Page 50 of Good Directions

I step into her, closing the distance but keeping my hands to myself. They ache to touch her, hold her—to pick up where we left off last night. But this isn’t the time or place. That comes next. Once I get her out of here. Once it’s just us.

Because Sawyer is a very different person when it’s just us.

“You said the soil looked good. So…we can plant?”

“No.”

No?!

“I mean…maybe,” she acquiesces. “I want to run more tests first.”

“I’ll take maybe.” I nod, weaving my fingers into hers. Her skin is soft, even covered in gritty dirt, and I can feel the apprehension in her touch as a breeze rustles the leaves of the saplings still standing. “How ’bout you tell me about those tests over lunch?”

“Y-y-you still want to do that?”

The uncertainty in her voice makes my heart lurch. Apparently I need to up my game if Sawyer has any doubts that I want to spend more time with her.

Shifting my weight, I lean in, reaching up to tuck the rogue piece of hair into her French braid. I know it won’t stay, and that in five minutes I’ll be doing it all over again, gladly, but right now I’ll take any excuse to touch her.

“It’s the whole reason I’m here. I have a picnic basket loaded in my truck, and I’m going to steal you away.” Lowering my lips to her ear, I drop my voice, making sure that only she can hear this next part. “I want to continue what we started last night.”

Sawyer looks away, eyes heading straight for the ground. For a split second I start to worry, but the titter that escapes betrays her, making me soar. I lift her chin with my knuckle, her shy, sneaky smile almost as adorable as the blush coloring her cheeks.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Sawyer nods, cheeks still flushing. “Where are we going?”

“Get in the truck and you’ll see.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling through the old broken fence, slowly rolling over the uneven earth. Despite the care I take trying to avoid the bumps, it’s impossible to miss them entirely, each new one jostling us almost to the point of discomfort. And distraction. At least for me, since it’s more than enough to make Sawyer’s chest bounce under her shirt.

Throwing my truck in park, I climb out and race around the back, grabbing the picnic basket I stowed in the bed, making sure to get to the passenger side in time to open it for my girl. Her eyes sparkle, holding my gaze as her hand slips into mine, fingers interlacing.

“Welcome,” I say, stealing a chaste kiss as I slide her out of the truck.

Sawyer presses her lips together, almost looking embarrassed that she let me do that. “To a peach grove?”

“Not just any peach grove, darlin’,” I correct her. “The original Hayes peach grove.”

Keeping our fingers linked, I lead her down the way, weaving our way through the trees. The summer sun dances through the leaves, the breeze rustling the branches like back at the main groves. When we reach the clearing I know by heart, I stop, turning to face Sawyer.

“This is the spot of the first Hayes peach tree, as commemorated by the stump.”

I gesture to the awkward, gnarly, ancient piece of petrified wood, surrounded by a wrought iron fence and marked with a plaque. I manage to hold in my laughter, keeping my face as placid as possible.

“You have a commemorative stump?” Sawyer asks, not even bothering to hide her judgment.

“Sure do.”

“That’s…” she trails off. I wait for it, on pins and needles, wanting to know what she’s going to say. “Stupid. That’s stupid.”

I throw my head back, laughing.

She’s not wrong.

“It is a little silly. But I’m also not going to be the Hayes to get rid of it.”

“Fair.” She shrugs.