I started pouring the dark, inky paint into the paint tray. This would be a great room.
I was lost in painting when I heard someone coming up the stairs. I turned around to say hi with a smile on my face, confident I could make whoever it was feel welcome.
And of course it was Leo. And the third time was the charm apparently, because after falling down and pea flinging the first two times, this time I got to just slow turn and take him in. This guy was some kind of handsome.
Even better than the tall was the broad shoulders. And those eyes were going to be the death of me. Green, oh so green, and fixed solidly on me. With that twinkle. He filled up his space with an easy confidence. Not cocky, just self-assured. Now I could see the Maxwell edge that had been softened by the delivery-guy first impression. He assessed, calculated, and appraised, wearing a ten-dollar plaid shirt with an impeccably designed submariner watch. Richie Rich with a green thumb?
“Hey, it’s the girl with the sugar snap peas,” he said, setting down his roller and paint tray.
“Oh no, no no no, stay right there,” I instructed.
“Why?” he asked, puzzled.
“Are you kidding?” I asked, looking at the minefield laid out between us. “Open paint cans, rollers, brushes—this could end very badly.”
“Good point,” he admitted, shrugging out of his jacket and setting it on a ladder. “But I think I’ll risk it.”
“I practically went down on you in public. Now, that was risky,” I said, crossing my arms and popping out one hip with a little swagger.
Then I heard what I’d just said. I might have been overcompensating just a bit.
He began to laugh. “Where the hell did you come from?”
“LA,” I said with a carefree wave of my hand, getting paint across my boobs. He laughed harder, leaning against the wall for support. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d just painted that wall.
“So, how do you know Chad and Logan?” he asked, picking up a paintbrush.
“I went to high school with Chad, and Logan I just met. How about you?”
“They’re part of the CSA out at the farm,” Leo said. “I usually see them once a week when they pick up their box.”
“CSA, CSA—why does that sound familiar?” I crinkled my forehead as I thought about it. “Oh sure! Community Supported Agriculture, right? They’re popping up in Los Angeles too—all over California, actually. I’ve never belonged to one, though; how exactly does it work?”
“It’s really simple. A group of people pay an agreed-upon fee before the growing season, and in return, each week they get a box of whatever’s fresh from the field. The farmer gets the money in advance, which is great when figuring out a budget ahead of time, and the consumer gets a price break on the weekly box, paying less than he would at the farm stand, and much less than at a conventional grocery store.”
The way his eyes had lit up told me he enjoyed educating people on what he did for a living. It also was fascinating information, and anytime someone wanted to talk food with me, I was willing. But right now, I was having a hard time concentrating because of how close he was. How good-looking he was. And thinking that if he was so passionate when he was talking about his farm . . .
“Slow food, right?” I said, aware that my voice was taking on a dreamy quality. Slightly less aware that I was rubbing a paint roller.
“Mmm-hmm. Slow.” His gaze narrowed, and then he narrowed the space between us, taking just one step but doing it slowly. He was close enough that if my shirt somehow popped open and my bra flew off, he could likely make me come just with his mouth on my breasts.
But then I remembered I was here to paint. And paint I did.
In that small room, Leo and I painted, and we listened to everyone having a grand old time chatting in the next room. But in that tiny office? Pheromones were bouncing off the walls.
We only said things like “Can you straighten out that drop cloth?” and “Do you have one of those stirrer sticks?” and “Does this look runny to you?”—but whenever our eyes met across the empty room . . . tingly tingles. The tension was so thick that when Leo broke the silence, I jumped a little.
“So your mom said you’re a private chef in California, right? She told me you cook fancy food for fancy people,” he replied, dabbing paint along the windowsill. “She seemed pretty proud of you.”
“Really? She used the word proud?”
“No, but she seemed proud.”
“Huh,” I said.
“You’re just home for the summer, right? Then back to the fancy?” he asked.
I nodded slowly. Ooh, perfect opening to tell him yeah, I’m here for the summer, I’ll be heading back out to California in the fall so, you know, if you want to be my company. . . . Guys usually loved this conversation. No strings, just pure fun. I opened my mouth to say this, but he continued before I had a chance.
“LA is great and all, but I’ll take Bailey Falls any day of the week.” He saw me frown. “You don’t agree?”
“I’m not big on small towns,” I replied. “Everyone knows each other’s business. Everyone knows each other’s history.”
“They watch out for each other,” he insisted.
“They gossip about each other,” I corrected.
“Some people would call that charming.”
“Some people would call that infuriating.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Listen, I totally understand the appeal of a small town; it’s just not for me.”