True. Grass is always greener.
Or concrete’s always grayer. People would kill to live where you live.
Also true. But as I thought of grass versus concrete, I suddenly felt tingles all over. I looked up, across the huddle and the tackle, and saw Oscar staring at me. I wiggled my fingers hello, he lifted his chin back.
And grinned.
“I feel like you might be adding a chapter to Oscar’s nonexistent story,” Chad murmured.
“Everybody has a story,” I murmured back, and set off across the field toward him, determined to elicit that chapter.
“Hi,” I said, a little breathlessly. That hike across the field had been murder on my boots. Heels made for concrete and cobblestone didn’t fare as well in ankle-deep leaves and mushy soil. But I’d made it.
“Hi,” Oscar said, glancing down at me. “Great turtleneck.”
“Thanks.” I laughed, delighted that it’d only been five seconds and I was up to three words already. “Great footballs.”
He arched an eyebrow at me, but said nothing, eyes on the field and intently following the action. “Right, so, I was thinking, maybe after the game I could stop by? See that barn you’re so proud of?”
“You’re inviting yourself over?” he asked, eyes still scanning the scrillage. Another football term I’d picked up from Chad. A scrillage is more than a practice, not quite a game. “Toby! Get your head down, or number seventeen is gonna take it right off!”
An enthusiastic “Okay, Coach,” floated back to us on the magical autumnal breeze as I considered what he’d said. I was inviting myself over. Somewhere between putting him in his own stall, and him invading my stall and kissing me so hard my lips could still feel it, I’d lost my uncharacteristic shyness. I was getting back on sure footing with this guy, back to where I knew what I was doing.
“I feel no qualms about inviting myself over. Especially when I’ll be there on official research purposes only. Scouting locations for publicity shots, you know. Checking out that barn, which could be featured in the Bailey Falls campaign. Maybe even the money shot.”
Even though he was trying like hell to keep his eye on the ball, he was also trying like hell not to smile. He covered the smile with a whistle, blew it, and yelled out, “Okay, team, that’s enough for the day. Huddle up!”
“Wow, you must really want me all to yourself, to call off your scrillage just to take me up on my offer,” I purred in a husky voice I knew drove men crazy.
He pulled something off from around his neck, underneath the whistle. A stopwatch. “The scrimmage was over—see?” He showed me the countdown, then took off toward the huddle of boys, turning around as he jogged backward. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called back.
Several of the mothers on the benches stared at me, half of them adding a side of nasty to their stare. Chad was nodding proudly, my own personal cheerleader. Inside my head, I fist-pumped.
Chapter 10
I bounced along the country roads, following Oscar’s truck as he led me to his farm.
A phrase never before thought, much less uttered, by this city girl. He put me in his town car and rubbed my feet on the way back to his townhouse? Yes, that sounded like me. He went down on me while I sprawled across the back of an Uber Escalade while we drove through the Bowery? Mmm, nice memory. But being led to his farm? Not in my wheelhouse.
For the record, I had an entire cupboard back home devoted to this exact wheelhouse: chickens and woods and hayrides and a farmer with a truck and a big barn he seemed willing to show me. This was the secret dream, the secret wish.
Bam! The Wagoneer slalomed around rut after rut, pothole after pothole. Say what you want about city driving, they were consistently fixing the streets. Out here, in the sticks, I didn’t get the sense that the roads were repaved very often.
Oscar turned off the country highway and onto a road that was dirt mixed with the teensiest bit of gravel that led up a steep hill. I bet this was a bitch in the winter. I also bet that if this were a horror movie, this would be where the audience would begin yelling at me to turn back, turn around, don’t be so stupid, and why are you following this man into the woods.
It was a rather creepy dirt road. But waiting for me at the end of it was a gorgeous dairy farmer, the aforementioned barn, and hopefully more of that kissing.
I continued to bump along behind Oscar’s red truck, rusty in places, dented in others, and entirely covered in a fine white dust that was being kicked up on the road. As it made a final turn, I saw an ancient wooden mailbox marked Bailey Falls Creamery, with a smaller name underneath, Mendoza.
A moment later I was pulling into a clearing, surrounded by enormous trees covered in reds, oranges, rusts, and yellows. In the center stood a white clapboard farmhouse, complete with large wraparound porch, green shutters, and a stone chimney. An old tire swing hung from the oak nearest the house. Late-autumn chrysanthemums were planted in pots all along the porch, spilling out into the yard and lining the beginning of the drive. Huh. Oscar sure had a green thumb . . .
In the field beyond the house was the barn. I could see why he was so stinking proud of the thing; it was indeed massive. Huge stone stacks made the walls, while a red-painted roof soared high above, arching up to the skyline cupola.
A cupola is the tiny structure found atop some barn roofs, particularly those constructed back in the 1800s. When barns housed not just hay but animals as well, extra ventilation was necessary to regulate the temperature, particularly in the winter months, when the animals spent much of their time indoors. Newer barns that housed only equipment still sometimes added cupolas just for their aesthetic value.
Yes, I read up on barns.
And in the field above the house and barn were the bread and literal butter of Oscar’s operation: the cows. What looked like some of the same kind of cows I’d seen the other day over at Maxwell Farms, the pretty red and brown animals giving their gentle calls welcoming Oscar home in direct opposition to what I now knew was their true nature . . . that of an angry horde determined to one day trample me.
Oscar climbed down out of his truck, and after taking one last glance in the rearview mirror to assure myself that yes, I was indeed as cute as I’d remembered, I pushed open the door to the Wagoneer and stepped out into the dooryard.
Into a huge puddle of mud.
Arms flailed while boots sank, then stuck, and as I pinwheeled to stay vertical, gravity took a moment to assert itself. Down I went, vaguely aware of Oscar running toward me, reaching to snatch me up out of the mud. But I zigged when he zagged, and landed squarely on my ass.
Mud splattered everywhere, soaking into my jeans. My thigh-high boots were thoroughly soaked as well, making me swear loud and long.
Oscar came to the rescue, kneeling down next to where I sat, covered in mud. “You better quit that yelling, the cows will come see what’s wrong.”
“I’m covered in mud!”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, smothering a laugh. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
I let him scoop under my arms and put me on my feet, bringing me close to all that flannel and thermal . . . mmm. Touching and feeling all that cotton made me quite sure it could very well be the fabric of my life. I inhaled deeply, breathing in all that cottony softness, all that crisp outdoor air, edged with a touch of burning leaves.
Once I was on my feet again, all I wanted to be was down on the ground, rolling around with this guy. Though I could feel the earth under my feet, I still felt light, airy, weightless. I wanted more weightless. I wanted more of that suspension with him, that heady feeling that I could feel crowding in and making me a bit dizzy.
“Look at you, dirty girl,” he murmured, showing me his now mud-covered hand.
“You have no idea,” I murmured, tilting my head back and gazing up at him. Backlit by Mother Nature, he was stunning. And I was in hi
s arms. I let my own hands come up, sliding along that red plaid flannel shirt and up around his neck, sinking once more into that decadent hair. “Now put that hand back where it belongs.”
Oscar should grin more often. Because when he does, birds sing and angels weep. And holy shit, cows moo.
He bent me backward a bit, very old-school Hollywood, but instead of kissing me like I hoped, he dipped lower, nuzzling along the column of my neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin there, settling right along the pulse point just underneath my jaw. “It’s really a shame about those boots. They’re sexy as fuck,” he said. I squealed a little as the scruff below his lips tickled at my skin. “I hope they’re not ruined.”
“No worries. I’ve got a guy who works on all my leather.”
“How much leather do you have?” he asked, and I could feel him smiling at my collarbone.
“Not like that.” I giggled. “I just meant I’ve got someone who can clean them.”
“Good, that’s good.”
“It’s nice of you to be concerned, though, since they are Chanel.”
“Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots,” he said and, with a gentleness a man so large shouldn’t possess, lightly plucked a fallen leaf from my hair.
“Next time I’ll wear the boots, I promise.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, crunching the leaf in his hand. “Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots . . . and nothing else.”
His gaze burned into mine and I crushed my lips to his fiercely, my entire body going up in flames of lust.
He ended the kiss by wrenching his lips from mine, both of us breathing heavily. Emotions warred in his face: keep kissing me stupid in the mud, or clean me up? Chivalry triumphed over ribaldry.
“You still want to see my barn?” he asked, dipping his head down for one more kiss, sweeter this time but still white-hot.
I gulped. “I can say with all sincerity that I’m literally dying to see your barn.”
He laughed, slipped his arm around my shoulders, and took me and my muddy boots across the yard.
This man, this man right here, was going to be the death of me.
The barn truly was an engineering marvel. In an age of steel beams and corrugated metal siding, this thing was built to last. The outside was gorgeous of course, all that stacked fieldstone and cheery painted wood, and the inside was dim and cozy.
It was amazing that over two hundred years ago, someone took the time to design style into a building that was made for necessity. A turned post here, an embellished cornice there. Nothing fussy or fancy, but the workmanship that went into this structure was fascinating.
And it was huge! How it could also be cozy was beyond me, but even though there must have been fifty stalls set into the long side walls, each spread thickly with soft-looking hay and big enough for a cow to lie down, spread out, and even read the Sunday Times, the barn was segmented into several sections, making it feel less huge.
“And this is where all the cows sleep?”
“Not so much in the summer, but always in the winter.” He walked just behind me as I explored, running my fingers along the smooth beams and weathered wood. “When it’s nice out they like to be outdoors as much as possible, but when it snows? My girls like a warm bed.”
“Who doesn’t?” I murmured, looking back at him over my shoulder. “This original structure is incredible, and the repairs and additions look almost flawless—they blend beautifully.”
“Additions?” he said.
“Run your gaze along the ceiling, and you can see where the wood dovetails,” I said. “It’s a different wood—oak, likely—where the original part is chestnut. It’s really rare to find a barn made of chestnut.”
“It is?”
“Oh yeah. New York State, and eventually the entire country, was hit with a huge blight in the early 1900s that killed nearly all of the native chestnut. American chestnut is essentially nonexistent these days.”
“You don’t say,” he mused as he walked behind me. “And how does an advertising executive know about chestnut?”
“My dad’s in construction in the city, doing renovations. I lived on his job sites when I was a kid, practically grew up surrounded by architectural salvage. Some kids had dolls; I loved to line up staircase spindles like little toy soldiers. Except I couldn’t ever play with anything made out of chestnut. It’s so hard to find, people pay top dollar to have it added back into their brownstone.” I turned in a full circle, marveling once again at the detail, stopping when I caught his gaze.
“What?”
“You surprise me,” he said, his eyes sharp and assessing.
His expression unnerved me a little, almost as though he could see right through me, seeing more than I usually reveal. I changed the subject. “Do you know much about the family that built the barn?”
“A little. The previous owners told me some.” He shrugged. “And people in town love to talk about their shared history, so I’ve picked up some bits and pieces here and there.”
“They are a chatty bunch, aren’t they?” I laughed, thinking about how many people stopped by this morning over pancakes to talk to a “new face in town.” “You, however, not so much.”
“Nope.”
He grinned at me, a teasing expression on his face.
“Did you grow up here?”
“Nope.”
Hmmm. “Are we playing twenty questions?”
“I don’t play games.” He took a step. “At all.” He took another step.
“Games can be fun,” I answered, standing my ground. Dating was a game, sex was a game, life was a game, for those who looked at it that way. Make your own rules, try not to run over anyone on the board, or at least make them think they wanted to be run over when it happened.
“You sure talk a lot for a girl who only said oh and yes forty-eight hours ago.” He took another step. So did I. Toward him.
Aaaaand cue soundtrack: “Simple Things,” by Miguel.
“You make me nervous,” I admitted, naming the feeling that had taken root deep in my tummy. The butterflies, the racing pulse, the tingling in my fingers and toes.
“I do?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nodded, taking that last step to just in front of him, my toes nudging at his. Other feelings were beginning to take over. A slow warmth was starting to spread, moving those nervous tingles further through my body. “But right now you make me . . . other things.” And then I stepped forward again, driving him backward, step by step, into one of the stalls. His hands came up, and I mirrored his, like that game of shadows you played when you were a kid in dance class, except here our hands touched. Fingers tangled. I ran my thumb down the center of his palm, and I could see his breathing change. He lightly pinched the skin between my ring and pinky fingers, and why this made me shudder, I don’t know . . . but I did.
I moved forward again, and suddenly I’m in charge, and I’m running this crazy train, and he was up against the back of the stall, and I pressed into his body. On tiptoes, I opened his arms and wrapped them around me, closing them tight around my hips, the way I already knew he liked to hold me.
Did he always like to hold women this way, gripping tightly? Or was it just me? Did he like the control, or did he just love the feel of a woman under his fingertips? Did I feel different from most women he’d been with, with actual curves to hold on to? I breathed through another shuddery shiver as I imagined him holding on to those very curves, his hands tightening as he guided me up and down on his . . .
Time to stop imagining what he was like and actually enjoy it. Still on my toes, I leaned in, inhaling that autumnal scent that was concentrated in this lovely warm spot in the exact center of his throat, where I could see his pulse beating.
I kissed it. He moaned. I licked it. He groaned. His pulse sped under my tongue. I allowed myself a
secret smile, enjoying my effect on him. I pulled his head down to mine, and whispered, “You’re too tall. Get down here.”
He did, but whispered back, “You really do talk too much.”
But then no talking, because we were finally kissing. Again. I love kissing this guy.
Every Saturday at the farmers’ market, as I’d walked away, I’d fantasized what it would be like to kiss Oscar. To feel those lips on mine. Would he be soft and gentle? Would he be strong and forceful? Would he lick my lower lip until I opened up, then slide his tongue against mine sensually? Or would he put his perfect hands on my face, turn it how he wanted it, and fuck my mouth with his own?
Yes. Yes. Yes. And fucking hell, yes.
Because while Oscar didn’t talk much, when he’s focused on something, he’s all in. Fully present. This kiss, these kisses, they are lazy and unhurried, frantic and frenzied. How can they be both?
My hands left the perfection of his hair and slid down his incredibly strong chest, and I could feel his muscles through his thermal shirt.
While guys I’d dated ranged from tall to short, lean to not, white to brown to black, I tended to gravitate toward tall and lean; not so much muscle-bound.
This guy might change my mind forever. Feeling his innate strength beneath my fingertips, feeling the actual striations of his individual muscles, knowing that if I knew more about anatomy I’d be able to tell a pec from a delt to a tri-something; Oscar had them all. Tri-something. Great idea.
I snuck my hands down while the rest of the entire planet was watching him devote himself to sucking gently on my lower lip, and lifted just the edge of his shirt.
My fingers danced across the skin of his abdomen. His intake of breath stole my own right out of my mouth. Frozen for mere seconds, the entire world stopped once more as we panted. And then the world began to spin again, faster than before, as he spun me in a flash and had me pinned once more up against the side of a stall, my fingers scrambling for purchase as he held my arms out, away from my body, absolutely at his mercy and thrilled to be there.
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