Cream of the Crop
Page 22

Chapter 7
Roxie chopped.
I paced.
Roxie stirred.
I paced.
She sautéed.
Still . . . I paced.
I was making her nervous. I knew this because every three or four minutes, she’d set down her knife/spoon/ladle/grinder and say, “You’re making me nervous, dammit.”
I kept an eye on the road. Leo had texted to let Roxie know they were coming for lunch soon—they being the key word. They were on their way, they included Oscar, the tattooed godlike creature that I’d humiliated myself in front of for the last time.
I chewed on a piece of celery, gnawing almost angrily as Roxie told me again that she thought I should go easy on this one, let things happen naturally, cool my jets and maintain my composure, and simply remember that I was a knockout who could have any man I wanted. But while I placated her with a few “yeses” and “you got its” and “shit yeahs,” I knew that I’d be using a different tactic when the milkman cameth.
And just over the ridge, here he came, thundering down the road on a shit-yeah motorcycle. I almost couldn’t take it. Hair flying in the wind, sunglasses on like an ad for Ray-Ban, Oscar came to rest just outside the kitchen door, kicking up dust. Leo followed in his old Jeep, the two of them almost overkill.
Just as my skin tingled and my thighs clenched, Roxie’s voice brought me back from the brink of a public orgasm.
“Remember, Nat, be cool,” she said, flipping the chicken cutlets.
Be cool? Tell that to my clitoris . . .
Time to nip this in the bud.
I nodded as I stood, my eyes locked on the tall drink of gorgeous as I went to the door and strode purposefully toward the man on the motorcycle. Leo took one look at me and wisely beat feet toward the kitchen, where I could see Roxie peeping through the flour-sack curtains.
“Oscar, right?” I said, keeping my eyes focused on the pastoral scene just above and beyond his left shoulder. Powerful muscles, beautiful golden skin, swirled with enticing ink.
I let my eyes run down toward his hand, which I grabbed before I could lose my nerve. Avoiding eye contact, I headed toward the unrenovated part of the barn, where Roxie had shown me the old milking stalls. I could feel the heat of his hand as he held my fingers tightly in his grip, making me fully aware that he was along for the ride.
I could also feel that his gaze was firmly on my backside. A smile crept over my face as I felt Normal Natalie show herself for the first time around this guy.
Sweet-smelling hay crunched underfoot and the sun fell through the space between the rafters as I led him toward the stalls in the back of the barn.
Reaching the end of the aisle, I turned to face him, keeping my eyes straight ahead. He was so close behind I nearly crashed into his chest. I noticed, not for the first time, how very tall he was. I was used to men being only a few inches taller than me, the same height when I was wearing my heels. Which I almost always was. But this guy’s collarbone was exactly the same height as my mouth.
Oh.
I released his hand and placed both of mine on his warm, broad chest. Inhaling, I got an intoxicating noseful of Oscar. My eyes were drawn up past the sight of my hands on him, which made me shiver, to the sliver of skin above his T-shirt with just the barest hint of ink. Licking my lips, I lightly pushed him backward toward the side of the stall. And when we were there, I ran around the wall to the adjoining stall.
Where I couldn’t see him.
Where I could finally talk to him.
I took a deep breath, then opened my mouth to speak.
“So here’s the thing, Oscar. Can I call you Oscar?”
“My name is Oscar,” he said, sounding a little amused.
“Right,” I nodded, screwing up my eyes in frustration. Hmm. That was actually even better. I couldn’t see him, and now I couldn’t see anything. Much better. I reached out, catching hold of a wooden slat, rough under my fingertips, yet grounding somehow. “Here’s the thing, Oscar,” I repeated. “You’re fucking incredible to look at, and when I see you, I turn stupid. Weirdly, oddly stupid, because normally I can talk to any guy. But with you, it’s like all I can say is what I always say. Oh. Yes. Which believe me, I’ve thought about all the different ways that I could say that. And obviously your cheese is amazing, but it’s not all about the cheese for me. What I mean to say, is . . .” I bit down on my lower lip. Should I just come out with it? “I think about you all the time, naked all the time, with me, and I’m naked and I’m doing things to you, and holy shit are you doing things to me, and it’s so very very good, and if you were any other guy we’d already be doing the naked very good things, but you’re not, it’s like you’ve got some kind of mysterious hold over me—speaking of which, I’ve thought about you over me, and under me, and behind me.” I laughed out loud, realizing that my brain had clearly decided to just come out with it. “So—I needed to say this, and you needed to hear this, and now maybe I can be in the same room with you and actually have eye contact and not turn stupid anymore, because it’s out there now. We’re both aware of it, and now when I come to see you in the city and you ring up my order, you’ll know and I’ll know that while I definitely want your Brie, I’m also imagining banging the ever-loving fuck out of you.”
There.
Said it.
And he wasn’t saying anything. Not good.
“You know who I am, right?”
Still nothing from his side of the stall.
I climbed up one rung, then the second. Was he still there? I made it to the top, peered over—but the stall was empty.