“So, hi,” I offered.

He shot me a brief side glance. “Hi.”

Silence. Driving. Silence.

“Good week?”

“Good week,” he stated.

I was unable to take my eyes from the sight of his hand on my leg. Had I planned this when I picked out a skirt this morning? Not purposefully. Had I wondered, however, when I was standing in front of my overnight bag this morning and looking at the black peep-toe Manolos with the sparkly jewels, if I did happen to see Oscar today, would they drive him crazy?

You bet your sweet ass . . .

“So you had a good week. That’s great. I did, too. So . . . thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t ask,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, but his fingers slid half an inch higher on my thigh—his caramel skin on my Irish cream—and I felt myself growing more and more excited. I was also growing more and more irritated that he wasn’t at all interested in having even the most cursory of conversations with me, when he finally looked my way. “But I’m glad to hear it.”

My ears pinked up, I could feel it.

He continued. “I was distracted all week. I thought about you, thought about when I might see you again.”

“You did?” I asked, trying like hell not to squeak out the words but failing miserably. My cheeks pinked up, I could feel it.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, sliding that hand north another inch. “Thought about those sounds you made, how sexy you looked.” He stopped at a railroad crossing and looked me straight in the eye. “In the barn.”

“Oh,” I managed, not even bothering to squelch the squeak. Something else pinked up, I could feel it.

“You here till Sunday again?” he asked, the railroad light flashing. Vaguely, I could hear a ding-dong ding-dong from the signal . . .

“Uh-huh.” This time I sounded like I smoked eight packs of cigarettes a day.

The lights stopped flashing. The dinger quit donging. And I was lost in those smoldering eyes, which were touched by a bit of happy. “Good,” he said, all heat and smooth and sweet and rough at the same time.

“Good,” I repeated, reaching down and sliding his hand up another inch.

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”

“What did you think I meant, when I said let’s go make some cheese?”

“I thought we’d be wrapping those cute little Bries that I buy from you, in the sweet blue and white gingham paper?”

Oscar had driven me back to his farm. Over the hill and beyond some of the pastures was a large secondary barn proudly bearing the name Bailey Falls Creamery over the entryway.

“No way, Pinup. We’re making cheddar today.”

This was it! This was my dream, the secret dream tucked away in the back of a kitchen cupboard in the form of cutout pictures of sweet cows and rolling hills and cardigans.

“I’m not really dressed for cheese making, am I?”

He popped out of his side and made his way to the passenger door. Tugging it open, he held out his hand and I slid on out, landing close enough to him that he’d be required to catch me. He lifted his eyebrows, knowing full well what I’d done as he caught me around the waist and set me right.

“Doesn’t matter. You seemed to do okay in my boots last weekend, didn’t you?” He winked and led me around toward the back of the truck. By my hand! “Besides, we’ve always got smocks and hairnets for visitors.”

Hairnets?

Oh yeah, hairnets. Within fifteen minutes of my arrival at Bailey Falls Creamery, which had always sounded quaint and darling and maybe just the tiniest bit Dickensian, I was beginning to realize that cheese making, even artisanal hipster made-by-the-hottest-man-imaginable cheese making, was an industrialized kind of operation with sterile, stainless-steel troughs, drains in the floors, and tables that looked right out of the movie Saw.

The “shed” that I’d observed was huge! Room after room of all kinds of equipment, not to mention several “caves,” where the cheese was aged. Another concept I’d Disneyfied in my mind. Although an actual French Roquefort would only be called a Roquefort if aged in the actual caves where the bacteria is naturally present to create its beautiful, pungent beauty, most cheeses these days apparently are aged in noncave caves: climate- and humidity-controlled environments where cheeses can age and mellow over time, and be turned occasionally by the cheese maker.

And my personal cheese maker had an entire team of cheese makers. A few full-timers, some part-timers that looked like local high school kids, and interns from the Culinary Institute up the road in Hyde Park. Bailey Falls Creamery was quite the operation.

I was given a fifty-cent tour, basically a brisk walk-through end to end, before being brought back to the first room. The enormous stainless-steel trough was waiting for milk, which I’d learned was not only from Oscar’s herd, but from several other dairy farms in the area. Only pasture-raised, only organic, only happy, humanely treated cows got to bring their milk to his creamery.

He watched happily as the milk spilled into the trough. Three women stood at the ready, stainless-steel paddles in hand, waiting for the milk to get to the right temperature.

“Fantastic, I can’t wait to see how the magic happens!” I cried, clapping my hands. I looked around and saw a low bench over by the window. “Should I go ahead and sit over there? Don’t want to get in the way,” I said, starting for the bench.

“Natalie,” a low voice called out softly, and I turned to see Oscar. Holding his paddle. Ungh.

“Yes?” I asked, just as softly.