Cream of the Crop
Page 29
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Into a huge puddle of mud.
Arms flailed while boots sank, then stuck, and as I pinwheeled to stay vertical, gravity took a moment to assert itself. Down I went, vaguely aware of Oscar running toward me, reaching to snatch me up out of the mud. But I zigged when he zagged, and landed squarely on my ass.
Mud splattered everywhere, soaking into my jeans. My thigh-high boots were thoroughly soaked as well, making me swear loud and long.
Oscar came to the rescue, kneeling down next to where I sat, covered in mud. “You better quit that yelling, the cows will come see what’s wrong.”
“I’m covered in mud!”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, smothering a laugh. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
I let him scoop under my arms and put me on my feet, bringing me close to all that flannel and thermal . . . mmm. Touching and feeling all that cotton made me quite sure it could very well be the fabric of my life. I inhaled deeply, breathing in all that cottony softness, all that crisp outdoor air, edged with a touch of burning leaves.
Once I was on my feet again, all I wanted to be was down on the ground, rolling around with this guy. Though I could feel the earth under my feet, I still felt light, airy, weightless. I wanted more weightless. I wanted more of that suspension with him, that heady feeling that I could feel crowding in and making me a bit dizzy.
“Look at you, dirty girl,” he murmured, showing me his now mud-covered hand.
“You have no idea,” I murmured, tilting my head back and gazing up at him. Backlit by Mother Nature, he was stunning. And I was in his arms. I let my own hands come up, sliding along that red plaid flannel shirt and up around his neck, sinking once more into that decadent hair. “Now put that hand back where it belongs.”
Oscar should grin more often. Because when he does, birds sing and angels weep. And holy shit, cows moo.
He bent me backward a bit, very old-school Hollywood, but instead of kissing me like I hoped, he dipped lower, nuzzling along the column of my neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin there, settling right along the pulse point just underneath my jaw. “It’s really a shame about those boots. They’re sexy as fuck,” he said. I squealed a little as the scruff below his lips tickled at my skin. “I hope they’re not ruined.”
“No worries. I’ve got a guy who works on all my leather.”
“How much leather do you have?” he asked, and I could feel him smiling at my collarbone.
“Not like that.” I giggled. “I just meant I’ve got someone who can clean them.”
“Good, that’s good.”
“It’s nice of you to be concerned, though, since they are Chanel.”
“Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots,” he said and, with a gentleness a man so large shouldn’t possess, lightly plucked a fallen leaf from my hair.
“Next time I’ll wear the boots, I promise.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, crunching the leaf in his hand. “Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots . . . and nothing else.”
His gaze burned into mine and I crushed my lips to his fiercely, my entire body going up in flames of lust.
He ended the kiss by wrenching his lips from mine, both of us breathing heavily. Emotions warred in his face: keep kissing me stupid in the mud, or clean me up? Chivalry triumphed over ribaldry.
“You still want to see my barn?” he asked, dipping his head down for one more kiss, sweeter this time but still white-hot.
I gulped. “I can say with all sincerity that I’m literally dying to see your barn.”
He laughed, slipped his arm around my shoulders, and took me and my muddy boots across the yard.
This man, this man right here, was going to be the death of me.
The barn truly was an engineering marvel. In an age of steel beams and corrugated metal siding, this thing was built to last. The outside was gorgeous of course, all that stacked fieldstone and cheery painted wood, and the inside was dim and cozy.
It was amazing that over two hundred years ago, someone took the time to design style into a building that was made for necessity. A turned post here, an embellished cornice there. Nothing fussy or fancy, but the workmanship that went into this structure was fascinating.
And it was huge! How it could also be cozy was beyond me, but even though there must have been fifty stalls set into the long side walls, each spread thickly with soft-looking hay and big enough for a cow to lie down, spread out, and even read the Sunday Times, the barn was segmented into several sections, making it feel less huge.
“And this is where all the cows sleep?”
“Not so much in the summer, but always in the winter.” He walked just behind me as I explored, running my fingers along the smooth beams and weathered wood. “When it’s nice out they like to be outdoors as much as possible, but when it snows? My girls like a warm bed.”
“Who doesn’t?” I murmured, looking back at him over my shoulder. “This original structure is incredible, and the repairs and additions look almost flawless—they blend beautifully.”
“Additions?” he said.
“Run your gaze along the ceiling, and you can see where the wood dovetails,” I said. “It’s a different wood—oak, likely—where the original part is chestnut. It’s really rare to find a barn made of chestnut.”
“It is?”
“Oh yeah. New York State, and eventually the entire country, was hit with a huge blight in the early 1900s that killed nearly all of the native chestnut. American chestnut is essentially nonexistent these days.”
Arms flailed while boots sank, then stuck, and as I pinwheeled to stay vertical, gravity took a moment to assert itself. Down I went, vaguely aware of Oscar running toward me, reaching to snatch me up out of the mud. But I zigged when he zagged, and landed squarely on my ass.
Mud splattered everywhere, soaking into my jeans. My thigh-high boots were thoroughly soaked as well, making me swear loud and long.
Oscar came to the rescue, kneeling down next to where I sat, covered in mud. “You better quit that yelling, the cows will come see what’s wrong.”
“I’m covered in mud!”
“I’m aware of that,” he said, smothering a laugh. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”
I let him scoop under my arms and put me on my feet, bringing me close to all that flannel and thermal . . . mmm. Touching and feeling all that cotton made me quite sure it could very well be the fabric of my life. I inhaled deeply, breathing in all that cottony softness, all that crisp outdoor air, edged with a touch of burning leaves.
Once I was on my feet again, all I wanted to be was down on the ground, rolling around with this guy. Though I could feel the earth under my feet, I still felt light, airy, weightless. I wanted more weightless. I wanted more of that suspension with him, that heady feeling that I could feel crowding in and making me a bit dizzy.
“Look at you, dirty girl,” he murmured, showing me his now mud-covered hand.
“You have no idea,” I murmured, tilting my head back and gazing up at him. Backlit by Mother Nature, he was stunning. And I was in his arms. I let my own hands come up, sliding along that red plaid flannel shirt and up around his neck, sinking once more into that decadent hair. “Now put that hand back where it belongs.”
Oscar should grin more often. Because when he does, birds sing and angels weep. And holy shit, cows moo.
He bent me backward a bit, very old-school Hollywood, but instead of kissing me like I hoped, he dipped lower, nuzzling along the column of my neck, nipping gently at the sensitive skin there, settling right along the pulse point just underneath my jaw. “It’s really a shame about those boots. They’re sexy as fuck,” he said. I squealed a little as the scruff below his lips tickled at my skin. “I hope they’re not ruined.”
“No worries. I’ve got a guy who works on all my leather.”
“How much leather do you have?” he asked, and I could feel him smiling at my collarbone.
“Not like that.” I giggled. “I just meant I’ve got someone who can clean them.”
“Good, that’s good.”
“It’s nice of you to be concerned, though, since they are Chanel.”
“Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots,” he said and, with a gentleness a man so large shouldn’t possess, lightly plucked a fallen leaf from my hair.
“Next time I’ll wear the boots, I promise.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, crunching the leaf in his hand. “Maybe next time you’ll wear the boots . . . and nothing else.”
His gaze burned into mine and I crushed my lips to his fiercely, my entire body going up in flames of lust.
He ended the kiss by wrenching his lips from mine, both of us breathing heavily. Emotions warred in his face: keep kissing me stupid in the mud, or clean me up? Chivalry triumphed over ribaldry.
“You still want to see my barn?” he asked, dipping his head down for one more kiss, sweeter this time but still white-hot.
I gulped. “I can say with all sincerity that I’m literally dying to see your barn.”
He laughed, slipped his arm around my shoulders, and took me and my muddy boots across the yard.
This man, this man right here, was going to be the death of me.
The barn truly was an engineering marvel. In an age of steel beams and corrugated metal siding, this thing was built to last. The outside was gorgeous of course, all that stacked fieldstone and cheery painted wood, and the inside was dim and cozy.
It was amazing that over two hundred years ago, someone took the time to design style into a building that was made for necessity. A turned post here, an embellished cornice there. Nothing fussy or fancy, but the workmanship that went into this structure was fascinating.
And it was huge! How it could also be cozy was beyond me, but even though there must have been fifty stalls set into the long side walls, each spread thickly with soft-looking hay and big enough for a cow to lie down, spread out, and even read the Sunday Times, the barn was segmented into several sections, making it feel less huge.
“And this is where all the cows sleep?”
“Not so much in the summer, but always in the winter.” He walked just behind me as I explored, running my fingers along the smooth beams and weathered wood. “When it’s nice out they like to be outdoors as much as possible, but when it snows? My girls like a warm bed.”
“Who doesn’t?” I murmured, looking back at him over my shoulder. “This original structure is incredible, and the repairs and additions look almost flawless—they blend beautifully.”
“Additions?” he said.
“Run your gaze along the ceiling, and you can see where the wood dovetails,” I said. “It’s a different wood—oak, likely—where the original part is chestnut. It’s really rare to find a barn made of chestnut.”
“It is?”
“Oh yeah. New York State, and eventually the entire country, was hit with a huge blight in the early 1900s that killed nearly all of the native chestnut. American chestnut is essentially nonexistent these days.”
