Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley, #2)(75)

The day was long, but fun. I stood behind the counter and helped him take and fill orders, listened to his regular clients sing his praises, and watched Oscar shake off the compliments as though they meant nothing. I’d come to realize that he was genuinely shy and reserved, which sometimes came across as . . . well . . . being an ass.

“You need to be nicer to your customers,” I whispered, after one particularly uncomfortable moment.

“I’m nice,” he insisted.

“You’re dismissive and rude,” I insisted back.

“I don’t want to get to know my customers. Why is that rude? They like my cheese; I like making it and taking their money,” he said, tugging on my apron string. Thank goodness he didn’t insist on the hairnets when at the market. “Where is it written that to sell cheese I also have to be best friends with everyone here?”

“It’s just good business, Oscar. Plus, you’re adorable when you smile.”

“I’m adorable?” he asked. Six foot six inches, covered in tattoos and scars, with hands as big as a boule and arms as big as tree trunks. And now with the same menacing look he used to give me when I’d approach him to buy his Brie.

“Yeah, you kind of are,” I grinned, tugging on his apron string.

Without meaning to, and most certainly without wanting to, he grinned back. Then he realized how adorable he might be, and away went the smile. He turned to the first person in line, an attractive woman in her fifties who was looking like she was shopping for more than Camembert. “What do you want?” he growled, and I had to turn away to stifle my laugh.

The woman looked head over heels. I knew the feeling.

I spent the day making change and wrapping up orders, chatting with the customers since Oscar wasn’t, asking them questions about what they liked and what they loved. Sort of informal market research. I went on a coffee run with him just before lunch, and found myself pressed against a giant bale of hay over by the free-trade sustainable green coffee roasting booth, getting felt up through my apron as he stole kisses.

When it was time for lunch, we headed down to the south end of the market to get sandwiches for everyone from the guys who owned the local salumeria. Salami, prosciutto, mortadella—they piled everything onto enormous sandwiches made with some of the best bread in town. As we waited for our Italians on French with everything, he slipped his arms around me from behind, under cover of my apron, leaned his head on my shoulder, and whispered filthy, naughty things into my ear as he slid one hand into my panties to find me wet and wanting.

I was so close I nearly let him get me off in front of a hundred hoagies.

And as the day wound down, I noticed that every time Oscar walked past me or reached around me to grab something, he made sure to grab something else. His hands rubbed my bottom every chance he got. I loved it. I may have even stuck my butt out on purpose to make sure it was in his way.

Finally the last customer paid for his cheese, the market was officially closed, and the stalls started coming down. Thank God, because the sexual tension that was pinging back and forth could have lit up an entire city block. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by his team, which could have been why they had the booth broken down and loaded onto the trucks in record time.

As we said good-bye to everyone, he took my hand, which was also lost on no one, and steered me in the direction of his truck.

“Today was fun,” I said, leaning into his arm. His hand was warm in mine, his fingers laced solidly through mine, his thumb tracing the inside of my palm. I knew these tracings. They were the same ones he drew on my back, or on my front, or on my thighs, or on my bum, before and after he loved on me. For someone who didn’t let a lot of people in, he seemed to love to touch and to be touched. I sighed contentedly, tucking my other hand into his arm, nuzzling his flannel shirt. He smelled clean and sweet, with a touch of barn and clover.

“Fun?” he asked. “You’ve been to the market before—every week, like clockwork.” He looked down, his eyes teasing.

“Damn straight. I had to get my Brie.”

He grinned, not buying it for a second. “Only the Brie, huh?”

“Certainly not for the conversation,” I replied, earning a swat on the butt.

“Thank God you did. Watching you walk away, and getting to see that sweet ass every week—mmm, woman, the thoughts you gave me.”

“Tell me,” I said, looking up at him.

“Tell you what?”

“What you thought about me, before we met.”

“You mean before you scared my cows and then attacked me in Leo’s barn?”

“Yes. Before the luckiest day of your life, what did you think of me when you saw me, stumbling and stammering each Saturday?” I stopped in the street, turning into him as throngs of people pushed past us like water breaking over a boulder.

“Well, you know I loved your ass,” he began.

I rolled my eyes. “It’s a great ass, a sweet ass, a beautifully perfect, great, big ass—this we know.” I slapped at his chest. “But did you think anything else?”

“I wondered what made you so nervous.”

“Maybe I was just the nervous type. Ever think of that?” I teased.

“No way. I watched you sail through the market each week like you f*cking owned the place. You only got nervous when you got to my line.”