In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(7)

“Have you talked to her since she left?”

A couple of times. A bland text sent in the middle of the night after one too many beers. A generic response. A picture from her of an open field, somewhere out there in the world, a line of text that said not as nice as your farm but still pretty nice. I had fumbled my phone into the dirt when that message came through, my thumb tracing back and forth over her words like I had my hands on her skin instead.

A social media influencer. An important one, apparently. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. Millions and millions of followers. I looked her up one night when the silence of my house felt suffocating, my thumb tapping at the screen of my phone. I checked her account and couldn’t stop staring at that little number at the top.

I never checked her account again.

I’ve had one-night stands before. Plenty of them. But I can’t get Evie out of my head. Thinking about her is like a hunger in the hollow of my stomach, a buzzing just under my skin. We spent two nights together in Bar Harbor. I shouldn’t—I don’t know why I still see her when I close my eyes.

Twisted up in bedsheets. Hair in my face. That half-smile that drove me crazy.

“I was thinking about peppers,” I say again, determined to hold onto this lie. It’s best not to give Layla an inch. She’ll take a mile and the shirt off your back for the trouble of it. I grew up with three sisters. I can sense the inquisition like a wind change.

“Your face does not say you’re thinking about bell peppers. It says you’re thinking about Evelyn.”

“Stop looking at my face.”

“Stop making the face you’re making and I’ll stop looking at it.”

I sigh.

“I just think it’s a shame, is all,” Layla reaches across me and grabs another handful of popcorn and a kernel lands in my lap. I flick it off and hit Becky Gardener right in the back of the head. Christ. I wince and sink further in my chair. “You two seemed to hit it off.”

What we seemed to do is circle each other like two skittish kittens. After I went to visit her at the bed and breakfast, I promised I’d give her a wide berth to do her job. It had been harder than I expected, keeping that promise. Seeing her standing among the rows and rows of trees on the farm, a smile on her face, her hands passing over the branches—well. It was like taking a baseball bat to the face. Repeatedly. But the contest meant everything to Stella, and I wasn’t about to ruin our chances with a … with a …

A crush? A flirtation?

I don’t even know what.

All I know is that it was a challenge for me to be around her. I couldn’t stop thinking about my body curled around hers. The way the skin just below her ear tasted. How it felt to have all that hair brush against my jaw, my shoulders, the tops of my thighs. I found myself wanting to make her laugh, wanting to talk to her.

I can count on one hand the number of people I want to talk to.

But we figured it out, settled into a routine while she was here. Cordial conversation and polite nods. A single slice of shared zucchini bread on a quiet afternoon—plenty of space between us. That same electric current that tugged us together at a dive bar in Maine knit slowly back together in a thin thread of connection.

And then she left. Again.

And unfortunately for me, I still haven’t figured out how to stop thinking about her.

“What kind of peppers?”

I shake my head once, trying to pry loose an image of Evelyn standing in between two towering oak trees on the edge of the property, her face in profile and tilted towards the sky. The sun had painted her in shimmering golds, leaves fluttering lightly around her. I clear my throat and adjust my position in the folding chair, my knee knocking sideways into Layla’s. I’m way too big for these chairs and there are too many damn people in this room. “What?”

“What type of peppers are you planting? I haven’t seen any markers for peppers out in the field.”

The back of my neck goes hot. “You never go out in the fields.”

“I’m in the fields every day.”

She walks through the fields, sure, on the way to the bakehouse situated smack dab in the middle of them. But she never finds herself in the produce crop. Not unless she needs something. I scratch at my jaw, frustrated. I’d bet my savings she finds something she needs out there tomorrow morning.

“Bell,” I manage between clenched teeth.

Shit, now I need to go out and plant bell peppers.

Layla hums, eyes alight with mischief. “What color?”

“What?”

“What color bell pepper—” she puts an annoying emphasis on the words. “—have you planted?”

“He planted red bell peppers in the southeast fields in two rows next to the zucchini. Which you will get absolutely none of if you do not pay attention,” Stella snaps. Layla and I both glance at her in shock. It’s not like Stella to get aggravated. Not to mention that is … not a true statement. And we both know it.

Some of the steel melts out of her shoulders and she slumps, handing Layla back her popcorn bowl.

“Sorry. I’m stressed.”

“Clearly,” Layla says in a laugh, hand back to rummaging around in her snacks. Her eyes find mine and hold, narrowing until all I can see is a glimpse of hazel. She still has some jelly in her hair from baking earlier today. Strawberry, by the looks of it. She points her finger right between my eyebrows and taps me there once. “Don’t think I’m going to forget about this.”