Nuts Page 28

  Steeling myself, I tried to speak. “Hi. Leo.” My voice was cracked and shaky, bordering on panic. “I wanted to talk to you . . . oh! I wanted to tell you . . . shit, that was close! . . . I, I’d like to—”

  “Jesus, Roxie,” Leo said, marveling at the sight of me standing in a bee cloud, trying to carry on a normal conversation. “Just breathe, okay?”

  “Yeah, trying to do that, not working so well,” I said shakily. “Anyway, I’m here because I wanted to tell you that . . . Motherfucker!” I got stung. So much for the theory that if you ignore them they’ll ignore you. Fucking rogue bee. “Ow!” Annnd there’s another sting. One landed on my shoulder, another landed on my ear, and though I held it together through all of that, when one had the balls to land on my nose, that was it.

  I ran. But instead of running away, I ran toward Leo and his shocked face, which finally had the sense to show some healthy bee fear, and the two of us ran through the orchard, high-step running through the tall grass, swiping at our heads and windmilling our arms.

  “Left, go left!” he shouted, and I followed, swatting as I went, feeling stings on the back of my calf and my elbow.

  In a haze of screaming and twitching, slapping and jumping, we burst out of the orchard and into a clearing. And just beyond that? Water.

  We plunged into a deep, cold pond, splashing out into the center where we could submerge, the stings instantly cooling. I grabbed for his hand underwater, and we took turns popping above to grab a breath and see how SwarmWatch was going.

  Eventually the bees got bored and headed back to the orchard, to continue gorging themselves on fallen fruit. Leo coaxed me back up to the surface, and we treaded water in the middle of the pond, in the middle of Maxwell Farm. My hair was plastered to my face and a bee sting was swelling up in my eyebrow. I was covered in pond algae, twigs, and sticks, and I was hoping like hell that whatever kept wrapping around my ankle was my shoelace.

  “What the hell, Rox—”

  I wrapped both arms around him, kissed him until we both went under, and then kissed him again as soon as we popped back up.

  “I love you—I love you so much! I want you, I want everything. I want small town and home grown. I want this—without the bees preferably, but if the bees come with this life, then I’ll take the fucking bees. I just want to be your Sugar Snap.”

  Leo silently treaded water, one arm still holding me close, not pushing me away but not pulling me closer.

  I ached to be closer. I ached to just be with him.

  “I want to live here—not just for the summer. I want fall and winter and spring, and hayrides and hoedowns and being bent over a rain barrel on the Fourth of July. I love you, Leo—and—I want it all.”

  I grinned, no fear left. It felt so good to tell him this, to tell him everything.

  “I want to start a food truck, and cooking classes, and get to know Polly, if you’re okay with that, because I think she’s amazing and I think you’re amazing. And—Jesus Christ, I hope that’s my shoelace!” I pulled my leg up to the surface, slapping at it underneath, splashing Leo in the surprised face.

  But the surprise became hopeful. And the hopeful became happy. And the happy became heated. But before the heated could escalate, concern crowded in.

  “You sure about this, Sugar Snap?” Butterflies! “Because it’s not just me I have to consider. If you want me, you have to want us both. I can’t have someone temporary in my life. It’s all in, or . . .”

  The late afternoon sun shone down, casting a golden light on the landscape, the water, the algae in his beard.

  I wrapped my leg around his and pulled him closer with a smile. “I’m all in, Farmer Boy.”

  Epilogue

  Farmer Boy. She called me Farmer Boy.

  I thought about this as I walked through the fall wheat, running my fingertips along the tall grain. The air was crisp today, not quite chilly, but with a hint of the winter that was only a few months away now.

  The fall wheat was usually the last crop harvested; the apples already picked and stored for the winter. She’d made apple butter after all.

  Polly loved apple butter. She ate it every year, but this year she learned to make it. I smiled as I thought of the afternoons spent in the back kitchen of the diner, jars spread out everywhere, a spicy cinnamony scent heavy in the air, and my girls in matching braids, laughing as they filled containers with the sweet treat.

  My girls.

  Roxie was adamant about keeping her own place, and rightly so. Once she made the decision to move back to Bailey Falls, she was determined to live away from her mother, but close by. The old farmhouse she found was about halfway between my place and her mom’s, only a few minutes from the town she claimed was too small, but she secretly loved.

  When I flew out with her to Los Angeles to pack up her apartment, I noticed there wasn’t a lot there that made it . . . well . . . homey. It was functional, and of course the kitchen was impressive, but there was nothing about it that really said . . . Roxie.

  As much as she claimed to have a full life out there, it took us less than a day to pack her up, and less than an evening to say goodbye to her friends. Sure, her Hollywood friends Jack and Grace were sad to see her go, but they assured her that anytime they were on the East Coast, they’d be sure to get together.

  Driving back across the country, Roxie seemed excited to be getting home, to her new old life. And quicker than anyone expected, she’d cleaned out the Airstream, equipped it with the necessary items to turn it into a food truck, and Zombie Cakes was born. And killing it. She sold out each and every time she showed up to a farmers’ market, a county fair, or a private event.

  I smiled, thinking about her leaning out of the side of the truck, passing a slice of mile-high coconut cake to a happy customer. I smiled wider when I thought about what her tits looked like in her V-neck Zombie Cakes shirt.

  I came to the end of the row, satisfied with the feel of the plump grains on the stalks. We’d harvest soon, maybe by the end of the week. When I heard the Jeep roaring up the dusty farm road, I turned, catching the faint sound of U2 through the open windows. Turns out Polly was a big fan of the band as well, and she and Roxie listened to the old albums by the hour while they baked. “It’s good for dancing, Daddy,” Polly had informed me one afternoon, when I caught the two of them busting a move while sifting flour.

  I agreed.

  As they made the last turn and pulled up beside me, I raised a hand in greeting. Roxie turned off the motor as Polly wrestled with her seat belt, eager to get out and race up and down the rows, like she did every time she came out here.

  “Hey, Daddy!” she cried out, as I helped her unbuckle and swung her high.

  “Hey, Pork Chop! Did you finish your homework?”

  “I did; Roxie helped me. We stopped by the diner after school, and Miss Trudy gave me some pie.”

  “A small piece,” Roxie explained with a sheepish look. “And who gives seven-year-olds homework, by the way?”

  “I don’t mind, though. I learned all about the difference between cumulus and cumu . . . cumula . . . what is it called?” Polly asked, looking to Roxie.

  “Cumulonimbus,” Roxie prompted, and Polly nodded her head vigorously.

  “Yeah, cumulonimbles. They’re different types of clouds.”

  “I see. And what are those over there?” I asked, pointing at the western sky, watching as she wandered and muttered to herself, trying to decipher exactly what was overhead. I took the opportunity to pull Roxie into me, stealing a kiss.

  “Watch yourself, Farmer Boy,” Roxie sighed, the faintest bit of green showing in her eyes. “I’m not above groping you in front of the wee one.”

  “She’ll be busy with her cumulonimbles for at least twenty minutes.” I grinned, my heart beating a little faster at having her in my arms again. “At least let me take a peek down your shirt. I’ll pretend a bee flew down there.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Besides, we need
to save something for later,” she said, but her breath was coming faster.

  “I can’t come by tonight, Sugar Snap. Mrs. Nyland had to go take care of her sister down in Yonkers, so I’ll be on Polly duty tonight.”

  To keep things as routine as possible, there’d been no overnights at my place. Roxie was insistent on that. She came over all the time, but she never spent the night. I was hoping to make a change in that department sooner rather than later, but that was a conversation for another day. In a fancier setting.

  “Oh no, I called in a few favors. My mom agreed to come over tonight and stay with Polly, so feel free to come stand outside my window anytime after eight. If you’re not there,” she breathed, more green appearing in now, “I’ll start without you.”

  “Dangerous,” I groaned, kissing her lips and wrapping my hands around her hips, feeling those curves underneath my fingertips. She got breathy, like my girl always did when I kissed her gentle like this. Her hands slid down the front of my shirt, tugging me closer. As I bumped my hips into hers, her eyes popped open in surprise.

  “Are those nuts in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” she asked, her soft brown curls blowing wildly around her face.

  I dug into my pocket, producing a handful of walnuts, which made her toss her head back and laugh in the way I loved. “Both.” I started to lean back in for another kiss.

  “Roxie! I think I found a serious!” Polly pointed excitedly at the sky. “And kissing is gross, by the way.”

  “I think you mean cirrus,” Roxie said with a chuckle, squeezing my hand. Then she ran into the field after my daughter, kneeling down next to her and looking up at the sky where Polly was pointing.

  My heart felt like bursting as I watched my Pork Chop and my Sugar Snap study the clouds.

  PHOTO BY LISA NORDMANN

  ALICE CLAYTON worked in the cosmetics industry for over a decade before picking up a pen (read laptop). She enjoys gardening but not weeding, baking but not cleaning up, and finally convinced her long-time boyfriend to marry her. Now, about that Bernese Mountain dog . . .

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  Praise for Alice Clayton’s laugh-out-loud sexy Cocktail series

  LAST CALL

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  “Clayton’s trademark charm and comical wit saturates the storyline, which features engaging dialogue, eccentric characters, and a couple who defines the word ‘adorable.’ ”

  —RT Book review

  SCREWDRIVERED

  “Cheers to Alice Clayton! Screwdrivered is a hilarious cocktail of crackling banter, heady sexual tension, and pop-your-cork love scenes. The heroine is brisk and lively (can we be friends, Viv?) and the hot librarian hero seduced me with his barely restrained sensuality. I’ve never wanted a nerd more.”

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  “Clayton’s trademark wit and general zaniness shine through in abundance as readers get an intimate view of the insecurities one faces while in a serious relationship. Steamy playful sex scenes and incorrigible friends make this a wonderful continuation of Wallbanger and Nightie Girl’s journey to their happily ever after.”

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  “For fun, sex, and strudel, make sure to spend some time with these wallbangers.”

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  “A great follow up to Wallbanger . . . just as funny and HOT as the first!”

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  “An instant classic, with plenty of laugh-out-loud moments and riveting characters.”

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  “A funny, madcap, smexy romantic contemporary. . . . Fast pacing and a smooth flowing storyline will keep you in stitches. . . .”

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  And for her acclaimed Redhead series

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  “Laugh out loud funny.”

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  ALSO BY ALICE CLAYTON

  The Cocktail Series

  Wallbanger

  Rusty Nailed

  Screwdrivered

  Mai Tai’d Up

  Last Call

  The Redhead Series

  The Unidentified Redhead

  The Redhead Revealed

  The Redhead Plays Her Hand

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Alice Clayton

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition October 2015

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  Cover design by Sarah Hansen Okay Creations

  Cover photograph by BigLike Images/Shutterstock

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Clayton, Alice.

   Nuts / Alice Clayton. — First Gallery Books trade paperback edition.

    pages ; cm. — (The Hudson Valley series ; 1)

   1. Women cooks—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.

   PS3603.L3968N88 2015

   813'.6—dc23

  2015025020