“What did you bring?” I asked, shaking his shoulders.
He buried his head once again into my neck. “A really big zucchini” was the muffled reply, and I threw my head back and laughed. He continued on his nuzzle path, now sweeping kisses back up toward my ear.
“I’m taking my beets and going home,” he whispered, and my laughter stopped as he licked my skin.
“No, no, you went to all that trouble to bring me that zucchini. At least let me see it.”
He groaned into my neck. “Now you’re just killing me.” He made to pull away, and I tugged him back.
“You should stay just another minute,” I said, turning my head to allow him better access to my sweet spot. Well, the sweetest spot accessible right now. “Oh yeah . . . you should definitely stay another minute . . . or seven.”
He answered with a kiss on my collarbone. “Is that the diner version of Seven Minutes in Heaven? I feel like a teenager.”
“I’ll go you one better,” I said, arching up into him, feeling my breasts press against his chest. “My mom’s out of town; you wanna come over for dinner tonight?”
“Now you’re talking,” he told my bra strap, which he was pushing aside to dance little kisses on the skin underneath. My shoulder was in heaven. He gathered my hair back into his fist, sweeping it off my shoulders. He inhaled deeply. “Did anyone ever tell you that you smell like honey?”
“It would certainly explain the bees.”
He lifted his head. “Are you aware that the second you said the word bees, your entire body froze?”
I sighed. “I truly believe ‘so goes the colony, so goes the planet’—but bees are assholes.”
He dropped his head to my back to my shoulder. “You’re twisted.”
I smiled. “But you still want to lick my honey, don’t you?”
He groaned.
Approximately six and a half minutes later, after running his hands through his hair to smooth out the furrows my hands had made in it, and straightening my bunchy shirt, Leo backed out of the walk-in, saying, “Okay—so I’ll bring you beets as long as I have them in season.”
I knew he was making sure people knew he was just there for business—and not monkey business—but I couldn’t help giggling.
Tonight, I was having Leo. Over for dinner. Yes, that period was intentional. It was rare that I sat down with a guy and shared a meal I had prepared. But with Leo providing so much of the food, and little potential for strings attached, it only seemed fair. And more to the point, I liked the idea of cooking for Leo. I wanted to cook for him.
I waited a few minutes, getting my giggles under control and zipping up my hoodie, wondering if my lips looked used. God damn, the man could kiss.
When I returned to the kitchen, clipboard in hand, everything was normal—the world had continued to turn.
But lunch was approaching, so my curiosity about the basket he’d brought me—I needed to see just how big this zucchini was—would have to wait. As I prepped the stew, I realized I was curious to get to the bottom of the Leo Story, as I’m sure it was a good one. And now I was off on a daydream tangent about his bottom, which was considerably cute.
I pondered this and other ponderables throughout lunch, and during the hour afterward roasting mad beets. I had some ideas of what I wanted to make for dinner tonight with Leo, and beets would be figured prominently. And speaking of prominent, I finally peeked in the basket he left me and saw the zucchini. He should have been arrested for carrying that thing through town. Honestly.
After I closed up the diner and collected my beets, I went shopping for the rest of what I’d need tonight. Being so close to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, this area had always had its share of impeccable palates. But with the farm-to-table explosion, the number of shops selling local and homegrown foods had multiplied significantly.
I’d spent the last few years being spoiled by the riches of living so close to the San Joaquin Valley, one of the greatest agricultural areas in all of the United States. Access to locally grown fruits and vegetables was something I took for granted.
But here, it was homegrown New York style. The Hudson Valley had always had a mix of people making it home. Take some hippies and richies, add a dash of old school, a sprinkle of blue blood and a dollop of millennial, with a generous helping of city professionals who owned weekend homes, and you had an eclectic melting pot.
So it made perfect sense that on Main Street, you’d find a high-end clothing store next to a shop that sold crystals promising you inner light and peace. A Realtor with pictures of multimillion-dollar “farmhouses” in the front window, next door to a dive bar advertising dollar pitchers and quarter wings.
But I was focusing on the return of the small-town butcher. A cheese shop. A bakery. An actual general store selling everything from two-dollar belt buckles to nine-dollar artisanal pickles. Ooh, and a wine shop. Locally grown, sustainably sourced bubbly to make us a little tipsy? Why, thank you, sir, I think I’ll have another.
I spent the afternoon popping in and out of stores, saying hello to people I hadn’t seen in ages, and stocking my summer pantry in a major way. I’d left so many of my things in LA, bringing only the basics: clothing, makeup, knives, chopsticks, a rasp, a bamboo steamer, and a fistful of saffron.
Now I filled the back of the Wagoneer with fresh pumpernickel bread, aged balsamic vinegar, and local maplewood smoked bacon. I snatched up armfuls of spices, bunches of fresh herbs, and a wedge of the stinkiest Stilton I could find, imported by a cheesemaker here in town. The cheese shop featured a wide variety from a nearby creamery, and I was willing to bet Leo would know more about those cows.
He buried his head once again into my neck. “A really big zucchini” was the muffled reply, and I threw my head back and laughed. He continued on his nuzzle path, now sweeping kisses back up toward my ear.
“I’m taking my beets and going home,” he whispered, and my laughter stopped as he licked my skin.
“No, no, you went to all that trouble to bring me that zucchini. At least let me see it.”
He groaned into my neck. “Now you’re just killing me.” He made to pull away, and I tugged him back.
“You should stay just another minute,” I said, turning my head to allow him better access to my sweet spot. Well, the sweetest spot accessible right now. “Oh yeah . . . you should definitely stay another minute . . . or seven.”
He answered with a kiss on my collarbone. “Is that the diner version of Seven Minutes in Heaven? I feel like a teenager.”
“I’ll go you one better,” I said, arching up into him, feeling my breasts press against his chest. “My mom’s out of town; you wanna come over for dinner tonight?”
“Now you’re talking,” he told my bra strap, which he was pushing aside to dance little kisses on the skin underneath. My shoulder was in heaven. He gathered my hair back into his fist, sweeping it off my shoulders. He inhaled deeply. “Did anyone ever tell you that you smell like honey?”
“It would certainly explain the bees.”
He lifted his head. “Are you aware that the second you said the word bees, your entire body froze?”
I sighed. “I truly believe ‘so goes the colony, so goes the planet’—but bees are assholes.”
He dropped his head to my back to my shoulder. “You’re twisted.”
I smiled. “But you still want to lick my honey, don’t you?”
He groaned.
Approximately six and a half minutes later, after running his hands through his hair to smooth out the furrows my hands had made in it, and straightening my bunchy shirt, Leo backed out of the walk-in, saying, “Okay—so I’ll bring you beets as long as I have them in season.”
I knew he was making sure people knew he was just there for business—and not monkey business—but I couldn’t help giggling.
Tonight, I was having Leo. Over for dinner. Yes, that period was intentional. It was rare that I sat down with a guy and shared a meal I had prepared. But with Leo providing so much of the food, and little potential for strings attached, it only seemed fair. And more to the point, I liked the idea of cooking for Leo. I wanted to cook for him.
I waited a few minutes, getting my giggles under control and zipping up my hoodie, wondering if my lips looked used. God damn, the man could kiss.
When I returned to the kitchen, clipboard in hand, everything was normal—the world had continued to turn.
But lunch was approaching, so my curiosity about the basket he’d brought me—I needed to see just how big this zucchini was—would have to wait. As I prepped the stew, I realized I was curious to get to the bottom of the Leo Story, as I’m sure it was a good one. And now I was off on a daydream tangent about his bottom, which was considerably cute.
I pondered this and other ponderables throughout lunch, and during the hour afterward roasting mad beets. I had some ideas of what I wanted to make for dinner tonight with Leo, and beets would be figured prominently. And speaking of prominent, I finally peeked in the basket he left me and saw the zucchini. He should have been arrested for carrying that thing through town. Honestly.
After I closed up the diner and collected my beets, I went shopping for the rest of what I’d need tonight. Being so close to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, this area had always had its share of impeccable palates. But with the farm-to-table explosion, the number of shops selling local and homegrown foods had multiplied significantly.
I’d spent the last few years being spoiled by the riches of living so close to the San Joaquin Valley, one of the greatest agricultural areas in all of the United States. Access to locally grown fruits and vegetables was something I took for granted.
But here, it was homegrown New York style. The Hudson Valley had always had a mix of people making it home. Take some hippies and richies, add a dash of old school, a sprinkle of blue blood and a dollop of millennial, with a generous helping of city professionals who owned weekend homes, and you had an eclectic melting pot.
So it made perfect sense that on Main Street, you’d find a high-end clothing store next to a shop that sold crystals promising you inner light and peace. A Realtor with pictures of multimillion-dollar “farmhouses” in the front window, next door to a dive bar advertising dollar pitchers and quarter wings.
But I was focusing on the return of the small-town butcher. A cheese shop. A bakery. An actual general store selling everything from two-dollar belt buckles to nine-dollar artisanal pickles. Ooh, and a wine shop. Locally grown, sustainably sourced bubbly to make us a little tipsy? Why, thank you, sir, I think I’ll have another.
I spent the afternoon popping in and out of stores, saying hello to people I hadn’t seen in ages, and stocking my summer pantry in a major way. I’d left so many of my things in LA, bringing only the basics: clothing, makeup, knives, chopsticks, a rasp, a bamboo steamer, and a fistful of saffron.
Now I filled the back of the Wagoneer with fresh pumpernickel bread, aged balsamic vinegar, and local maplewood smoked bacon. I snatched up armfuls of spices, bunches of fresh herbs, and a wedge of the stinkiest Stilton I could find, imported by a cheesemaker here in town. The cheese shop featured a wide variety from a nearby creamery, and I was willing to bet Leo would know more about those cows.
