Chapter 8

chapter

eight

Owen

“People sure are acting strange today, Graham.”

My son looks up at me curiously from his upturned bushel basket, his face covered in peach juice.

Oh well. A few ruined peaches are better than him grabbing at my customers’ change.

I pick up the salvageable peaches and mark the price down. I need to pay more attention, but it’s tough to do when I’m distracted.

Judy from the yoga studio at the inn is a nice lady and all, but I’m not interested in her. I know she meant no harm, but it made me uncomfortable when she made all those eggplant jokes. Well, at least she bought some lettuce, which she usually does when she visits my stall on Saturdays. That lady really must love a salad.

I take away Graham’s peach before he puts himself in danger of choking on the pit. He screams in protest until I hand him his sippy cup of juice, cut with water. He takes the sippy cup and chugs it with gusto.

“There you go, buddy,” I laugh, strapping him into the carrier that harnesses to my chest. He’s almost too big for it now, but the stroller is a pain at the farmers market.

I turn toward the tailgate of my pickup and grab some ears of corn to add to my table. “Nice, um, zucchini.”

Graham’s legs kick excitedly at the familiar voice.

I turn, and am greeted with that gorgeous smile that turns me upside down.

Daisy.

My heart might burst through my sternum, I’m so happy to see her.

“Please don’t start making penis jokes. I’m chock full,” I beg.

“Fair enough. Nice carrier,” Daisy says, gesturing to the wrap that holds Graham against my chest.

“Thanks,” I say. “One of my coworkers at the feed store gave it to me after her daughter grew out of it.”

“Denim, too. Completes the whole dynamic duo thing you’ve got going on.” She waves her hand in a circle and smiles down at Graham, who tries to hand over his sippy cup of juice.

Damn, this stupid heart of mine skips a beat when Graham reacts that way to her.

“Yes, well, I’m never above using a cute baby as a prop,” I say.

This makes Daisy laugh, and I feel as though I just won a gold medal in track and field. Somehow I’ve forgotten how to breathe, but I’m deliriously happy.

A bit much for one little laugh, but putting a smile on Daisy’s face for one moment is enough to sustain me all day. Maybe all month.

“Get that cash however you can, Graham’s dad,” she says.

“Can I interest you in some squash? Green tomatoes, perhaps?”

She shakes her head and scrunches up her nose. It’s so cute. I swear that Graham can probably hear my heart pounding right now.

“I’ve never understood the point of green tomatoes. What do you do with them?”

“You eat them,” I say matter-of-factly, which sends Daisy into another fit of laughter. I don’t know why that’s funny, but I’ll take it.

“You’ll have to show me sometime,” she says, dabbing at the tear in her eye with the back of her knuckle. I don’t know why, but I find that so cute that I could black out.

“I swear to god, if this is you trying to flirt like Judy from the yoga studio, you’re doing a terrible job,” I say.

This time, both Graham and Daisy laugh. I believe Graham is only laughing because Daisy’s laughing, and now they’re both feeding off each other’s amusement.

“You’re funny,” she says.

“And I wasn’t even trying. But I would like to go on another date.”

Her smile doesn’t precisely fade, but a shadow of something more serious settles onto her face. “Oh, Owen,” she says. “You were doing so well.”

“I made you laugh three times. That discounts any conflict of interest regarding dating your patients. Which I’m not.”

Daisy crosses her arms over her chest, and I try not to stare at the way the letters “L” and “D” seem to perfectly frame her breasts. Her fitted tee shirt with the word “Legend” on it is apropos and leaves plenty to the imagination. Coupled with her muscular thighs exposed in those Daisy Duke shorts, I’m obsessed.

I’ve just now realized Daisy is wearing Daisy Dukes. I play that over in my head and decide to let it lie without comment. I don’t want her to feel self-conscious about her body. Nor do I want to look like a creep for trying to get a glimpse of the topmost part of her inner thighs.

What would she say if she knew all I think about when she’s dressed like that is propping both of those muscled thighs on my shoulders while I split her in two with my face.

God, what is wrong with me?

“Maybe you could give me a tour of your farm and show me what to do with green tomatoes. That wouldn’t be the same as a date,” she says.

Yes, it would be a date, but I won’t argue semantics. If she comes to my house, she comes to my house. If she’s interested in my little farm, then I’m thrilled to show her everything.

“Let’s do it,” I say.

“Great,” she says. “After the market closes?”

“Actually, I can’t today. I have to get ready for tonight.”

Daisy looks way more disappointed by this than I would have imagined. “Oh. I understand,” she says, and it appears I’ve somehow taken the wind out of her sails.

“But you should come with me!” I blurt.

Daisy blinks at me. “To what?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose to get my head straight. “Sorry. Let me back up. You know the yogurt shop that’s opening?”

She nods. “The scene of my near-demise. Yes. Go on.”

“That place is my sisters’ shop. They’re doing a soft opening tonight for friends and family, and I’d love it if you could come along as my plus one.”

“Owen, we agreed that we’re friends.”

“We did. And now, as your friend, I’m asking you on a date to explore the possibility of becoming more than friends.”

“I already told you I can’t date patients.”

“I’m not your patient, remember? Graham is. And I don’t actually give a flying fu—fig—about what’s proper and what’s not. I’m asking you to come with me to eat some delicious fro-yo.”

She winces. “Fine, calm down. I’ll come with you.”

“Good.”

“Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Never, ever, again in your whole entire life, call it ’fro yo’ in my presence.”

“So you’re saying I’ll be around for the rest of your life.”

“Don’t push your luck, Owen.”

I leave it at that and watch her walk away in the cut-off shorts, the fringe swaying with every movement of her thick, child-bearing hips.

Damn.