Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(40)
I do so but not without a grumble, mentally planning the steps of the distraction and siege.
“You’d better hold on. This thing is old and jumpy.” He cranks the engine and a low, throaty rumble escapes as it comes to life, my entire core vibrating with the seat. It lurches as Ben throws it into first gear, chugging and jolting slightly before leaping forward through the tall grass.
Ben steers us down a sandy trail with a sea of trees and then shifts into second and then third gear, the rush of the acceleration exhilarating. It’s too loud to talk and so I happily settle in as the trees whizz by and the sand kicks up a cloud dust behind us, the bumps along the path jarring my head this way and that. I don’t care. We continue down past that path and to another one, and another, until I’m sure we’re in an orange grove maze. I don’t know how Ben knows where he’s going.
We must be half a mile away from the house when Ben takes another sharp right turn that would have thrown me right into his chest if not for the seat belt cutting into my neck. He pulls over a crest and suddenly we’re overlooking a sea of trees and other properties and, beyond that, far in the distance, blue water.
“Wow,” escapes my mouth as I stare out at the mesmerizing view, no longer paying attention to the path Ben drives along, until he pulls up in a sandy spot next to a yellow farm truck, its tire flat and a giant rust hole eating into the side panel. Ben kills the engine and we climb out.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” I hear him say, and I can feel his eyes on me as I just stand there, staring out at the view. Wandering over to the closest tree, he gently grasps at the small green sphere hanging from it. “You should see this place in spring, with all of these navel orange trees in bloom and the air filled with this flowery-honey smell. It’s something else.” Glancing over his shoulder, he must see my smirk because he quickly adds, “And don’t make fun of me for saying that until you actually see it. And smell it.”
“It does sound pretty,” I admit, still a bit in awe that a place like this exists so close to my home. “You know a lot about citrus farming?”
Sliding his hands into his jeans casually, he turns and saunters back. “I grew up here and we helped my mama, so, yeah, I know enough.” Kicking at the tufts of grass trying in vain to take root among the sand, he explains, “My granddaddy used to say this place is the perfect storm for growing. The soil, the sunshine, and warm nights, and being by the ocean—all of it together makes this the best citrus farming country.”
Ben picks up a stick from nearby and slowly circles the old truck, slamming the wood against the metal and poking around the tires, watching the ground around it. “Mama’s got eighty-six acres of trees; mostly grapefruit and navel oranges. Some tangerines. The season starts in October and runs through until May. There’s no warehousing, no cold storage. The orders come in, we pick them, and then we send them to the packagers. Simple. I’m here most weekends during the season, helping. It cuts labor costs.”
Of course he is. For whatever else he is, Ben is a very good son to Wilma and, while I may have teased him about being a mama’s boy, seeing this side of him is endearing.
Tossing the stick to the side, he mutters more to himself, “Huh. Normally I get at least one rattler in here.”
I shudder as Ben drops the tailgate. It lets out a loud creak in protest; I’m surprised it hasn’t seized shut, as everything else about the truck is so old and decrepit. “This used to be my granddaddy’s.” He settles down on it and then holds his hands to beckon me forward. I relent, letting him grab me by the waist and lift me up next to him as if I weigh nothing at all. “Jake and I used to spend all day racing around out here, and then we’d sneak out of our rooms and hang out all night with friends, drinking under the stars. Those were the good ol’ days.” Ben leans back until he’s lying in the truck bed with his legs dangling over the edge. He nestles his head within his arms, the move pulling his shirt up just enough to expose a strip of hard flesh above his belt line. I don’t know when the hell Ben has time to work out, but he must still be doing it a lot. Maybe I should make more of an effort, given that he’s acting like he’s genuinely desperate to see me naked again.
But why am I thinking about impressing Ben? I’m so far from ready for another relationship and, when I am ready, it definitely won’t be with someone like him. What I’d get from Ben would be exactly what I was looking for in Cancún.
Something easy. Fun. Harmless. With an end date and no expectations.
“Do you see your brothers and sister a lot?” I ask, trying to distract myself from those thoughts as I eye his torso, his shirt strained against its curves.
“Nah, which is crazy, considering how close we were growing up. There’s only seven years between Josh and me. Jake and I are eleven months apart. He’s out in Mississippi working in the casinos. I talk to him every once in a while but I haven’t seen him in . . .” His brow bunches up in thought. “Three years now, I think?”
Is that normal? I have to think that it’s not, especially after meeting Ben’s mom. I’d think getting the family together would be a priority for her. “And the others?”
“Elsie moved out to San Diego for college and never came back. We talk on the phone once a month or so.” I catch a hint of regret in his tone when he admits that. “Rob and Josh are both living in Chicago. I haven’t seen them in years, but they send pictures of their kids.”