Page 147 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

Emma walks away looking entirely too pleased with herself. Javier stays beside me. "You busy?"

"Depends."

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"Field."

"That narrows it down."

He takes my hand. "Trust me."

I do. The thought arrives so easily that I nearly miss it.

He leads me past the greenhouse toward the growing fields. Most of the summer crops are finished now, but the fall rows are still producing: kale, carrots, late tomatoes under cover, herbs. The berry rows beyond them have started turning rust and gold.

Javier stops near the end of the main field. A wooden table has been set beneath the old maple tree. Crates surround it. I recognize some of the produce immediately.

"What are you doing?"

"Festival tasting."

I look at him. "You made a festival tasting?"

"I need to decide what goes on the farm table."

"And you need me for that?"

"No." I narrow my eyes. He picks up a tomato. "I want you for that."

That shouldn't sound the way it does. It does. I take the tomato from him. "Fine."

For the next half hour, we work through what the farm will sell fresh and what should go to the food stations. The tomatoes are excellent. The carrots are sweeter than I expect. One variety of apple needs another week. Javier disagrees. He's wrong. I tell him so.

He eats another slice. "You might be right."

"I'd like that in writing."

"Don't push it."

We move down the table. There is something easy about working beside him. No performance. No trying to impress each other. He knows what he knows. I know what I know. Sometimes those things overlap. Sometimes they don't. Neither of us seems threatened by it.

I pick up a small pear and turn it in my hand. "These could work with the cheese station."

"We don't have a cheese station."

"You could."

"Maddy."

"I'm just saying."

"We added an entire food station because of you."

"And look how much better your life is."

He laughs. I take a bite of the pear. Juice runs over my thumb. Javier reaches for my hand before I can wipe it on a napkin. His thumb moves across mine. The gesture is simple. His eyes aren't. My breath catches. He notices. Of course he does.