“Hi,” I said, a little breathlessly. That hike across the field had been murder on my boots. Heels made for concrete and cobblestone didn’t fare as well in ankle-deep leaves and mushy soil. But I’d made it.

“Hi,” Oscar said, glancing down at me. “Great turtleneck.”

“Thanks.” I laughed, delighted that it’d only been five seconds and I was up to three words already. “Great footballs.”

He arched an eyebrow at me, but said nothing, eyes on the field and intently following the action. “Right, so, I was thinking, maybe after the game I could stop by? See that barn you’re so proud of?”

“You’re inviting yourself over?” he asked, eyes still scanning the scrillage. Another football term I’d picked up from Chad. A scrillage is more than a practice, not quite a game. “Toby! Get your head down, or number seventeen is gonna take it right off!”

An enthusiastic “Okay, Coach,” floated back to us on the magical autumnal breeze as I considered what he’d said. I was inviting myself over. Somewhere between putting him in his own stall, and him invading my stall and kissing me so hard my lips could still feel it, I’d lost my uncharacteristic shyness. I was getting back on sure footing with this guy, back to where I knew what I was doing.

“I feel no qualms about inviting myself over. Especially when I’ll be there on official research purposes only. Scouting locations for publicity shots, you know. Checking out that barn, which could be featured in the Bailey Falls campaign. Maybe even the money shot.”

Even though he was trying like hell to keep his eye on the ball, he was also trying like hell not to smile. He covered the smile with a whistle, blew it, and yelled out, “Okay, team, that’s enough for the day. Huddle up!”

“Wow, you must really want me all to yourself, to call off your scrillage just to take me up on my offer,” I purred in a husky voice I knew drove men crazy.

He pulled something off from around his neck, underneath the whistle. A stopwatch. “The scrimmage was over—see?” He showed me the countdown, then took off toward the huddle of boys, turning around as he jogged backward. “Don’t go anywhere,” he called back.

Several of the mothers on the benches stared at me, half of them adding a side of nasty to their stare. Chad was nodding proudly, my own personal cheerleader. Inside my head, I fist-pumped.

Chapter 10

I bounced along the country roads, following Oscar’s truck as he led me to his farm.

A phrase never before thought, much less uttered, by this city girl. He put me in his town car and rubbed my feet on the way back to his townhouse? Yes, that sounded like me. He went down on me while I sprawled across the back of an Uber Escalade while we drove through the Bowery? Mmm, nice memory. But being led to his farm? Not in my wheelhouse.

For the record, I had an entire cupboard back home devoted to this exact wheelhouse: chickens and woods and hayrides and a farmer with a truck and a big barn he seemed willing to show me. This was the secret dream, the secret wish.

Bam! The Wagoneer slalomed around rut after rut, pothole after pothole. Say what you want about city driving, they were consistently fixing the streets. Out here, in the sticks, I didn’t get the sense that the roads were repaved very often.

Oscar turned off the country highway and onto a road that was dirt mixed with the teensiest bit of gravel that led up a steep hill. I bet this was a bitch in the winter. I also bet that if this were a horror movie, this would be where the audience would begin yelling at me to turn back, turn around, don’t be so stupid, and why are you following this man into the woods.

It was a rather creepy dirt road. But waiting for me at the end of it was a gorgeous dairy farmer, the aforementioned barn, and hopefully more of that kissing.

I continued to bump along behind Oscar’s red truck, rusty in places, dented in others, and entirely covered in a fine white dust that was being kicked up on the road. As it made a final turn, I saw an ancient wooden mailbox marked Bailey Falls Creamery, with a smaller name underneath, Mendoza.

A moment later I was pulling into a clearing, surrounded by enormous trees covered in reds, oranges, rusts, and yellows. In the center stood a white clapboard farmhouse, complete with large wraparound porch, green shutters, and a stone chimney. An old tire swing hung from the oak nearest the house. Late-­autumn chrysanthemums were planted in pots all along the porch, spilling out into the yard and lining the beginning of the drive. Huh. Oscar sure had a green thumb . . .

In the field beyond the house was the barn. I could see why he was so stinking proud of the thing; it was indeed massive. Huge stone stacks made the walls, while a red-painted roof soared high above, arching up to the skyline cupola.

A cupola is the tiny structure found atop some barn roofs, particularly those constructed back in the 1800s. When barns housed not just hay but animals as well, extra ventilation was necessary to regulate the temperature, particularly in the winter months, when the animals spent much of their time indoors. Newer barns that housed only equipment still sometimes added cupolas just for their aesthetic value.

Yes, I read up on barns.

And in the field above the house and barn were the bread and literal butter of Oscar’s operation: the cows. What looked like some of the same kind of cows I’d seen the other day over at Maxwell Farms, the pretty red and brown animals giving their gentle calls welcoming Oscar home in direct opposition to what I now knew was their true nature . . . that of an angry horde determined to one day trample me.

Oscar climbed down out of his truck, and after taking one last glance in the rearview mirror to assure myself that yes, I was indeed as cute as I’d remembered, I pushed open the door to the Wagoneer and stepped out into the dooryard.