“How cute is that?” I say out loud, slowing my car down so I can get a better look.
On the outskirts of town, I notice a farmhand working at a roadside stand. You know, one of those charming, country lean-two shanties on the side of the road that offer the most delicious produce picked fresh from the fields? And the farmhand is kind of cute, too. He’s filling buckets and bins with vegetables and gorgeous flowers. The big sign is cracked with peeling painted letters spellingJamison Farm, barely legible to a passerby.
“Jamison, huh?” I decide to pull over and take a closer look.
“Hello,” the handsome man hollers, his gleaming white smile hard not to notice.
“Hi.” I smile back, carefully stepping across the rough patches of weeds and gravel on the side of the road. I really need to rethink my wardrobe choices while out on assignment.
Peeling off his work gloves, his beaming smile seems almost overexaggerated. “I’ve got my first batch of homegrown 'maters today.” His voice is thick with a southern drawl. “And the lavender…" He rolls his eyes, his smile growing even wider, if possible. “The lavender is in peak season.”
He grabs a handful from an industrial bucket, the narrow leaves holding a silvery down shimmer to them. The star-shaped, blue-violet flowers grow in clusters at the top of the stems, the heavenly aroma obvious.
“Go ahead, take a whiff,” he insists, his eyebrows rising high on his forehead. With his fingers wrapped around the base of the plant, he stretches his arm toward me.
I cautiously draw nearer to him. He’s undoubtedly good-looking, but his gigantic grin intimidates me. He hands off the lavender and seems to watch my every move, smiling broadly. I breathe in the delicate floral of sweet and woodsy. The scent reminds me of fresh basil or rosemary.
“Mmmm,” I exhale.
The man shoves his hands into the pockets of his overalls and leans back on his booted heels. “My name is George. What’s yours?”
My brow instantly furrows, and I’m unsure if I should engage in more conversation. He’s almost too friendly, which is throwing me off. But isn’t that how all small-town folks are? Friendly?
“Hello, George. My name is Madison.”
“Hi, Madison. It’s nice to meet you.”
His blue eyes rake over my posture, his pleasure on full display. The moment is awkward, and I watch his cheeks turn red before he abruptly walks toward the barn siding of the produce stand as if to get back to work.
I stand there with the lavender in my hands.
“Oh, here you go.” I hold up the bunch of flowers for him to see.
He offers another of his dorky smiles over his shoulder, his voice turning low as if embarrassed. “On the house, ma’am.”
I giggle at the word “ma’am.” No one has ever called me “ma’am” before. And what is it about his silly grin and friendly mannerisms? I know country folks are polite and welcoming, but this guy is unreal, a caricature of sorts.
I clutch the lavender to my chest and watch George work, his muscular biceps straining as he lifts and stacks crates of fresh produce. I take in his cowboy boots and dark overalls, his gray tee underneath the bib dotted with perspiration. His strength is evident, and my eyes flit down the entire length of his physique, landing on his magnificent backside.
Maybe it’s the scent of lavender sending me into a hypnotic state of calmness. Or it could be George’s striking resemblance to my British supermodel obsession, David Gandy. You know, the Dolce and Gabbana guy in the famous cologne commercial flaunting his tighty-whities on the picturesque island of Capri? My goodness, George even has the same darkhair and striking blue eyes, causing my mouth to fall open in a stupor. I humorously wonder if he’s wearing boxers or briefs underneath those overalls.
But no matter how handsome George appears, there is something slightly different about him. I chalk it up to country living.
“Thank you for the lavender, George. You’re a real peach.”
He sets a crate of “maters” on the hard ground and smiles at me again. “Oh, I love me some peaches. You should try Jenny’s peach cobbler at the Wild Daisy Inn in town if you’ve got the time. It’s the best.”
I purse my lips to thwart off a grin of my own. Knowing he’s talking about the same Jenny who checked me into my room earlier, I nod. “I just might do that. I’m staying there tonight. Thanks for the tip.” I twirl the lavender between my fingers. “Take care, George.”
I carefully backtrack to my car and get in, gently placing the lavender in the side pocket of my purse. Pulling out onto the road, I look in the rearview mirror, and I’m stunned to see George standing next to the produce stand, waving at me like a little kid. He has one hand on his hip, the other signaling goodbye with broad strokes through the air, his overzealous, gleaming white smile glinting in the bright sunshine with a diamondping.
“Whew,” I whistle. “I wonder what his story is? He’s either high on life or…” I pause for a beat. “High on something.”
***
“Turn left at the stop sign and continue for two miles on Paradise Road,”the auto-voice instructs through the car speaker.
The smooth British accent programmed into the system seems fitting among the instrumental music softly playing throughout the interior, like a butler announcing high tea at a London hotel.
