“Older folks know better,” the woman went on, waving a hand. “We spend our free time in the great outdoors, not packed into a gym that smells like sweat socks.”
I nodded pleasantly. “Sounds lovely.”
“Itis. If you haven’t had an orgy under the stars while drinking hooch and listening to Jimi Hendrix, young man, you haven’t lived.” She turned her head to give me a wink. “You’re welcome to come try it with me sometime.”
I choked on my water a little bit and turned to look at her fully. The woman had a gray bob, snapping blue eyes, and a smile that turned sly when she saw she’d surprised me.
Fortunately, a lifetime spent with the McKetchams of Whispering Key meant that I was able to quickly wallpaper over the mental image of elderly people having drunken outdoor orgies and say, “Oh. Wow. Thank you for the kind invitation, but I’m more of an… indoorsy sort of person? Also… gay.”
She laughed delightedly. “Oh, we’re going to get on just fine. I’m Helena Fortnum—innkeeper, nature photographer, former schoolteacher.” She leaned toward me confidingly. “Unrepentant gossip.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Fortnum. I’m?—”
“Gage Goodman, the new gent over at the Sundays’ place. I know! Drew Sunday gave me the skinny on you when I cornered him in the cereal aisle at the Spence, and I feel like we’re already friends. You can call me Helena. How are you getting along out at the orchard?”
For a moment, I was tempted to tell her the truth.
Well, Helena, I felt an instant attraction for Knox Sunday, who had an immediate and opposite reaction to me, and now my boy bits don’t seem to want any other eligible men in the area, and it’s making me cranky. What kind of hooch would you recommend for that?
But what I ended up saying was, “Oh, you know. It’s great. Pretty scenery.”
“Uh-huh.” She nodded like she guessed some part of what I’d left unsaid. “Lot of personalities out there, aren’t there? You know, I went to school with Drew Sunday, and I taught third grade for thirty-five years before I retired, so I had every one of the Sunday kids in my class, too,” she said conspiratorially. “I’ve got all the tea, if you’re interested.”
“Oh, wow.” I tried to imagine Knox or even Webb as an eight-year-old, but I couldn’t. I was pretty sure they’d been born with thick beards and broad shoulders, just maybe a little shorter. “You know, I might just take you up on that offer, Helena,” I told her. “’Cause I’ve been sharing an office with?—”
“Knox Sunday!” Helena interrupted, hands on her hips as she smiled at someone over my shoulder. “Well, well. The prodigal son’s come home at last, eh?”
“Hey, Ms. Fortnum,” a deep voice behind me said, and my whole damn body vibrated like a plucked bowstring. “Good to see you.”
Don’t turn around,I warned myself. It’ll only make the compulsion worse. Don’t be that idiot. Don’t turn around. Don’t…
“Webb and Emma finally dragged you out of the orchard and into town?” Helena teased.
“Not dragged.” He paused for a second, and I could almost hear his lips tilting up—a glacially slow transformation. “You know Em would never use brute force when she could convince you to come under your own power, right?” He paused. “So, I see you’ve met Goodman.”
“Oh, yes! He’s adorable.”
Because I was weak as hell, I turned my head to check Knox’s reaction to this comment and caught Knox’s eyes surveying me from heels to head like he was trying to assess whether I was adorable or not.
I knew I looked good. I’d spent thirty minutes selecting my outfit that afternoon, just in case I decided to do more with Grindr than contemplate its existence. My navy sweater was dressy without trying too hard, and Toby had once told me my jeans—the one and only designer pair I owned—screamed “fuck me” in denim.
Knox didn’t seem to be picking up on this message, though, because after casually looking me over, he sipped his apple cider and watched the crowd like he’d dismissed me entirely from his thoughts.
“I don’t know about adorable, but he’s something alright,” he agreed with heavy irony.
Knox, meanwhile, wore the Sunday brothers’ uniform of a button-down shirt over dark jeans and boots, except Knox’s shirt was well tailored to his tapered frame. I had no idea how a numbers guy had maintained a physique like that while living in the city. I imagined him belonging to one of those gyms that had people flip tractor tires instead of doing simple squats, and a pang of something deeper than longing made my stomach clench.
Confession time: I had jerked off to the mental image of Knox’s laughter the night before.
And, yes, that might actually have been the weirdest, least sexual thing I’d ever jerked off to.
And, yes, thank you, I found that concerning also.
Particularly since the object of my lumber-crush was about as into me as I was into the 1970s game show reruns that my stepmother watched for hours each day. Survey says, not at all.
Which was why I was probably almost definitely for sure going to find a random guy to hook up with tonight, before I was tempted to beat DJ Tony over the head with his own microphone for the good of Little Pippin Hollow.
“Thank you, Herzogs! That was… beautiful,” the man in question yelled, ignoring the feedback screech that made us all flinch. “Now! Marianne Palmer? Marianne? Where are you, Marianne? Ah! Marianne, Christina Miele has pledged $40 for the pleasure of your company as you dance to Meatloaf’s ‘I Would Do Anything For Love.’ What do you say? Are you going to tell her youwon’t do that?”Tony laughed at his own joke so hard that I rubbed my forehead and made a pained, whimpering noise.
