. . . I’m replacing the sink in my kitchen . . .
I’d never seen his kitchen. I’d never seen his house. I knew the way, though; he’d pointed out the side road that led to his part of the property, on a quieter part of the farm. Hmmm.
I could head over early, surprise him, get him to pick me some strawberries, and bake him that pie while I watched him replace his sink. I’d love to see him holding a wrench. The image of him holding himself last night popped into my head, and I shivered.
I headed into the shower, creating a mental list of everything I’d need to bake the surprise pie. And anything I wouldn’t need . . . like panties. God willing.
Two hours later I was driving down the country road, my favorite pie plate on the seat next to me, along with all my ingredients. U2 was on the radio, “So Cruel.” I’d been smiling since I woke up, and the realization made me smile even bigger.
As I drove through the gates to the farm, I marveled once more at the hustle and bustle of everything he’d created here. I was starting to get to know the farm, and could see the changes that had taken place since I first came out here for my tour. The pole beans were climbing higher and higher on their stakes, full and green and lush. The lettuce rows were thinned out, some bolting and going to seed, as Leo had explained would happen once the sun grew too strong for the cool-weather crops.
I turned onto his side road, which turned to crushed gravel as I neared where his house must be. The trees thinned, and I could feel my heart race a little. Racing just to see Leo? Rather than pushing the feeling down, I let it bloom a little. Simple happiness rolled across me, lighting me up and lightening me up, the wall I kept between me and men crumbling a tiny bit.
My happy fingers tapped out the tune on the steering wheel as I hummed happily along. Two more turns through the woods, and I could see a house beginning to take shape. Leo’s Jeep was standing next to the house, and my heart jolted. He was home!
I pulled alongside his truck off to the side of the house, gazing up at the beautiful home. Fieldstone, soaring windows, charming shutters, and a massive chimney poking through the roof. It wasn’t big, it wasn’t small; it was lovely and very Leo.
And speaking of, there he was, coming down the steps of the wide front porch, laughing. He was always quick to find merriment in any situation, and I wondered what was making him chuckle. As I climbed down from my Wagoneer, I saw the source of his amusement.
Riding piggyback, with sandy blond hair and eyes that matched his, was a little girl, six, maybe seven years old. Leo took off at a gallop through the front yard as she giggled and squealed.
Just as I was trying to figure out what I was going to say, he caught sight of me, standing there with my mouth no doubt wide open. He stopped cold.
The little girl wasn’t having it. Kicking at his side like she was wearing spurs, she shrieked delightedly, “Go, Daddy, go!”
I was so caught off guard that I didn’t even notice when a big fat bumblebee buzzed in, flew underneath my skirt, and stung me right the fuck on my thigh.
Which hurt just as much as I was afraid it would.
For the record, I didn’t run. And I didn’t swear. I did swat at my leg rather violently, killing the bee and causing it to fall right on top of my foot, where it lay for all the world to see. A world that included Leo and his daughter. Who were walking toward me now.
“Roxie,” he said in a soft voice.
I’d heard that softness before. The softness triggered a panic that ran through my whole body, and my gaze dropped away from Leo and his daughter—his daughter! It landed on the bee on my foot, and pain began to bloom somewhere midthigh. Two fat tears formed in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.
“I got stung,” I said, feeling the tears slip down my chin and onto my dress. I’d been stung! I kicked off the bee, watching it fall to the grass. It was a huge bee. And I was crying? What was happening? “I got stung,” I repeated as I rubbed my leg, making it worse.
“You got stung by a bee?” the little girl asked, and I looked up into those familiar green eyes, blurry because of my tears. Bees are assholes! Why didn’t anyone listen to me! “Yes,” I sniffed, wiping my face, which was growing hotter by the second.
Leo looked concerned, but also a little bit guarded.
“Let me see, let me see!” she said.
Leo crouched down and she swung off his back in a practiced way, then ran over to me and looked up expectantly.
“Um, you want to see my bee sting?” I asked, confused.
“No, I want to see the bee. Where’d it go?”
“Oh. There it is.” I pointed, seeing it in a clump of grass.
She squatted down next to it, studying it carefully. Leo came to stand by me, his eyes searching mine. I had so many questions, but right now, all I could feel was the hurt.
In my leg.
“It’s a bumblebee,” she said matter-of-factly. Suddenly she drew herself up straight and turned to me in horror. “You killed it.”
Surprised at being put onto the defensive by such a short person, I answered, “Yes, I did. So? Don’t bees die after they sting, anyway?” What the hell?
“Nuh-huh, only honeybees. There was no reason to kill it.”
“I had a reason,” I grumbled, and looked to Leo for help. Who was watching the two of us, fascinated.
Whether it was the sting, the surprise, or the fascination, my knees buckled and suddenly I was in the grass, next to a dead bumblebee, a disapproving child of indeterminate age, and a farmer with how many more surprises hiding behind his sweet face.