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?”
“I think so? Not sure exactly what we’re doing here.” Liar. You knew exactly what you were hoping was on tap for the day.
“Simple,” he replied, stepping out from behind the stand with a crate. “We’re going shopping. Take over here for me, will you?” he asked, slapping the guy next to him on the back and handing him a clipboard.
As he led me out of the barn, he pointed out the giant deep freezers and coolers behind the workers. “Depending on the share you purchase, you can get everything and anything you want, when it’s in season. Some people opt in for a small share—just produce and sometimes specialty items like mushrooms or canned tomatoes. Some people go in for the full share, and they get protein each week. Sometimes pork, sometimes beef, always chicken, either whole roasters or already cut up. Usually eggs, and sometimes cheese.”
“You guys make cheese here too?” I asked, surprised at the scope of the operation.
“We don’t, but we work with other farms in the area to make sure the shares are really well rounded. We partner with Oscar Mendoza, the guy who runs the creamery the next farm over, to bring cheese, milk, butter, and all that for our customers.”
As I looked around, I noticed several baskets with big glass bottles of milk, smaller bottles of thick, heavy cream, and paper-wrapped butter, all stamped Bailey Falls Creamery.
“It seems like you don’t even have to go to the grocery store if you’re a member,” I said. This was how shopping used to be, back in the day.
“That’s what we hope. For the most part, you can feed your family entirely from locally sourced, clean-eating food,” he said, his voice full of pride. “Supermarkets have their place; that’s never going to change. But we like to think this can be just as convenient, and over time, it costs less than conventional stores.”
“And you know the guy who’s growing your food,” I said, warming to the idea that I would be preparing food that Leo’s hands pulled from the earth. Granted, I seemed to have special access to his hands this summer, but I was still tickled by the general idea. Also, his mouth. I’d like to be tickled by that mouth. Dammit, where was that romaine leaf? I needed fanning.
And speaking of his mouth, his was now turned up in a mischievous way. “What are you thinking about right now?” he asked.
“Honestly? Food.”
“Just food?”
“And your mouth,” I admitted.
His eyes widened, then narrowed. “C’mere.” He dragged me and his basket behind the barn, into a tiny cleft of the rock wall. And then his mouth pressed into mine in a flurry of licks and nibbles, and soft little moans and sighs.
“If I said I was thinking about more than your mouth, what would that get me?” I panted between fiery kisses.
“Trouble,” he replied, looking to his left and seeing a few people wandering close to where we were. “Come on, let’s go fill your basket.”
“I feel like that might be farm code for something way more fun than picking vegetables, but I’ll indulge you.” I laughed, straightening my dress, making it look like I hadn’t just been pressed between a rock and a hard farmer. “This would be the time to tell you I want the full share.”
“You got it.” He winked and, grabbing my basket, led me out into the fields.
We wandered up and down the rows of the vegetable patch, and I marveled at everything that was just coming up. I tasted lemony sorrel and snappy fennel, and picked handfuls of tiny baby eggplant, a Japanese variety striped purple and white. In this week’s share everyone was getting new lettuce, more of those brown sugar strawberries, some rhubarb, and, new this week, the first blackberries. I was mentally testing recipes, deciding what else I’d need to spice up my home dinners, and what else I could use at the diner.
And as we walked, Leo pointed out various landmarks. Where they’d tilled an unused field and discovered a hundred-year-old coffee can filled with old pennies. Where an original well was still hidden by rotting wood planks, but was now safely fenced off. The well was repurposed and used now for irrigation in the herb garden. He’d laid raised beds in the same pattern originally planted, using an old landscape blueprint he’d found in the attic of the big house, when gardens were plotted to exacting standards.