I shivered a little as I bounced along over the potholes toward the Maxwell Farm. Mmm, bouncing . . . more daydream fuel . . .
An enormous sign stretched across the driveway, proclaiming that I had arrived at Maxwell Farms. Stone pillars on either side held up the old oak beams spelling out the family name. It’d been here as long as I could remember. I suppose when you have more money than practically everyone, a simple name on a mailbox just isn’t enough.
The property was fronted by the rural highway, and once you turned down the driveway you were enveloped in a tunnel of trees, planted to feel majestic yet protective. It was an impression, that’s for sure. Tremendous live oaks, soaring proud and tall and arching across the drive toward their friends on the other side, their branches tangled together, shaking little acorn hands and making sure the sun was dappled and soft below. Signs appeared intermittently, pointing the way toward other destinations on the property. Hiking trails, turn left. English maze, head straight. Pond, turn right here. I stayed on the main road, marveling at how large the property was. It was a whole other world, living back behind this green tunnel that separated the real world from this rich one.
Now and again I’d see patches of sun on either side of the road, giving way to a meadow here, an outbuilding there. And finally, around one last curve, there was farmland as far as I could see. But not the kind of farm I’d seen as I drove across Kansas, Missouri, and Iowa. There the land was wide and mostly treeless, green corn or soybean marching away in uniform rows. But here, I saw an explosion of color. Small fields, plants of all shapes and sizes. Between the fields were bushes and small scrubby trees. There was activity everywhere I looked: people kneeling in the dirt, workers with baskets carefully picking over what looked like pole beans, someone spreading mulch on a freshly planted bed.
I even had to stop my car to let a flock of chickens cross the road. (Insert your own joke here, please.)
The main house was at the top of the hill, the highest point for miles, looking down on everything like a genteel old lady (beautiful but stone-faced). Signs pointed me to parking by the main house, and as I pulled into a spot I looked toward the enormous stone barn, where Leo told me he’d be waiting for me. And there he was, towering above a gaggle of Cub Scouts.
He caught my eye and waved, and a teeny tiny butterfly batted her wings in my tummy. I waved back, grabbed the slice of cake I’d brought for him, and set out across the yard. The barn was set up in almost a U shape, wrapped around a central yard shaded by an enormous oak tree. The fieldstone walls were half-timbered and two stories high. Wide beams were visible through open windows, their sashes painted bright red. The original hay bins now contained offices and classrooms. Maxwell Farms was not only a working farm but a teaching farm. I was hoping to learn more about what they were teaching on my tour today.
Boyish laughter made me turn from admiring the window boxes on the second floor, spilling over with brightly colored flowers, to the group clustered around Leo. The boys were jumping and shouting as he held what looked like patches over them, doling them out and calling the kids by name. As I got closer, I could hear him laughing along with the kids.
“I hear you, Owen; you’ll get your activity patch too—don’t worry. Who else? Here you go, Jeffrey, you earned it when you picked the biggest eggplant we’ve had yet this year! Who else? Let’s see . . . oh boy, we can’t forget Matthew—here you go, buddy. You guys are the best Webelos around.”
His smile really was contagious, and I found myself grinning as I crossed the gravel, admiring his high cheekbones, the curve of his lower lip as he laughed, and the green eyes that, when fixed on mine, turned my belly all butterflies.
And that beard. What constituted a hipster beard? Is it the length? The shape? The proximity to flannel and Mumford? We were within twenty yards of an heirloom tomato; does that count as hipster cred?
I hadn’t been a fan of facial hair beyond two-day sexy scruff, yet Leo was sporting an actual beard and I liked it. I more than liked it, I wanted to touch it. Was it scratchy? Soft? Coarse? Touch it, hell—I’d like to look down and see it, and his face, between my thighs. With significantly less clothing than in our previous encounters.
As my breathing speeded up, another image popped into my brain: sweaty, naked parts and grasping, clutching hands. Whew, it seemed hot out! Christ, the farmer was now affecting me physically. Which was good— I wanted physical. I needed physical. So when I saw him pick up a bottleneck squash that mimicked something very specific in my mind, I covered my moan with a cough.
“You okay?” he asked as I reached him.
“Yeah. Why?” I said, tugging at my T-shirt. Air, please—just a little air.
“Sounded like you were—”
“Just clearing my throat,” I said, and quickly changed the topic. “I made the black walnut cake, with cream cheese buttercream frosting.” I thrust the white box into his hands.
“Wow, you really made me cake?” he asked, looking quite pleased.
“Well, I made it for the diner; the rest got sold today.”
“Is it good?” he asked.
I grinned. “It’s fucking great.”
Leo closed his eyes and shook his head, and I realized I’d just F-bombed a Boy Scout troop.
“Ah shit,” I muttered, then clapped my hand over my mouth.
Leo just snorted, and rallied. “Hey there, Jason, you still need your badge, right? Roxie, maybe you could run this cake over to the cooler inside the store there, huh?”
I grabbed the cake and quick-stepped away, heading for the farm stand. I had no idea how to talk to kids, but I was pretty sure swearing in front of them was high on the list of things not to do. I found someone to stick the cake into the fridge, took a breath, and decided to act like it never happened. I headed back to the troop.
“I didn’t know you were playing with friends today,” I said, nodding at the scouts.
“Actually, we’ve got people visiting almost every day, whether it’s a class field trip, new interns rotating through, or a bunch of—”
He was suddenly knocked toward me by a riot of Webelos fighting over the final patch. The wind was nearly knocked out of me as roughly two hundred pounds of Leo collided with me, making me gasp. I was once again in his arms, but this time upright and tucked in, almost hugged. And he. Smelled. Fan. Tastic.
All around us birds chirped, dogs barked, farmhands handed, and Webelos rumpused. But in the moment, all I was aware of were his arms, snug around my waist. His hands, initially on my hips just to steady me, were now kneading like a cat, nudging underneath my defenseless T-shirt, and spreading wide to touch my very lucky lower back.
And hey look, are those my hands, pressed firmly against his flannel-covered chest? Sliding higher, higher, curling over impossibly strong muscles and moving north, around the back of his neck, feeling the tickly ends of his hair . . . And those green eyes are smoldering . . . and interested . . . and hey, I’m up on my tiptoes now, and I bet my boobs look fantastic crushed up against his—
“I’m gonna kick you in the balls!” a Webelo shouted, and I instantly backed away from the muscular chest. And the mouth, which was now tipped up at one end. And his head was nodding, saying oh yeah—this’ll get finished later.
I love getting finished.
Chapter 8
But first I had a farm to tour. And once the Webelos vacated, the tour began. Just me and Leo and seventeen other people who’d signed up to be shown around what I was now learning was the premier organic teaching farm in the Hudson Valley. Some say the state. Some say the Northeast.
Some say it should have been hard for me to concentrate on things like cover crops and rotational crop planting, now that I’d had my hands in that luscious honey-blond hair. But to his credit, Leo gave a helluva tour.