Boyish laughter made me turn from admiring the window boxes on the second floor, spilling over with brightly colored flowers, to the group clustered around Leo. The boys were jumping and shouting as he held what looked like patches over them, doling them out and calling the kids by name. As I got closer, I could hear him laughing along with the kids.

“I hear you, Owen; you’ll get your activity patch too—don’t worry. Who else? Here you go, Jeffrey, you earned it when you picked the biggest eggplant we’ve had yet this year! Who else? Let’s see . . . oh boy, we can’t forget Matthew—here you go, buddy. You guys are the best Webelos around.”

His smile really was contagious, and I found myself grinning as I crossed the gravel, admiring his high cheekbones, the curve of his lower lip as he laughed, and the green eyes that, when fixed on mine, turned my belly all butterflies.

And that beard. What constituted a hipster beard? Is it the length? The shape? The proximity to flannel and Mumford? We were within twenty yards of an heirloom tomato; does that count as hipster cred?

I hadn’t been a fan of facial hair beyond two-day sexy scruff, yet Leo was sporting an actual beard and I liked it. I more than liked it, I wanted to touch it. Was it scratchy? Soft? Coarse? Touch it, hell—I’d like to look down and see it, and his face, between my thighs. With significantly less clothing than in our previous encounters.

As my breathing speeded up, another image popped into my brain: sweaty, naked parts and grasping, clutching hands. Whew, it seemed hot out! Christ, the farmer was now affecting me physically. Which was good— I wanted physical. I needed physical. So when I saw him pick up a bottleneck squash that mimicked something very specific in my mind, I covered my moan with a cough.

“You okay?” he asked as I reached him.

“Yeah. Why?” I said, tugging at my T-shirt. Air, please—just a little air.

“Sounded like you were—”

“Just clearing my throat,” I said, and quickly changed the topic. “I made the black walnut cake, with cream cheese buttercream frosting.” I thrust the white box into his hands.

“Wow, you really made me cake?” he asked, looking quite pleased.

“Well, I made it for the diner; the rest got sold today.”

“Is it good?” he asked.

I grinned. “It’s fucking great.”

Leo closed his eyes and shook his head, and I realized I’d just F-bombed a Boy Scout troop.

“Ah shit,” I muttered, then clapped my hand over my mouth.

Leo just snorted, and rallied. “Hey there, Jason, you still need your badge, right? Roxie, maybe you could run this cake over to the cooler inside the store there, huh?”

I grabbed the cake and quick-stepped away, heading for the farm stand. I had no idea how to talk to kids, but I was pretty sure swearing in front of them was high on the list of things not to do. I found someone to stick the cake into the fridge, took a breath, and decided to act like it never happened. I headed back to the troop.

“I didn’t know you were playing with friends today,” I said, nodding at the scouts.

“Actually, we’ve got people visiting almost every day, whether it’s a class field trip, new interns rotating through, or a bunch of—”

He was suddenly knocked toward me by a riot of Webelos fighting over the final patch. The wind was nearly knocked out of me as roughly two hundred pounds of Leo collided with me, making me gasp. I was once again in his arms, but this time upright and tucked in, almost hugged. And he. Smelled. Fan. Tastic.

All around us birds chirped, dogs barked, farmhands handed, and Webelos rumpused. But in the moment, all I was aware of were his arms, snug around my waist. His hands, initially on my hips just to steady me, were now kneading like a cat, nudging underneath my defenseless T-shirt, and spreading wide to touch my very lucky lower back.

And hey look, are those my hands, pressed firmly against his flannel-covered chest? Sliding higher, higher, curling over impossibly strong muscles and moving north, around the back of his neck, feeling the tickly ends of his hair . . . And those green eyes are smoldering . . . and interested . . . and hey, I’m up on my tiptoes now, and I bet my boobs look fantastic crushed up against his—

“I’m gonna kick you in the balls!” a Webelo shouted, and I instantly backed away from the muscular chest. And the mouth, which was now tipped up at one end. And his head was nodding, saying oh yeah—this’ll get finished later.

I love getting finished.

Chapter 8

But first I had a farm to tour. And once the Webelos vacated, the tour began. Just me and Leo and seventeen other people who’d signed up to be shown around what I was now learning was the premier organic teaching farm in the Hudson Valley. Some say the state. Some say the Northeast.

Some say it should have been hard for me to concentrate on things like cover crops and rotational crop planting, now that I’d had my hands in that luscious honey-blond hair. But to his credit, Leo gave a helluva tour.

What he’d done with the land since taking it over several years ago was all new to me. The estate had evolved from a house for one family into an entire business community, employing not only a year-round team but a host of summer interns, eager to learn what Leo had to teach them. In the two hours that we walked around the property, I learned more about organic and sustainable farming than I had in my entire lifetime.

“So, when you started to convert the fields back to—what did you call it?” one of the guys on the tour asked.

“It’s called fallow syndrome, when fields haven’t been tended to in a while. You’d think letting a field rest a bit would naturally replenish it, and that’s somewhat true. But if you let farmland just sit for years and years, there’s not a lot of action going on under the surface. So when we first started getting things going here, we turned the earth over, aerated and tilled it, and then planted a green manure crop in all the fields we wanted to be able to grow on.”