Page 17 of Spicy Ever After
I clear my throat. “See. That is a good question. Because you don’t know the answer, and neither do I.”
His smile is like a geyser shooting up from nothing but drenching everything in sight. Despite the steady stream of my tears, my face does its own thing, and I smile back.
Farm Boy sucks in a swift breath, his big chest rising. It makes me realize how close he is. His body is just a few inches from mine. When I stand this close to people, sometimes Mom, Dad, Grandma Eloise, or even Margaret will put a hand on my elbow and nudge me back, reminding me that people need their space.
Maybe Farm Boy’s family does that to him. Except, no one else is here. And, suddenly, that thought makes my smile grow even wider.
“That’s—” Farm Boy snaps his mouth shut and swallows. The movement pulls my gaze to his walnut bronze throat. The muscles in his neck stand out like bamboo stalks as his Adam’s apple bobs, and I think I could stare at the way his throat works like I stare at my bobbin winder.
But then it hits me that I am staring, and my gaze snaps back to his.
“Huh? What were you saying?” I ask, worried I’ve zoned out.
He presses his lips together, and I can tell he’s choosing his words.
“I’m terrible at that,” I announce.
Farm Boy blinks. “Terrible at what?”
“Choosing my words.”
His lips part and he hesitates, again, doing the thing I always fail to do. “You mean you just say what’s on your mind?”
I nod, but my face heats. Because speaking my mind usually gets me into trouble, and I don’t want him to know that. How I embarrass my family when I blurt out things. How I got detention in tenth grade for telling Mrs. Bailey, my civics teacher, that she should try apple cider vinegar for her halitosis.
How pinched Grandma Eloise’s mouth got that time I noted that she had two new liver spots on her right hand.
One of his sun-bleached brows arches, and I realize I was wrong.
He isn’t just interesting.
He’s beautiful.
But not like the field of poppies my family and I saw in Antelope Valley on our trip to California.
More like the sequoia forest in Kings Canyon. Where you stand at the base of one of the giant redwoods, and you have to hold onto something as you tip your head back to see it all. Because you can’t believe something so big and breathtaking isn’t just the stuff of legends.
“Have you ever been to the Sierra Nevadas?” I could tell him that he has the legendary beauty of a sequoia, but it might not resonate without context.
Farm Boy laughs. It is better than the whole Aurifil catalog. Better than the porch at the beach house. Better than brunch.
“I’ve been as far east as Disney World and as far west as San Antonio.”
“How far north?” I must know this now.
“Hot Springs.”
“And south?”
His grin pulls to the side. “Also Disney World.”
“I’ve traveled a lot more than you have.”
He shrugs. “That’s not hard to do.”
A jolt shoots through me. “I’m not crying anymore!”
He laughs again, his face shining, and it feels like a hot air balloon festival in my chest.
