Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(44)
“Probably.” Reluctantly, as I could hear voices getting closer, I let him pull me up and we went back to where my fifty-yard dash had scattered vegetables every which way.
After Leo helped me gather them back up, he sneaked one more kiss just before the tour crested the top of the hill. We waved from where we stood, and headed in the opposite direction. We wandered from this field to that, chatting about anything and everything. He told me all sorts of trivia about the property, asked me endless questions about different ways I might use certain products from the farm, and we laughed more than I can remember doing in a very long time.
“It’s great that you have access to all this history, knowing the hows and whys of how this estate came into being,” I remarked as we started back toward the barn.
The day was winding down. From up high on the ridge, the only thing we could hear was the wind and the birds chirping. My hands were dirty from digging in the beds, fingertips stained green from tugging on a stubborn parsnip.
“We didn’t come here that often; mostly in the summer,” he said, stopping and looking down at the big house, silhouetted against the setting sun. The Hudson was just on the other side, wide and unhurried, and he pointed in the opposite direction. “I’d spend hours out here, running through the woods, playing with the dogs. There’s a creek on the far side of the property, and I can’t tell you how many arrowheads I used to find along the banks. I’d come home covered in chigger bites and absolutely filthy, usually to the horror of my mother and her friends.”
“My mother used to run the hose in the backyard to make a mud pit, and we’d sit there and make mud pies.” The mud felt so cool on those hot summer days. “She always said mud was good for the skin. And I quote: ‘All kids should get dirty, especially little girls.’?”
“I can hear her saying that.” He laughed, catching my hand. He examined my dirt-embedded fingernails. “So she would love this.”
“She’d be thrilled,” I confirmed as he turned my palm up and ran his thumb across my love line. I shivered. “I bet your mom thinks all that playing in the dirt paid off in the end. Look how awesome this place is.”
He traced another line down the center of my hand, then looked off into the distance. “Let’s go make sure there’s some eggs left for you, before they’re all gone.”
He didn’t say anything else about his mom, and I didn’t ask. We headed down the hill toward the barn, Leo carrying my basket for me, our arms brushing occasionally.
It felt nice.
There were a few cartons of eggs left, and I was delighted to see that they not only were a beautiful speckled brown, but there were a few pale blue eggs tucked inside. My share that week also yielded a big wheel of local farm cheese, a pound of fresh butter, some locally raised trout, and two roasting chickens. And some of that thick-cut Maxwell bacon. I did enjoy a thick-cut Maxwell.
By the time we finished up, the parking lot was nearly empty. It was almost dusk, and as he said good-bye to the last stragglers, I wandered into the back corner of the original dairy barn, with its enormous stone silo. It now housed a reading bench, a bookshelf, and a collection of framed photographs spanning the history of the farm. I stood in the doorway, marveling at the workmanship that had gone into the silo. How perfectly constructed it was, with a nod here and there to design, even though it was made to simply store grain.
I heard Leo saying good night to some of the guys who worked the farm, then heard his footsteps. Which came to stop just behind me. I walked through the old oaken doorway of the silo, and he followed. Once the door closed behind us, it was quiet. And dark.
“So which came first, the barn or the silos?” I asked, looking at the soaring stone walls. Perfectly cylindrical, the four silos were almost three stories tall and could be seen from all over the farm.
“The barn,” Leo answered, walking toward me.
I backed away slightly, letting my gaze linger on the stone walls, and not the farmer who was now circling behind me.
“And when did you say the barn was constructed?” I asked, moving closer to the curved wall.
“Weren’t you paying attention on the tour the other day?”
I traced the line of one of the fieldstones, fitting my fingertip into the groove between it and the one on top. Though the day had been warm, inside the silo the stones were cool. “I was mostly paying attention,” I admitted.
“Mostly?” he asked, now directly behind me.
I shivered a bit, and not from the cool rock wall. I could feel the heat of him on my body, not yet touching, but fitting against my skin.
“I was a little”—I inhaled sharply, as those strong hands lifted my hair off my left shoulder, leaving my freckled skin exposed—“distracted,” I finished weakly.
Because now he bent his head down to my skin, nuzzling into my hair. Little flickers of desire were starting to smolder all over. Thinking someone felt the same attraction you were feeling was one thing; knowing that it was mutual was an entirely different kind of awesome. His nose brushed against my shoulder, and my fingers opened wide against the stone.
He pressed one solitary kiss into the hollow between my shoulder and neck, and my brain went a bit fuzzy. His lips, warm and wet, continued a path up along my neck, dragging his mouth, a little bit nibbling and a lot bit incredible.
His hands settled on my hips, curving around and up as his thumbs brushed the skin exposed by the dip in my dress. My back arched as my body reacted to having him so close. Once again he nuzzled at my neck, his breath now heavy in my ear.