Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(4)

Ink. Up one forearm and down the other. At least as far as one could tell—the ink disappeared via biceps covered by a thin cotton tee. Did the ink go all the way up? Circle around his neck and back? Did the ink go all the way down? Cutting along his torso, snaking around his hip to—

Get. Out.

“I’ll take all three, Philippe. Can you wrap those up for me?” I said, dabbing at my brow. Pulse racing, I handed over my money, collected my delectables, bestowed a “sorry, it’s not happening tonight” smile on Former Mr. Wonderful, who was looking so hopeful it was almost pitiful.

I hurried out of the shop, fifty dollars’ worth of cheese under my arm, and headed home. Needing something to change the images in my head, I turned on the mental soundtrack that I almost always had playing.

Cue “Fireball” by Dev.

What, you don’t have a running mental soundtrack?

As I walked quickly down the street, I was aware of the glances I was getting from men. I didn’t need to look in the reflection of the windows to know what I looked like. Long, bouncy strawberry-blond hair, pale Irish skin, likely still flushed from my heated imagination. Deep-blue eyes, almost indigo, set off by an array of freckles across my nose and cheeks.

My body was poured into a deep-green wrap dress, accentuating my true hourglass figure. Rather than slouch my tall body around town, I kicked it up even higher by wearing ridiculously high heels, the higher the better. I’d learned to walk across the old cobblestones of Lower Manhattan, and I could walk in heels almost better than in sneakers. These golden peep-toe pumps weren’t practical at all, unless you wanted to make sure your legs looked fantastic. Which I did.

Size-eighteen women weren’t supposed to show off their legs, which I did. They weren’t supposed to show off their cleavage, which I did. Size-eighteen women were supposed to wear trench coats in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, and somebody better cancel Christmas if they wore a dress that showed off some cleavage. Size-eighteen women were supposed to dress like they were apologizing for taking up too much space. Fuck all that noise. I took up space. I took up space in a city where space was at a premium, and I never apologized for it. And right now, I knew exactly how much space I was taking up, strutting down Fourteenth Street to the song playing in my head, with a bag full of delicious and already fantasizing about my favorite pastime.

Oscar the Dairy Farmer.



I made the last turn onto my street, feeling the smile that broke over my face every time I did. I was incredibly blessed to be able to live where I did, the way that I did. Most gals in their twenties in this city were lucky if they shared an apartment with only two other girls, and I knew plenty who shared with more than that. I lived alone, a luxury, in an apartment I owned, an unheard-of luxury.

Well, technically my father owned it. But it was in my name. So according to my own version of the rules, I owned it . . .

I grinned back at the pumpkins and gourds that peeked merrily over the brownstone stoops. Halloween was only a few weeks away, and decorations were going up all over town. As I clicked up the stairs to my own home, a gaggle of white Lumina pumpkins glowed in the twinkle of the streetlights. Juggling my purse and bags, I unlocked the front door, then paused to gaze up at my building. Three stories with an attic, it was three separate apartments, with my own on the first floor, or parlor floor. The other tenants had been here for years, and helped me take great care of the building. We shared the garden out back, and the fourth-floor attic was a shared storage space.

It was converted from a single-family residence back in the fifties, and much of the original woodwork and detail was still intact. The main central staircase had been preserved when it was closed in, making each apartment a self-contained unit sharing the same stairs. Beautiful honeyed wood shone brightly in the entryway, with an original period mirror poised just inside. A bronze umbrella stand, complete with antique parrot-head parasol, stood proudly in the corner, another shared item.

I let myself in my own front door, which had been rescued from a salvage yard when my father renovated the building years ago. The original renovation had been done on the cheap, with ugly flat steel doors. My father had scoured antique shops and architectural salvage dumps until he found beautiful mahogany doors, likely pulled out of another brownstone in the city. Replacing them throughout the building made it feel more homey, and certainly more fitting for a house built in the late 1870s.

I carried my bags through the living room with its shiny pocket doors and eighteen inches of intricately carved crown molding, in through the dining room and its waist-high chestnut wainscoting, on into the galley kitchen with its marble tiling and butcher-block counters. Setting my bags down as I slipped out of my shoes, I listened to the relative quiet. Relative because it was never truly quiet. Cars honking over on Bleecker, a faraway siren, and the ever-present background hum of 1.6 million people living in twenty-two square miles.

It had been a great day. I’d landed a great account based on my unconventional yet killer pitch. I had the entire weekend to look forward to. I had a bagful of luscious cheese to indulge in. And I had a headful of luscious images to indulge in. Pouring a glass of red wine, I let my mind run wild . . .

Oscar. His name was Oscar. I know this because my best friend, Roxie, had clued me in, knowing him from the small hometown she had recently moved back to. Her boyfriend lived on the farm next to Oscar’s. Before I knew this, I only knew him as The Hot Dairy Farmer I Crushed On at the Union Square Farmers’ Market.