It was the perfect start to a Saturday.
Part 2: Farmer's Market
My parents weren't due back to the house until Sunday afternoon, so I suggested we stay in all day, clothing optional. Trevor didn't seem too thrilled with that idea, and I remembered what my sister had said about him, that he was a real on-the-go-go-go kind of guy, so I pulled out the paper and started rattling off various things going on in the city.
“Farmer's market?” he said, his face showing amusement. “Don't tell me you're the farmer's-market type, with fresh herbs and knowing your chickens by name.”
“Not really, but I could be.”
He seemed to ponder this for a moment. We were standing around the tall kitchen island, and even though he had his elbows on the counter, his lower body kept moving—feet tapping, legs shifting. “I suppose I could be too,” he said. “I know how to make pesto.”
“There you go. You're halfway there. With the gorgeous kitchen in that house of yours, it would be a shame not to make pesto.”
“The kitchen wasn't my design, it was ...” The shifting feet stopped moving.
I grabbed my purse and keys. I didn't want to know about his ex-wife, nor did I want him to shut down on me, thinking I was trying to get him to talk. I said, “We should get going to that farmer's market before all the good turnips are gone.”
He smiled. “Oh, no. Not turnips. I have a very rare allergy.”
“No you don't.”
“I could. You don't know me that well,” he joked.
For the second time in as many minutes, I felt uncomfortable. “One day at a time,” I said, and I stood up on my tiptoes for a kiss.
We got to the farmer's market, and I got to know Trevor a little better, as well as strategies for crowded venues. For example, he said everyone turns right as soon as they enter a farmer's market, and they progress slowly around the circuit as a herd of slow-moving sheep. But, there are no rules saying you have to go that way, so he had us turn left and go mostly against the flow of traffic, so we were never stuck behind any slow-moving groups.
My parents usually spend two hours perusing the market, stopping to sample everything and chatting with friends and neighbors. Trevor and I “completed the circuit” in twenty-seven minutes.
We bought fresh ravioli for dinner, as well as plenty of greens, and a strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. He also took three phone calls.
On the way out, he took yet another call, and I wandered over to a stand with jams and jellies. The woman working there was about my height and age, and her husband (so I assumed by the wedding bands) appeared to be cut from the same cloth as Trevor, right down to the constantly-moving feet.
As I tasted a spoon full of apricot jam on a slice of rustic bread, the woman glanced over at Trevor, a few feet behind me, and said, “How long have you two been dating?”
“Not long,” I said.
She gave me a sly look. “Nice, tall one like that, you'd better hang on to him.”
I laughed and said, “I've never dated someone over five-ten!” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I'm getting neck strain staring up at him all the time.”
She rubbed her neck as well and said, “You get used to it.”
I bought some of the apricot jam and some honey as well. I wondered if she'd been complimenting my date to get me to buy more of her food, but the jam was so good, and a line was forming behind me, so I was sure she didn't need to.
Trevor reached his big hand for mine, and we started walking to the exit gate, him still on his phone. I had mixed feelings about him being on his cell, because it was discourteous to me, but I also understood he had an important job. I could take half-days of personal time whenever I wanted, and the theater office would get along fine without me, although some customers wouldn't pay their bills on time without my friendly harassment. Trevor, however, was the boss of a fairly large real estate development company, and he had employees, including my own sister.
I was starting to wonder if I'd be able to keep up with his on-the-go-go-go lifestyle, but then he stopped when we got back to his truck, leaned down, and gave me the nicest kiss. I wrapped my arms around him, wanting more. We'd already had terrific sex that day, but I'd missed out on kissing because of the position, and I wanted it.
I forgot all about feeling sore at him for rushing us through the farmer's market, and for taking all those phone calls, and I just kissed him.
He pulled back from me, looking sheepish. “Damn, girl, you're getting me going again.” He looked left and right to make sure nobody was watching, and adjusted himself to be more comfortable. His thick c**k was smoothing out the wrinkles in his trousers with a big bulge.
I said, “I'd take care of you in the truck … but I'm not that kind of girl.”
He winked at me. “Of course not.”
Oh, but I was that kind of girl, and he knew it. I'd blown him immediately after dessert, on our first date, which really set the tone for our relationship, and that tone was … smoldering. I'd never felt so much passion, so much desire. Before Trevor, sex had been a logical progression, a next step in a relationship after a certain length of time. With him, it was a fire that burned out of control. I needed it. Wanted it.
He leaned in for another kiss, a smoldering hot kiss, and after a few seconds of that, I was as turned on as he felt, my pu**y throbbing to match his erection.
As he reached for the door handle to let me into the truck, I said, “Where to now?” as in, his house or my house.
He helped me step up into the tall vehicle and said, “I'm taking you to my work. You don't mind, do you?”
To his office? That didn't sound very sexy at all, but I said, “Sounds good,” and we were off.
We didn't go to his office at all, but to a new townhouse development in a part of town that was getting trendy, thanks to similar projects and new shops.
“Showing off your new deal?” I asked. From what I'd heard via my sister, the sales for this one had been going well. All the buildings were up, and by the look of it, they had the trades in doing the finishing work.
After parking, Trevor reached over and grabbed my knee, gave it a squeeze, then popped the glove box open and pulled out a camera. “Long story,” he said.
“Try me.”
“I have to photograph some deficiencies in the show suite.”
“That story didn't seem so long to me.”
He gave me a wry smile. “I left out the family of raccoons.”
“Oh dear.”
He stepped out of the truck, circled around to my side, and led me to the show home over a trail of wood sheets and planks. The landscaping wasn't completed yet, so wood had been laid down where a walkway would be soon. Dozens of helium-filled balloons bobbed happily along the path, and it was a perfectly gorgeous autumn afternoon. Other couples and young families milled about, pointing at different townhouse units in the complex, and a little boy squealed about picking out his new bedroom.