Page 103 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"It doesn't matter," he says, his laughter bordering on mania. "Because the smoke bombs'll kill the little buggers!"

"Chick," Lou says, "Those are firework smoke bombs, not gopher gassers."

Chick's laughter stops. "Come again?"

"My papaw had to gas some when I was a kid and they'd destroyed his garden. There's a special gas specific for ground rodents. Not smoke bombs"

"No!" Chick grabs his forehead. "It's never gonna end. They're gonna dance on my casket at my funeral."

Parker coughs a laugh. Chick looks so forlorn, I almost hop the fence to give him a hug. But then he marches over to his shed and brings out a jar of what looks like gasoline.

We look on in horror as he pours it in a hole, lights a match, and?—

BOOM.

Chick flies backward, and Sonny's immediately over the fence pulling him out of the way of the flaming bonfire-in-a-hole.

Sonny rips off Chick's hat—WHICH IS ON FIRE—and beats it against the grass to stamp it out. "Are you okay?" he asks.

Chick starts laughing and feels his face. "Lost my doggone eyebrows, but it was worth it."

I don't have the heart to tell him the gophers will be back tomorrow.

When we pull up to the Farmer's Market, I spot Rusty, and a huge smile takes over my face.

"Smitten kitten," Lou mumbles.

"Guilty," I say.

The Sugar Maple Farms stall is beyond busy. A constant stream of customers hand him cash or cards, and he moves boxes and flats of fruits, jams, salsas, and butters with the efficiency of a conveyor belt. He's so capable, but he's also funny. He cracks jokes about plums, about dinner parties, whatever the customer mentions. He's quick and charming, and he still takes time to train his helper, who looks like a high schooler.

This is my Rusty.

I debate getting in line, but I see three college-aged girls giggling over him, and I'm filled with the sudden urge to throw rotten tomatoes at them. Not that Rusty would ever sell rotten tomatoes.

"AJ, those girlies are gunning for your man," Lou says.

Rusty smiles politely as MacBeth's witches cackle about his backside.

Not today, witches.

(For the record, I'm not into women hating women. But these are desperate times.)

"Hey Farm Boy," I say loudly.

Rusty beams like a spotlight has been trained on him. It's beyond gratifying to see his eyes rove over me. This is new. Rusty's eyes never rove over me. He's always strictly friendly. The thought of him being so overcome by my presence that he can't stop himself is like throwing a match in the gas-filled gopher hole that is my heart.

"Gorgeous," he says appreciatively.

I round the stand and he holds his arms out to me. I run the last couple of steps and jump into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. He kisses me firmly on the mouth, and I stop caring about the women watching us jealously. He squeezes my legs, gives me two more soft kisses, and then sets me down.

Rusty looks as happy as I've ever seen him. He's become so much less reserved over the last ten days. It can't be an act. It can't be.

"What are you doing here?" he asks with a smile.

"I told you I missed you. So I thought I'd help today."

"Uh, we were just coming to say hi,” Parker says, waving at Rusty. "How are we getting home?"

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