Yes! Tons of take-out orders!
Along with the exhilaration, I also felt a sense of . . . comfort? Belonging? That would seem a perfectly natural reaction, since it was my hometown—yet I’d almost never felt it before. And along with the exhilaration and the comfort of belonging, add one dash of . . . butterflies?
No, that’s not it.
A heart murmur?
Pretty sure you’re healthy, cardiacwise.
Indigestion?
With your cast-iron stomach? Hardly.
So what is it?
Hopefulness? Joy? Intrigue?
Indigestion. That’s it. Too many croutons.
Croutons are giving you butterflies?
Mmm-hmm.
I pondered this while I held a cucumber in my hand. Which naturally brought up other thoughts. Thoughts I didn’t have time to explore, because the owner of the cucumber I wished I was holding came through the front door, his eyes searching for mine. Cue the butterfly croutons.
When Leo saw what I was holding, his face broke into a movie star grin.
In that instant, all of the air left the room. In that instant, all I was aware of was his face and those eyes and that grin . . . and a quickly warming cucumber. In that instant plus one second . . . I realized I was in deep trouble.
Because this guy was incredible.
Because this guy was real and sweet and kind, and he knew about the kinds of things that could wiggle through every chink in my armor and into my heretofore unbreakable heart.
Food.
Orgasms.
Food.
Sweet.
Food.
Strong.
Orgasms.
Oh boy.
And funny.
Caring.
Kind.
Not afraid to get his hands dirty.
Not afraid to talk dirty.
And the surprise of all surprises: I already missed him in my bed.
“Hey, Sugar Snap,” he said. “What kind of plans do you have for that cucumber?”
Officially, I came up with a clever comeback. Officially, I offered some witty banter to keep things light and flirty. Officially, I shot down every butterfly crouton that was fluttering around inside me.
But unofficially? The feeling of being somebody’s Sugar Snap made me grin widely. Nothing witty came from my mouth; it was too busy smiling. And then the smiling became a kiss, then two, then three. Because I nearly vaulted over the counter, ran to Leo like a fool in a Nicholas Sparks film, and threw myself into his strong arms, kissing him as if someone had threatened to take his mouth away from me.
His arms enveloped me, his surprised chuckle quickly muffled by my face. Which he covered in equally urgent kisses, his lips pressing against my forehead, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and finally my mouth again. Lifting me right out of my clogs, he set me on top of the counter, coaxed my legs apart with no resistance from me, and stood between them. I wrapped my legs around him, crossing them high on his back as he let his head tip forward, resting on my breasts, his hands digging into my hips, hard.
“You drive me crazy, Sugar Snap,” he groaned.
“Call me that again, and I’m canceling pickle class.” I ran my hands through his hair and kneaded his scalp, getting a satisfied moan in response.
“Sugar Snap? That’s what brought this on?” he asked, and I tilted his head up toward mine.
“That’s it. Class is canceled.” I was about to tell him to lock the door and ravage me up against the Fryalator when I heard a slow clapping, à la every movie from the eighties.
“Well done. Will all classes begin this way?”
Chad and Logan stood just inside the door, wearing enormous grins and bearing cucumbers.
I slumped down against Leo’s chest, breathing in his heady scent, and breathing out my frustration at being interrupted. When I looked up again, Logan made a decidedly ungentlemanly—okay, totally juvenile—gesture with a cucumber, and I snorted in spite of myself. The moment broken, Leo helped me down off the counter, and I faced my peanut gallery.
“You boys ready to pickle?”
They were in fact ready to pickle. And pickle we did. They were surprisingly good students, once they got all the jokes about pickle size out of their systems. They paid close attention, they followed directions, and within about ninety minutes we had several jars ready for the fridge. It was fun, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed teaching people how to do things like this.
Leo kept close to me most of the night, refusing to answer Chad’s unsubtle questions about what was going on with us, changing the subject smoothly each time. It was frustrating for Chad, amusing for me, and it kept the evening focused on the food. I did wonder how far things would have gone if Chad and Logan hadn’t shown up . . . but no matter. I was enjoying the evening with three gorgeous men, and I might get to see one of them naked very soon. Zombie Pickle Class was a total success.
Zombie Pickle Class was also noticed by several passersby. How could you not stop to read a sign like that? Though the door was locked, that didn’t stop people from peering inside. Interesting . . .
“We should make more! I want enough to last the entire winter,” Logan proclaimed as he labeled his jar of hamburger dills.
“These are fridge pickles, so they’ll only be good for a few months. If you want pickles that will keep longer, that’s a whole different ball of brine. You have to cook them a bit, same as making jelly or jam.”
“Yes! Let’s make jam too!” Chad chimed in enthusiastically.
“Okay, everyone settle,” I said as Leo smothered a laugh. “We can definitely make jam, but not tonight.” I smiled at their eagerness as I scooped up a few jars of my own concoction—baby cucumbers in a zesty brine of spicy peppers and the tiniest drizzle of honey—and headed for the fridge.
Along with the exhilaration, I also felt a sense of . . . comfort? Belonging? That would seem a perfectly natural reaction, since it was my hometown—yet I’d almost never felt it before. And along with the exhilaration and the comfort of belonging, add one dash of . . . butterflies?
No, that’s not it.
A heart murmur?
Pretty sure you’re healthy, cardiacwise.
Indigestion?
With your cast-iron stomach? Hardly.
So what is it?
Hopefulness? Joy? Intrigue?
Indigestion. That’s it. Too many croutons.
Croutons are giving you butterflies?
Mmm-hmm.
I pondered this while I held a cucumber in my hand. Which naturally brought up other thoughts. Thoughts I didn’t have time to explore, because the owner of the cucumber I wished I was holding came through the front door, his eyes searching for mine. Cue the butterfly croutons.
When Leo saw what I was holding, his face broke into a movie star grin.
In that instant, all of the air left the room. In that instant, all I was aware of was his face and those eyes and that grin . . . and a quickly warming cucumber. In that instant plus one second . . . I realized I was in deep trouble.
Because this guy was incredible.
Because this guy was real and sweet and kind, and he knew about the kinds of things that could wiggle through every chink in my armor and into my heretofore unbreakable heart.
Food.
Orgasms.
Food.
Sweet.
Food.
Strong.
Orgasms.
Oh boy.
And funny.
Caring.
Kind.
Not afraid to get his hands dirty.
Not afraid to talk dirty.
And the surprise of all surprises: I already missed him in my bed.
“Hey, Sugar Snap,” he said. “What kind of plans do you have for that cucumber?”
Officially, I came up with a clever comeback. Officially, I offered some witty banter to keep things light and flirty. Officially, I shot down every butterfly crouton that was fluttering around inside me.
But unofficially? The feeling of being somebody’s Sugar Snap made me grin widely. Nothing witty came from my mouth; it was too busy smiling. And then the smiling became a kiss, then two, then three. Because I nearly vaulted over the counter, ran to Leo like a fool in a Nicholas Sparks film, and threw myself into his strong arms, kissing him as if someone had threatened to take his mouth away from me.
His arms enveloped me, his surprised chuckle quickly muffled by my face. Which he covered in equally urgent kisses, his lips pressing against my forehead, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose, and finally my mouth again. Lifting me right out of my clogs, he set me on top of the counter, coaxed my legs apart with no resistance from me, and stood between them. I wrapped my legs around him, crossing them high on his back as he let his head tip forward, resting on my breasts, his hands digging into my hips, hard.
“You drive me crazy, Sugar Snap,” he groaned.
“Call me that again, and I’m canceling pickle class.” I ran my hands through his hair and kneaded his scalp, getting a satisfied moan in response.
“Sugar Snap? That’s what brought this on?” he asked, and I tilted his head up toward mine.
“That’s it. Class is canceled.” I was about to tell him to lock the door and ravage me up against the Fryalator when I heard a slow clapping, à la every movie from the eighties.
“Well done. Will all classes begin this way?”
Chad and Logan stood just inside the door, wearing enormous grins and bearing cucumbers.
I slumped down against Leo’s chest, breathing in his heady scent, and breathing out my frustration at being interrupted. When I looked up again, Logan made a decidedly ungentlemanly—okay, totally juvenile—gesture with a cucumber, and I snorted in spite of myself. The moment broken, Leo helped me down off the counter, and I faced my peanut gallery.
“You boys ready to pickle?”
They were in fact ready to pickle. And pickle we did. They were surprisingly good students, once they got all the jokes about pickle size out of their systems. They paid close attention, they followed directions, and within about ninety minutes we had several jars ready for the fridge. It was fun, and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed teaching people how to do things like this.
Leo kept close to me most of the night, refusing to answer Chad’s unsubtle questions about what was going on with us, changing the subject smoothly each time. It was frustrating for Chad, amusing for me, and it kept the evening focused on the food. I did wonder how far things would have gone if Chad and Logan hadn’t shown up . . . but no matter. I was enjoying the evening with three gorgeous men, and I might get to see one of them naked very soon. Zombie Pickle Class was a total success.
Zombie Pickle Class was also noticed by several passersby. How could you not stop to read a sign like that? Though the door was locked, that didn’t stop people from peering inside. Interesting . . .
“We should make more! I want enough to last the entire winter,” Logan proclaimed as he labeled his jar of hamburger dills.
“These are fridge pickles, so they’ll only be good for a few months. If you want pickles that will keep longer, that’s a whole different ball of brine. You have to cook them a bit, same as making jelly or jam.”
“Yes! Let’s make jam too!” Chad chimed in enthusiastically.
“Okay, everyone settle,” I said as Leo smothered a laugh. “We can definitely make jam, but not tonight.” I smiled at their eagerness as I scooped up a few jars of my own concoction—baby cucumbers in a zesty brine of spicy peppers and the tiniest drizzle of honey—and headed for the fridge.
