping at Leo’s for the ingredients. Mmm, I could do a cream cheese frosting. I’d seen tubs of it at Maxwell Farm from the dairy next door. What else could I pick up there? Oooo, maybe he’d pick me up. Maybe he’d finish what he started that day in the silo—
Shit, I was on the phone. “Pick them up tomorrow morning,” I instructed Mrs. Oleson, flustered.
As I hung up the phone, the Scott family walked in. Mom, Dad, and two kids, with the point-five bun in the oven and ready to pop out.
“Have a seat anywhere that’s open,” I called, leaning over the counter to see if there was a booth or table free. There was one in the back, and Mrs. Scott was able to waddle uncomfortably over and sit down.
“Looks like someone is making a name for herself in this town,” Chad said over his menu.
“I don’t even know why you’re pretending to look at this—you always get the same thing. Tuna melt, potato salad, cherry Coke.” I rolled my eyes, smacking the top of his head lightly with his menu.
“She knows her customers’ orders, she’s becoming famous for her sweet treats, she’s emphatically not crushing on a farmer—what a summer Roxie Callahan’s having,” Chad said.
I smacked him again, not trying to hide my smile.
After sending his order to the kitchen, I started rifling through one of the old cookbooks my mother kept behind the counter. An old Betty Crocker from the fifties was chock-full of American classics: sponge, angel, devil, coconut, pound . . . And then came the mother lode: the European Dessert section. Tiramisu, Black Forest, Pavlova, and Irish Mousse. I was about to read the recipe for the boozy take on mousse pie when Mr. Scott approached the counter.
“God, I haven’t seen that in twenty years!” he exclaimed, pointing to the picture of an Apple Amber pie. According to the recipe, it was a whiskeyed-up meringue pie. Fresh farmyard apples sweetened with cider, sugar, and lemons, blanketed with rich, brown meringue piled high.
As Mr. Scott leaned closer to stare at the cookbook, he looked like he was about to drool. “Are you making this?” he asked hopefully.
“I don’t know—maybe. I’ve never made it before.” But I could, easily, and the regulars would love it. Hmmm. Apples weren’t in season yet, but peaches would be soon. I mentally started converting the recipe from apples to peaches: maybe less cinnam
on, a splash of bourbon. Did Leo have peach trees? Hmmm, sweet, luscious peaches. And sweet, luscious Leo.
Zombie Pickle Class. A phrase never before uttered in the history of phrase uttering, let alone printed on a sign. But there it was in the diner’s front window, propped up by a ten-gallon plastic pickle tub. Which was high art apparently, according to Chad. “It’s ironic, it’s homey, it’s perfection!” he’d said when he’d dropped it off earlier that day and strong-armed me into letting him put it in.
Though I tried to insist that teaching him and Logan hardly constituted a “class,” he’d insisted more. So here I was, surrounded by cutting boards, cucumbers, garlic, and a few dozen jars, waiting for my first class to start. The diner was quiet, the front lights turned down and jukebox off, just the faint hum of the fridges audible in the kitchen.
I yawned, leaning on the countertop. I’d only managed about three hours of sleep the night before, and it’d been a long day. One of the line cooks had called in sick, so I’d worked both the breakfast and the lunch shifts on the grill. My back creaked, my shoulders ached, my finger was burned by a sauté pan.
But I was also surprisingly . . . exhilarated. I’d worked a hard day, did everything I needed to do, put out fires—literally, and made sure every single person who came through the door enjoyed the hell out of their lunch. I’d made a new version of tomato soup today. I’d slow roasted the tomatoes with basil and a bit of chervil before pureeing them, rather than using the standard canned. I’d used crème fraîche instead of half-and-half. Then I added brioche croutons, tossed with gruyère and black pepper. Did we sell out of that soup before 11 a.m.? Possibly. Did we get way more take-out orders for soup than we’d had since I’d been home?
Yes! Tons of take-out orders!
Along with the exhilaration, I also felt a sense of . . . comfort? Belonging? That would seem a perfectly natural reaction, since it was my hometown—yet I’d almost never felt it before. And along with the exhilaration and the comfort of belonging, add one dash of . . . butterflies?
No, that’s not it.
A heart murmur?
Pretty sure you’re healthy, cardiacwise.
Indigestion?
With your cast-iron stomach? Hardly.
So what is it?
Hopefulness? Joy? Intrigue?
Indigestion. That’s it. Too many croutons.
Croutons are giving you butterflies?
Mmm-hmm.
I pondered this while I held a cucumber in my hand. Which naturally brought up other thoughts. Thoughts I didn’t have time to explore, because the owner of the cucumber I wished I was holding came through the front door, his eyes searching for mine. Cue the butterfly croutons.
When Leo saw what I was holding, his face broke into a movie star grin.
In that instant, all of the air left the room. In that instant, all I was aware of was his face and those eyes and that grin . . . and a quickly warming cucumber. In that instant plus one second . . . I realized I was in deep trouble.
Because this guy was incredible.
Because this guy was real and sweet and kind, and he knew about the kinds of things that could wiggle through every chink in my armor and into my heretofore unbreakable heart.
Food.
Orgasms.
Food.
Sweet.
Food.
Strong.
Orgasms.
Oh boy.
And funny.
Caring.
Kind.
Not afraid to get his hands dirty.
Not afraid to talk dirty.
And the surprise of all surprises: I already missed him in my bed.
“Hey, Sugar Snap,” he said. “What kind of plans do you have for that cucumber?”
Officially, I came up with a clever comeback. Officially, I offered some witty banter to keep things light and flirty. Officially, I shot down every butterfly crouton that was fluttering around inside me.
But unofficially? The feeling of being somebody’s Sugar Snap made me grin widely. Nothing witty came from my mouth; it was too busy smiling. And then the smiling became a kiss, then two, then three. Because I nearly vaulted over the counter, ran to Leo like a fool in a Nicholas Sparks film, and threw myself into his strong arms, kissing him as if someone had threatened to take his mouth away from me.
His arms enveloped me, his surprised chuckle quickly muffled by my face. Which he covered in equally urgent kisses, his lips pressing against my forehead, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and finally my mouth again. Lifting me right out of my clogs, he set me on top of the counter, coaxed my legs apart with no resistance from me, and stood between them. I wrapped my legs around him, crossing them high on his back as he let his head tip forward, resting on my breasts, his hands digging into my hips, hard.
“You drive me crazy, Sugar Snap,” he groaned.
“Call me that again, and I’m canceling pickle class.” I ran my hands through his hair and kneaded his scalp, getting a satisfied moan in response.
“Sugar Snap? That’s what brought this on?” he asked, and I tilted his head up toward mine.
“That’s it. Class is canceled.” I was about to tell him to lock the door and ravage me up against the Fryalator when I heard a slow clapping, à la every movie from the eighties.
“Well done. Will all classes begin this way?”
Chad and Logan stood just inside the door, wearing enormous grins and bearing cucumbers.
I slumped down against Leo’s chest, breathing in his heady scent, and breathing out my frustration at being interrupted. When I looked up again, Logan made a decidedly ungentlemanly—okay, totally juvenile—gesture with a cucumber, and I snorted in spite of myself. The moment broken, Leo helped me down off the counter, and I faced my peanut gallery.
“You boys ready to pickle?”
They were in fact ready to pickle. And pickle we did. They were surprisingly good students, once they got all the jokes about pickle size out of their systems. They paid close attention, they followed directions, and within about ninety minutes we had several jars ready for the fridge. It was fun, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed teaching people how to do things like this.
Leo kept close to me most of the night, refusing to answer Chad’s unsubtle questions about what was going on with us, changing the subject smoothly each time. It was frustrating for Chad, amusing for me, and it kept the evening focused on the food. I did wonder how far things would have gone if Chad and Logan hadn’t shown up . . . but no matter. I was enjoying the evening with three gorgeous men, and I might get to see one of them naked very soon. Zombie Pickle Class was a total success.
Zombie Pickle Class was also noticed by several passersby. How could you not stop to read a sign like that? Though the door was locked, that didn’t stop people from peering inside. Interesting . . .
“We should make more! I want enough to last the entire winter,” Logan proclaimed as he labeled his jar of hamburger dills.
“These are fridge pickles, so they’ll only be good for a few months. If you want pickles that will keep longer, that’s a whole different ball of brine. You have to cook them a bit, same as making jelly or jam.”
“Yes! Let’s make jam too!” Chad chimed in enthusiastically.
“Okay, everyone settle,” I said as Leo smothered a laugh. “We can definitely make jam, but not tonight.” I smiled at their eagerness as I scooped up a few jars of my own concoction—baby cucumbers in a zesty brine of spicy peppers and the tiniest drizzle of honey—and headed for the fridge.
“How about next week? Same time, same place?” Logan asked, and I nodded in agreement.
“Blackberries just came in, and by next week we’ll have raspberries too,” Leo said.
Mmm. I did love raspberry jam.
“Do you know how to make apple butter?” Chad asked as he cleaned up his station. “My nana used to make it every October, and I ate half a loaf of bread every day after school just for that apple butter. Can we make t
hat?”
“No can do—sorry.”
“Why in the world not?” Then his eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “What if I put on my old letterman jacket?”
Logan’s head popped around the fridge. “Let him wear the jacket, Rox. It’s hot as hell.”
“Oh, I remember. But apple butter making is in the fall.”
“So?” Chad asked, and Logan gave me an inquiring look.
“I won’t be here in the fall,” I said quietly, feeling Leo’s stare on the back of my head. It’s funny how a gaze can be physically felt from across the room. “I’m leaving once my mom gets back from her Amazing Race, remember?”
A silence fell on the kitchen, all the good humor of the evening seeming to fall away.
“Besides, the Jam Lady is going to kill me as it is, teaching you guys how to make jam. I can’t take away her apple butter clients too—she’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“You won’t be here to hear her. That’s kind of the end of it,” Logan muttered.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, zombies, class is over. Next time jam, same time, same place,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light and bright.
Chad nodded, pulling me against him in a quick hug. “Tonight was fun—thanks for the pickles.” He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead before ushering Logan and their jars out the door.
Leaving me with Leo, who dropped his gaze when I turned around. “I’ll get a broom, help you get this place cleaned up,” he said, moving toward the utility closet.
There was nothing I could say to ease the sudden tension, because I was leaving. This . . . thing . . . was just for the summer. So he got the broom and I wiped the counters, and within a few minutes we began to chat about what other fruits might be ready soon for jam. Light and bright.
Light and bright means no expectations. No demands on time, no hard feelings, and certainly no tears. Which is why when he left with just a quick kiss on my forehead, I didn’t feel a suspicious prickle inside my eyelids, or notice that my chin wobbled at all.
I locked up, drove home, and didn’t sleep. Because officially, it was just a fling. And a fling made no demands on where he spent his nights.