Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(21)
“It’s been at least twelve hours since a gorgeous man has had his hands on me, and technically that was Leo, so get over here,” I said, waving him off his stool. “The Roxie Connection—that has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
“Very eighties-dating-show-meets-Agatha-Christie-novel.” He laughed, pulling out his wallet and settling the bill. “So what sort of crazy plans does Roxie have planned for you this weekend?”
I laughed. “I think a shorter list is what she doesn’t have planned for me. She’s got the whole weekend packed in an effort to make me fall in love with Bailey Falls.”
He slid from the stool and smiled. “I selfishly have to say that I hope it works and that you never leave. We need some more badass women up here to shake things up.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I had a farmer fantasy, for sure, but long term? I belonged in the city. “You may have converted me into a weekend transplant.” I swiped the last bit of frosting on the plate with my thumb and sucked it off while I thought about someone who might be able to make me visit Bailey Falls more often.
Sucked it off indeed . . .
What I “know” about living on a farm comes from picture books and movies. I also have a tendency to embellish and gild images that I revisit in my mind, coloring and shading things until I can get it just right, until I believe that’s exactly how it is.
Two things happened at Maxwell Farms.
One, I realized I had no idea how an actual farm works. It’s not some idealized place where an overalled farmer pats pretty cows while his wife, an extra from The Donna Reed Show, skips through the pasture at lunchtime with a chicken pot pie tucked in a basket under a red handkerchief, after which they shtup each other silly under the blue sky. A farm is dirty, kind of smelly, and a lot of really hard work.
Two, Maxwell Farms is an idealized place, where people work hard and make something beautiful out of a few acres and serious sweat. I saw chickens laying eggs, picked a pumpkin from a vine, and scratched a pig on his actual pork belly. It was a riot of smells, sights, sounds, and tastes as well, since Roxie made us sample everything in the kitchen garden, some still with dirt clinging to it. I laughed as she dusted everything off on her farm jeans, telling me to just go with it and let my country out a bit. It really was a magical place.
When I’d shown up at the big stone barn, she took one look at my high-heeled boots and made me put on a pair of Leo’s galoshes, which were like canoes on my feet. But after stepping in crap for the fifth time, I was grateful for them.
I took pictures everywhere, sneaking in a few of Leo with his land in the background, dirt on his hands, a smile on his face, and the love for what he did shining through with everything. I wasn’t sure exactly what I had yet with the pictures I’d taken, but I knew they’d lead me where I needed to go with this campaign.
Leo moved the animals around the farm to keep things trimmed down, and to provide a kick-ass place for the chickens to relax all day. I’d already seen the chickens and their charming coop-on-wheels get moved onto a freshly sheep-mown pasture. Then we went to see the sheep on the next field, fluffy and white and bleating away as the wind ruffled their coats. Now we were finally moving on to the moo cows, which I’d fight to my death to call them despite Polly’s disdain.
I wondered if Leo had any idea how much trouble he was going to be in when that very smart girl turned into a teenager. I grinned to myself.
And speaking of grinning, Roxie looked like the Cheshire cat, even bouncing a little in the front seat as Leo drove his Jeep to the cow pasture.
“What’s with the grin?” I asked her, leaning forward.
“Who, me?” she asked with a wide smile. “I’m just having a great day. I’ve got my best friend here, I’m sleeping with the hottest farmer since Almanzo Wilder—”
“Don’t let her fool you, Natalie. She’d throw me over in a second if the actual Almanzo was available,” Leo interjected.
“—and the sun is shining. What more could anyone ask for?” Roxie finished, brushing a few pieces of my hair back away from my face and fussing with my headband.
“A dirty martini and couple of nudie magazines?” I asked brightly, earning a high five from Leo.
“Dirty, I can manage,” Roxie said suggestively.
And just as I turned to ask her what she meant, I saw Oscar. In the field, surrounded by moo cows.
“Fuck me,” I breathed as we pulled up to the gate. Behind him was a parade of fall colors, rich browns and bright reds and oranges. Around him, pretty-looking cattle, deep red and silky brown, with big, gentle eyes. And in the middle of it all, this golden man.
Vaguely in the background, where my internal soundtrack plays, I could hear the opening riff of “Here Comes Your Man” by the Pixies . . .
He looked up from the herd to our Jeep, and waved to Leo. Chestnut hair as always tucked back with a tie, black T-shirt with flannel shirt tied around his waist, faded blue jeans wrapped around long legs. Seeing him here, in his natural element, was even more striking than seeing him at the market in the city.
And speaking of striking . . .
I leaned forward and whispered to Roxie, “I can’t believe you!”
“What?”
“Don’t what me, lady! What are you up to?”