I’m not ready to tell George why I’m in Heartsboro. The timing doesn’t feel right, and I’m unsure how to explain myself.
I promised Mr. Jamison I’d spend time on the farm and get to know his grandson. How in the world can I explain this to George?
I realize my grave error and try to backtrack, my explanation coming out in a mumbled tone. “I have met your grandfather,” I answer truthfully. “It was a week ago when I was here in Heartsboro doing research for my company. I ran into him while I was in town.”
“What kind of research?”
The overhead sun sizzles the top of my head, and I swear my hair might catch on fire. A trickle of sweat makes a path down my cheek, and I wave the stagnant air in front of my face, desperate for a breeze.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little… dizzy from this heat.”
George immediately catches my elbow as I teeter on the path. How did it get so hot all of a sudden?
“Come on,” he says, planting his cowboy hat on my head. “The barn isn’t too far. Let’s get you some of that cold water.”
“Sounds good.”
The welcome shade from the oversized brim of his hat is a relief. The leather hat band gives off a sweet, woodsy smell mixed with the undeniable scent of a man.
We leisurely walk, his hot fingers gentle against my skin as he guides me over the uneven divots of the pathway. My body is damp with perspiration, and the summer heat is doing a number on me.
“Is it always this hot in June?” I ask.
George helps me up a small embankment, his chivalry on full display. “You get used to it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could ever get used to this kind of heat,” I heave.
We enter the barn, and I swear the interior is at least ten degrees cooler. George insists I sit on a hay bale while he fetches me a cup of water.
“I’ll be right back.”
I nod, remove his cowboy hat, and set it beside me. Swiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I’m grateful for the shade. Looking around, I notice chickens pecking the hard-packed dirt. I’ve never seen a chicken up close and personal before, and thebawksounds coming from their feathered bodies are oddly comforting.
“Here you go.” George hands me a plastic cup with the Wild Daisy Inn logo.
“Hey, I’m staying at the Wild Daisy Inn again.”
“You should. It’s a great place.”
I grin up at him before I take the cup and press my lips against the rim. After a deep pull, I swallow, my eyes closing as I relish the cold spring water sliding down my throat. It’s exactly as I remember from the first day on the front porch with Mr. Jamison.
“Wow, this is so refreshing.”
George sits near me on a second bale. “Are you cooling off? Probably shouldn’t have skipped so much.”
“You got that right,” I laugh.
Holding the plastic cup on my lap between my hands, I ask, “What would you be doing right now if I wasn’t here?”
He runs a rugged hand across his prominent jawline and seems to think about it for a few seconds. “On Saturdays, after I close down the produce stand, I return to the farm, unload the truck, and grab a bite to eat. After that, I sometimes go fishing, or maybe walk around and pick some flowers and vegetables for the week.”
Those words coming out of his manly mouth are an oxymoron. “You pick your own flowers?”
His expression flattens, and he seems embarrassed. He hunches over and tents his hands, staring at the dirt. “I, uh, I like putting together flowers in an arrangement, is all. I like to experiment with the colors and sizes. Believe it or not, it helps with sales.”
“And you do this every Saturday?” His routine fascinates me, and I’m eager to hear more.
“Yes, ma’am. Every Saturday. It’s the only time I have the farm all to myself.”
