Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(62)
“Oh, that’s the old Airstream” I said, relaxing back into his arms. Which were suddenly no longer there.
“One of those old trailers?” He was already on his feet, leaving my breast unattended. Grumbling as I buttoned my shirt, I followed him across the yard to where he stood. “Wow, look at that! How long has this been out here?”
“Hard to say. When was Nixon in office?” I replied.
He turned from where he’d been poking around the underbrush. “You’re kidding.”
“I never kid when I’m half naked,” I answered, primly holding together my shirt. Which was mostly unbuttoned.
His eyes roamed across my body in a cursory way—almost as if, as a boy, he was unable to not look at a half-naked girl—but then quickly returned to the trailer. I tried not to take it personally.
Pulling a few branches off, he thumped on the metal. “Any idea of the last time it was on the road?”
“Still waiting for you to remind me of when Nixon was in office,” I answered.
“Woman. You’re killing me,” he moaned, using his phone flashlight to try and peer inside. “People use these for all kinds of things, you know. Not just camping.”
“That may be—but I’m sure critters have been camping in there for years.”
“Food truck.” He turned to look back at me, his flashlight shining right in my face.
Temporarily blinded, I shielded my eyes. “You want to shine that somewhere else?”
“Seriously, Roxie, this could be a food truck. They’re everywhere these days.”
“Dude, I’m from LA. Food trucks are a dime a dozen there.”
“Dude,” he said, suddenly right in front of me, flashlight turned off. “You’re from Bailey Falls. And they’re not a dime a dozen here yet.”
My mind instantly ran through my culinary Rolodex, sorting through dishes that would work well in a mobile environment. Then it moved to the farmers’ market—and the food-truck-free parking lot.
They say when an idea strikes, it’s like a flashbulb goes off over your head. In my case, it was fireworks from city hall. Going off right over the back of my property, where an ancient Airstream gleamed in the moonlight through decades of overgrowth. And a farmer, backlit by stars and spangles, wearing only his faded jeans and a giant grin.
From up here, the town was spread out like a postcard, nighttime lights twinkling, the Hudson River unseen in the dark but suggested by the darker smudge on the horizon. And over all of it, big splashes of fiery red, white, and blue, as the faintest hint of the high school band could be heard.
Leo’s hands wrapped around my hips, standing me right in front of him, facing the fireworks, the Airstream, the town. I allowed my head to fall back against his chest, soaking in the warmth of his skin. His arms crossed in front of me, a sigh of contentment escaping as his chin settled on top of my head. And as we watched the fireworks, and I relaxed into him, I realized that the sigh came from me. And that the contentment was mine.
And for just one moment, I allowed my imagination to run wild. A food truck filled with old-fashioned cakes. A line around the block of loyal customers ready to place their orders. And Leo, there at the end of a long, hard day, ready for a long, hard night.
And I shivered, though I was very warm inside his arms.
Chapter 17
I slept in. Until ten in the morning. A feat unheard of in the history of Roxie Sleep. I rolled over, stretching deliciously and reaching for Leo. We’d gotten to sleep late, after spending the night postfireworks tangled up on the back porch. It hadn’t escaped my attention that when Leo was in my bed, I slept longer and more deeply than I ever had before. Did he just wear me out that well? It’s possible; the man gave great orgasm.
It’s not just the orgasm . . .
No, it wasn’t. It was just Leo. Who took up too much space in my twin bed. His hands were rough, his feet were cold even on the hottest night, and the hair on his chest tickled my nose something awful.
And I loved sleeping with him. Back to front, head to chest, butt to butt—it didn’t matter, I loved it.
My hands groped across his side again, searching for a handful of warm Leo, but he was gone. My eyes opened sleepily, and I saw that he’d left me a note on my pillow.
Sugar Snap,
My heart went pitty pat to see my nickname written down. Why was that so thrilling? Anyway, back to the note.
Sugar Snap,
Got a busy day today. I’m helping Oscar move some cows onto a new field and I’m replacing the sink in my kitchen. Should be done by five though—dinner tonight? I’ll bring you some of those strawberries . . .
Leo
P.S. Looking forward to getting you green in less than one minute.
I blushed, thinking of all the things he could to do to make my eyes change color. Then I blushed again when I realized I was holding the note close to my face, as if I would kiss it. I rolled over in bed, squealing like a schoolgirl with her first crush. I sighed into his pillow and breathed in the lingering trace of his scent. I giggled out loud, kicked my feet into the air, and realized again that I was moving beyond a crush.
I reread his note, eager to see his nickname for me again, and I noticed at the bottom that he’d made a little drawing.
A loose interpretation of an Airstream trailer, with a girl smiling wide, hanging out of the side window. And a line of customers leading up to it. A thought bubbled up, the same thought I’d had last night while watching fireworks from within the circle of my Almanzo’s arms.