Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(53)
But unofficially? The feeling of being somebody’s Sugar Snap made me grin widely. Nothing witty came from my mouth; it was too busy smiling. And then the smiling became a kiss, then two, then three. Because I nearly vaulted over the counter, ran to Leo like a fool in a Nicholas Sparks film, and threw myself into his strong arms, kissing him as if someone had threatened to take his mouth away from me.
His arms enveloped me, his surprised chuckle quickly muffled by my face. Which he covered in equally urgent kisses, his lips pressing against my forehead, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and finally my mouth again. Lifting me right out of my clogs, he set me on top of the counter, coaxed my legs apart with no resistance from me, and stood between them. I wrapped my legs around him, crossing them high on his back as he let his head tip forward, resting on my breasts, his hands digging into my hips, hard.
“You drive me crazy, Sugar Snap,” he groaned.
“Call me that again, and I’m canceling pickle class.” I ran my hands through his hair and kneaded his scalp, getting a satisfied moan in response.
“Sugar Snap? That’s what brought this on?” he asked, and I tilted his head up toward mine.
“That’s it. Class is canceled.” I was about to tell him to lock the door and ravage me up against the Fryalator when I heard a slow clapping, à la every movie from the eighties.
“Well done. Will all classes begin this way?”
Chad and Logan stood just inside the door, wearing enormous grins and bearing cucumbers.
I slumped down against Leo’s chest, breathing in his heady scent, and breathing out my frustration at being interrupted. When I looked up again, Logan made a decidedly ungentlemanly—okay, totally juvenile—gesture with a cucumber, and I snorted in spite of myself. The moment broken, Leo helped me down off the counter, and I faced my peanut gallery.
“You boys ready to pickle?”
They were in fact ready to pickle. And pickle we did. They were surprisingly good students, once they got all the jokes about pickle size out of their systems. They paid close attention, they followed directions, and within about ninety minutes we had several jars ready for the fridge. It was fun, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed teaching people how to do things like this.
Leo kept close to me most of the night, refusing to answer Chad’s unsubtle questions about what was going on with us, changing the subject smoothly each time. It was frustrating for Chad, amusing for me, and it kept the evening focused on the food. I did wonder how far things would have gone if Chad and Logan hadn’t shown up . . . but no matter. I was enjoying the evening with three gorgeous men, and I might get to see one of them naked very soon. Zombie Pickle Class was a total success.
Zombie Pickle Class was also noticed by several passersby. How could you not stop to read a sign like that? Though the door was locked, that didn’t stop people from peering inside. Interesting . . .
“We should make more! I want enough to last the entire winter,” Logan proclaimed as he labeled his jar of hamburger dills.
“These are fridge pickles, so they’ll only be good for a few months. If you want pickles that will keep longer, that’s a whole different ball of brine. You have to cook them a bit, same as making jelly or jam.”
“Yes! Let’s make jam too!” Chad chimed in enthusiastically.
“Okay, everyone settle,” I said as Leo smothered a laugh. “We can definitely make jam, but not tonight.” I smiled at their eagerness as I scooped up a few jars of my own concoction—baby cucumbers in a zesty brine of spicy peppers and the tiniest drizzle of honey—and headed for the fridge.
“How about next week? Same time, same place?” Logan asked, and I nodded in agreement.
“Blackberries just came in, and by next week we’ll have raspberries too,” Leo said.
Mmm. I did love raspberry jam.
“Do you know how to make apple butter?” Chad asked as he cleaned up his station. “My nana used to make it every October, and I ate half a loaf of bread every day after school just for that apple butter. Can we make that?”
“No can do—sorry.”
“Why in the world not?” Then his eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “What if I put on my old letterman jacket?”
Logan’s head popped around the fridge. “Let him wear the jacket, Rox. It’s hot as hell.”
“Oh, I remember. But apple butter making is in the fall.”
“So?” Chad asked, and Logan gave me an inquiring look.
“I won’t be here in the fall,” I said quietly, feeling Leo’s stare on the back of my head. It’s funny how a gaze can be physically felt from across the room. “I’m leaving once my mom gets back from her Amazing Race, remember?”
A silence fell on the kitchen, all the good humor of the evening seeming to fall away.
“Besides, the Jam Lady is going to kill me as it is, teaching you guys how to make jam. I can’t take away her apple butter clients too—she’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“You won’t be here to hear her. That’s kind of the end of it,” Logan muttered.
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, zombies, class is over. Next time jam, same time, same place,” I said, forcing my voice to stay light and bright.
Chad nodded, pulling me against him in a quick hug. “Tonight was fun—thanks for the pickles.” He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead before ushering Logan and their jars out the door.