Wholesome farm boy comes to mind, but that’s not quite right. He’s all man, from the light brown beard to the wide spread of his shoulders, from the muscle-corded arms to the flat planes of chest and abs, right on down to his long, strong legs. To clarify, he’s not hawking his wares naked. I’m certain public nudity is frowned upon by the good citizens of this fine town, but my imagination is happy to conjure what’s beneath his long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans.
The demigod is currently chatting up a customer, completely unaware of me— which is exactly how I prefer it. Gives me a chance to observe him like he’s in a nature documentary narrated by some impossibly stuffy British man.
Great, now I have David Attenborough from the Planet Earth series in my head narrating the scene.
The farmer has a habit of brushing his hands through the messy waves of dark blond hair that nearly reach his shoulders to keep them out of his face. As he moves and gesticulates while speaking, a lock flops over his eyes and he sweeps it away. It’s mesmerizing and draws attention to his tan forearms and the stretch of white cotton around his bicep and shoulder.
Then there is his face, chiseled by the gods themselves. Angular, but not harsh. The hard cut of his cheekbones and broad forehead are softened by large eyes and a slightly-too-wide mouth. From afar, his eyes look brown, but they are probably pools of molten chocolate up close.
If I had a fan, I’d use it to temper the flames of lust heating my face.
Tearing my attention away from cataloging his features, I take in the rest of his setup. Tables. Vegetables. Open-sided tent. A black and white pig sleeping in a pen.
My mouth drops open and a puff of disbelief escapes.
“What now?” Kacey asks.
“I know that pig,” I whisper.
“Did you just call that fine-looking man a pig?” Unlike me, she doesn’t lower her voice. In fact, she raises it in shock. “Did you date and he dumped you?”
“Shh.” I reprimand her and flap my hand to remind her we’re in public.
“I’m fine. He’s too far away to hear us.”
Making sure she’s looking at me, I glare at her.
“It’s fine,” she says in a normal voice before whispering, “Fine.”
We both stand as still as fence posts, staring across the market.
“Damn, why do the good-looking ones always have to be terrible humans? What a waste.” Resigned disappointment tinges her words.
I take a step to the left and face her. “What are you rambling about?”
“The cruelness of handsome men always being pigs. Looks versus decency is a dilemma for the ages. For once, I’d like to have the complete package.” She softly snorts. “Yeah, I stand by that statement.”
Ignoring the familiar diatribe, I correct her. “It isn’t a metaphor. The actual pig in the pen behind him—I recognize it.”
“Does that mean you know him? Because if you do, you should go over and say hello.”
“Weren’t you belaboring the cruel imbalance of looks versus substance not thirty seconds ago?”
“There’s only one way to find out if the hypothesis is true.” Pressing her hand between my shoulder blades, she gives me a soft push.
“I doubt he’s your type.”
“Who said I’m interested?” She pretends to be offended but her smile betrays her.
I pretend to wipe drool from her chin before she swats my hand away. “For one thing, he’s a farmer.”
She scoffs. “I like food, so we already have one thing in common. Two, we share a love of plants. I own a fiddle-leaf fig. ”
“Which is fake,” I remind her.
“You’re one to talk. The only vegetable I’ve ever seen you eat is a potato, preferably fried or formed into a tot.”
She speaks the truth.
“I’ll eat salad,” I say in my defense.
“You eat ranch with iceberg as the vehicle because it’s not appropriate to eat dressing with a spoon. At least in public.”
“You forgot the grape tomatoes and cucumber—if it’s peeled—thank you very much. Oh, and I’ll also eat raw carrots with ranch. Cooked ones taste like old people.” I stare at my feet, because if I glance at Kacey, and I’ll make a weird face. And knowing my past luck around guys, and that will be the exact moment the hot farmer will glance in our direction and notice me.
Kacey is on the move, and I follow. Sticking close is better than letting her roam off on her own.
Continuing our conversation as a means of distraction, I ask, “Does popcorn count as a vegetable? It’s corn—comes from the same cob as sweet corn. The corn lobby would argue it’s an important part of the standard American diet, and kettle corn must count, too. Being made in an old-fashioned pot means it’s wholesome, which equals healthy.” I’m breathless from trying to keep up and share random thoughts about corn.
I don’t think Kacey is even listening to me because she’s making a beeline for the row of tables on the far side of the lot.
“Look, apple butter!” Pointing at a stand decked out in red and white gingham with green accents, I try to throw her off course. “Is that apple cake? There are free samples. Bet they’d be nice enough to let us have more than one.”
Her steps falter as she swivels her head, pausing and sniffing the air like a velociraptor. “Ooh, cake.”
I know my best friend’s weaknesses and I am not afraid to use this knowledge to my advantage.
While Kacey loads her palm with free baked goods, I sneak a peek over my shoulder.
Farm boy has his head thrown back, laughing at something an older woman is saying. The way she’s gripping the cucumber in her hand, I’m assuming something inappropriate has been said. She’s old enough to at least be his mother and is probably related to him, by marriage if not blood. In Green Valley, everyone is connected somehow.
I’m one of the few exceptions. Recently hired as an interpretation specialist for the park’s visitor center, I’ve only been in the area since April.
Kacey picks up a small paper cup and hands another one to me. “Have some cider.”
Happily distracted, she appears to have forgotten about the demigod.
After blowing on my cup, I take a sip.
“Where should we go next?” Kacey’s attention swings from table to table.
In the opposite direction from Vegetable Thor is one of my favorite vendors. “Let’s go look at that one.”
“I thought you were self-banned from buying any soap or soap based products.” She sounds suspicious.
I refuse to meet her eyes. “Who says I’m purchasing it for myself? Handcrafted items make thoughtful gifts, and your birthday is coming up.”
“First, who says I want soap?” She wrinkles her nose. “Second, when is my birthday?”
“November,” I mumble.
“Which is three months from now.”
I give her a full smile. “Never too early to be prepared.”
“Is it time for an intervention?” She removes the stack of bars from my hand.
“I’m trying to support the local economy,” I complain as she returns my collection to the table.
“Then buy some veggies or alpaca socks, or one of those weird-looking carved wooden spoons.”
“I already own seven pairs and two spoons. I barely cook.” Casting a loving glance at the bars, I sigh. “You’re right. No more soap. I already have half a dozen bars waiting in the cabinet under my sink. How many soaps can one single woman use in a year? Three? Four? I can’t be allowed to buy any more.”
Eyeing me with suspicion, Kacey sips her beverage. “You could always put them into your drawers to freshen your clothes. That’s what my grandmother did.”
“I’m not sure I want to smell like your grandmother. Plus, my work is kind of a scent-free zone. Don’t want to attract bears or other wildlife.”
Kacey wrinkles her nose. “Please tell me you at least wear deodorant.”
“Natural.” Took me a while to find one that wor
ks, but I now smell like roses and sage instead of lavender and BO.
She lifts my arm and sniffs close to my shoulder. “Not sure that counts.”
Squealing, I try to escape her grip.
“Stop!” My voice comes out louder than intended, and I sense the people around us directing their attention our way.
I lift my gaze to check who is staring. Across the crowd, my eyes catch those belonging to the farmer I’m not supposed to notice. His brow wrinkles and his head cocks to the side, like he might recognize me but isn’t sure from where. Or maybe he just thinks I’m a nut because he witnessed Kacey sniffing my armpit in public.
As soon as he realizes we’ve locked stares, he breaks the eye contact by dipping his chin and focusing on his table.
Not for the first time in my life, I debate whether it’s better to be invisible or seen but judged.
“What else do you want to get this morning? Honey? Jam? Crocheted pot holders? Vegetables? The hot farmer guy?” Kacey singsongs.
“What? No. I wasn’t staring.”
“Never said you were,” she says with a knowing lilt.
“Even for Green Valley, seeing a pig hanging out at the market is unusual.”
“Right, the pig is what caught your attention. You were practically licking him with your eyeballs.”
I groan. “Ew. Never use licking and eyeballs in the same sentence again. Promise?”
She holds up her palms. “Okay, okay. There was a line there and I crossed it.”
“Was it that obvious I was staring?”
“If he were a bullseye and you were throwing lust axes with your eyes, I’d say you hit your mark … or something like that. You get my point.”
“I’m definitely going to hell.” I groan again.
“It’s not a sin to appreciate beauty.”
I huff out a laugh. “Not sure my thoughts were focused on his beauty.”
“Daphne!”
“I know, he’s a wholesome farmer and I’m having all the dirty thoughts—definitely going to hell.”
“Then I’ll be sitting next to you in the handbasket.” Kacey grins. “This is going to be so worth it.”
Before I can react, she’s wrapped her hand around my wrist and is tugging me forward through the crowd.
“What will be worth it?” I ask, attempting to drag my feet enough to slow her pace.
“You’ll see.”
“Stop. This isn’t college. You can’t make me do embarrassing things just for the hell of it,” I plead. “I’m a park ranger—I have a certain reputation to uphold. I’ve taken a vow.”
“Whenever you say that, I think you’ve decided to become a nun.”
“I’m not even Catholic, or Buddhist. Anymore,” I add half-heartedly.
“I know. That’s why it always confuses me.”
“Trust me, I have no plans to join a convent or cloister myself off from society.”
“Good to know.” She gives my hand another yank and returns to her mission. Acting as a human icebreaker ship, she parts her way through the crowd. A former college lacrosse player, she makes an imposing first impression, especially with her height and nearly black hair. As if sensing her determination, people instinctually move out of her way.
“Kacey.” I wriggle my arm free from her grasp.
She pauses, turns. “What?”
Her face glows with false innocence.
“I don’t need you playing matchmaker. You’re only in town for the weekend and I want to spend time with you.” There are exactly zero no lies detected in my statement.
She’s not buying it. “Don’t you want to meet the hot farmer?”
“When have I ever been into ditching a friend for a guy?”
“Never. That’s part of your problem. Not that I’m advocating for you to dump me, but why not at least talk to him? You never put yourself out there to meet anyone. I worry about you.”
“No need to do that. I’m great. I love my job. My co-workers are awesome, and my boss is amazing.”
“How many dates have you been on since moving here in the spring?”
I hold up a circle with my index finger and thumb.
“Exactly. I doubt you have a lot of options around here.” She glances around.
“I don’t need options, plural.” I sneak a peek at Vegetable Thor and sigh. “He’ll probably be here again next week. If it’s meant to be, it can wait seven whole days while I spend time with my best friend.”
“Nice try.” She grins at me.
Without giving me the chance to change her mind, she walks over to the table.
“Wait, Kacey,” I softly call after her, sounding lame to my own ears.
I have two choices: let her go off on her own and observe her from a safe distance, or join her and attempt to prevent any meddling on my behalf. From prior experience, I know both possibilities come with their own risk.
By the time I catch up, she’s parked herself right in front of his display of brightly colored and, frankly, weird produce. I recognize a few things but most are only vaguely familiar. Oddly shaped and strangely hued, some look straight out of a Dr. Seuss book.
“Welcome.” He greets us with a warm smile, sweeping his hand through his hair. “What are you looking for today?”
“Tell us about your bounty,” Kacey casually says to the demigod like he’s a normal man.
Lord of the Vegetables gazes down at me, a tiny smile curving the corners of his mouth. “What do you like?”
If she picks up the extra-long carrots, I’ll pretend I don’t know her and walk away. Simple as that.
His large eyes are more melted caramel swirled in milk chocolate. A dark ring at the edge of his irises gives way to warm amber surrounding his pupils, all framed by dark lashes. I’m staring again.
“Umm …” I scan the display, willing myself to ignore the carrots. “Lettuce?”
“What kind?” He cocks his head to the side, indicating the bins of colorful leaves and small heads of either green or red.
“Iceberg,” Kacey answers for me.
“Boring,” he says. “That’s like saying your favorite beverage is water.”
“Don’t knock the old H-two-oh. It’s magical. You can make tea or coffee or lemonade with it, or drink it on its own, or add bubbles and call it seltzer.” After I finish my defense of water, we all stand in awkward silence for a beat or two.
“Tell us about these.” Kacey pinches my side while using her other hand to point at a neat pyramid of green balls next to the carrots.
“Japanese turnips.” He picks one up, tosses it in the air, and catches it.
I make a face and don’t bother hiding it.
“Not a fan?” His voice loses its friendly tone and he eyes me with challenge.
“They smell like feet.” My nose wrinkles at the memory of my grandmother’s boiled turnips.
“Have you ever tasted this variety?” he asks. “I promise there’s nothing remotely foot-flavored about them.”
I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”
He pulls a small blade from his back pocket. It isn’t the typical Swiss Army style, more like a fancy hunting knife with a bone handle, worn smooth from use. There’s something old-fashioned and rugged about it.
Using the flour sack towel resting on his shoulder, he wipes the turnip clean before cutting a paper-thin slice. Extending the knife toward me, he implores, “Taste.”
I really don’t want to eat a raw, unwashed turnip but Kacey elbows me, doing so neither gently nor subtly.
“Come on.” He wiggles the knife back and forth. “Trust me.”
He’s a stranger. I’m not going to trust him.
However, it would be rude to reject his offer and walk away.
“Fine.” I slide the slice from the knife and lift it to my nose. “It’s peppery.”
“You sound disappointed it doesn’t smell like old shoes.” He’s clearly amused by my reluctance.
“Has anyone ever called you a food
bully?” I retort.
He laughs, though not the head-back guffaw from earlier. More of a chuckle, and it feels authentic and less staged. “Yes, but not for a long time. I won’t force you, but you’ll never know what you might be missing out on if you don’t give things a chance.”
His knife pauses near the turnip as he waits for me to make my decision.
I take the tiniest bite possible. A mouse would take a bigger mouthful. A wave of spicy pepper hits my taste buds, but it’s not like hot sauce. This is followed by an unexpected sweetness. I take another bite, wondering if I imagined the combination.
“Good, huh?” He offers a slice to Kacey.
“Amazing,” I mumble as I crunch the rest of mine.
“So I was right?” He offers me another piece, which I happily accept.
“It isn’t polite to say I told you so or gloat.”
“I’ve never been a fan of being polite.” He sets down his knife. “How do you feel about kale?”
“Isn’t everyone over kale? It’s all about the cauliflower now.” Kacey laughs. “Don’t you follow the food fads?”
His face tightens and his mouth narrows into a thin line. “Can’t say that I do. I prefer to eat what I enjoy and leave the trends to people who need to be told what to like by strangers.”
She’s hit a nerve, and we stand around in another awkward silence. While friendly on the surface, I get the feeling Vegetable Thor isn’t a real people person.
“What’s this?” I point at a pale, yellowy-green cluster comprised of tiny triangular towers.
“Romanesco. Italian cousin to the cauliflower.” He eyes Kacey. “Incredible roasted and drizzled with fresh olive oil.”
“And these?” I point at the white version of the turnips.
“Ah, these have a surprise inside.” He cuts one in half, revealing the fuchsia center with a pale green outline. “Watermelon radishes.”
“Do they taste like the fruit?”
He chuckles and flashes his small smile again. “No, but they’re delicious.”
I take the piece from him and bite into it.
“Good, right?” he asks.
I nod. After swallowing, I say, “They taste similar to the turnips but different.”
Upsy Daisy: A First Love College Romance Page 40
