rather be upstate with me.
“Tell me what you’re wearing,” he said.
“Right this minute?”
“Right this minute.”
I slipped off my sneakers and curled up on the old overstuffed couch handed down from April’s aunt. “My purple knit bra and a pair of cutoffs.”
“That’s all?”
“Hey, I’m decent.”
“Not for long.”
I smiled. “Why not?”
“Because I’m sliding the straps down off your shoulders and over your arms.”
“You are?”
“I am.”
“And I’m letting you?”
“You have no choice,” he teased. “The straps are keeping your arms pinned to your side while I pull the bra down around your waist and kiss you all over.”
“Um-m-m,” I murmured, settling deeper into the cushions. “Feels wonderful.” It seemed so long since we’d touched that I closed my eyes and drifted as his voice added detail upon erotic detail.
“I’m not as helpless as you think, though,” I warned him softly. “You’ve pinned my arms, but my hands are free and I’m unbuttoning your shirt . . . running my hands across your chest.” My voice slowed and deepened. “I’m touching your nipples very lightly, barely brushing them with my fingertips.”
My own breasts began to tingle as he told me where his lips were and described what his hands were doing. I could almost feel the roughness of his stubbled cheek, his face pressed hotly against me.
“Now I’ve unbuttoned the top of your shorts,” he said huskily. “My fingers are on the zipper . . . Slowly, very slowly I—”
The screen door slammed and a male voice said, “Hey, Deb’rah? You home or not?”
I was so into the spell Kidd was weaving that for one confused moment, I felt as if I ought to clutch a cushion to my chest to hide my nakedness. Between telephone and washer, I hadn’t heard Reid Stephenson’s car drive up.
“Oops!” he said as he poked his head through the door and saw me. “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were on the phone. I’ll wait. Go ahead and finish.”
As if.
Mood shattered, I told Kidd I’d call him later.
“’Fraid I won’t be here,” he said with a long regretful sigh. “Roy and me, we’re patrolling the water tonight. Lot of drunk boat drivers’ll be out. But, Deb’rah?”
“Yes?”
“Remind me to punch your cousin in the nose the next time I come up, hear?”
* * *
“Hey, you didn’t have to get off the phone on my account,” said Reid.
“Yes, I did,” I said grumpily. “What’re you doing out this way anyhow?”
Dressed in dark red shirt, white sneakers, no socks, Reid just stood there happily jingling his keys in the pocket of his khaki shorts. Not only is he cute as a cocker spaniel puppy with his big hazel eyes and his curly brown hair, he has a puppy’s sunny good nature and isn’t easily insulted, which is probably why he’s so successful with women. Takes more than a whack with a newspaper to discourage him when there’s a tasty treat in sight.
“I brought you a housewarming present.”
He beckoned me out to the porch. There on the table was a long flat box wrapped in brown paper, tied with a gingham ribbon and topped with a spray of what looked like dried grasses.
“What’s that stuff?” I asked.
He grinned. “Hayseeds, of course.”
It’s been a running joke with some of my town friends that my move to the country was the first step toward turning into a country bumpkin, that I’d soon be coming to court with a stem of broomstraw dangling from the corner of my mouth.
Inside the box were two smaller packages. The first was a yellow-backed booklet covered with dense black typescript that advertised things like blackstrap molasses, copper arthritis bracelets and diuretics—an old-fashioned farmer’s almanac.
“You need to know what signs to plant your crops under,” Reid said.
I had to smile because Daddy and Maidie still consult this same almanac before they plant—a waxing moon for leafy vegetables, dark of the moon for roots, zodiac signs for everything else.
The other package contained a rather handsome walnut board, inset with three brassbound dials. The top one was a thermometer (86°), the middle was a barometer (29.6'), and the bottom recorded the humidity (58%)— actually a pleasant day for the first week in September.
