Page 124 of Always Meant for You
“The picture?”
I hand her the phone. “Us.”
She gazes at the screen. “We are pretty cute. Who wouldn’t want to buy our tomatoes?”
She taps out a caption and posts the photos to Eat Elverna’s social media feed.
Ping, ping, ping!
“That was fast,” I remark, as comments start pouring in.
She chuckles.
“What?” I ask.
“You may want to steer clear of Cougar Mom Kathy. She’s commented on the farm porn post. She sounds ready to chain you up and keep you as her personal farmhand.”
I groan. “If any Kathies show up, I’m hiding behind the Sperry Dairy cheese display. You’ll have to deal with them.”
She laughs, but it’s cut short as her gaze flicks to the clock on my desk.
“Oh no. My father’s going to be up any second.”
She’s right. And despite the fact that her place is only a thirty-second walk from my front door, I never let her make the trip alone. Even now. Even if it means we both risk getting caught.
I grab the flannel off the hook near the door while she ducks into the bedroom to change.
A moment later, she reappears. She’s still in my T-shirt.
“I’m ready,” she calls.
She’s paired my top with her vintage Chanel denim shorts from the nineties.
Yeah, I’ve learned a few fashion things.
We’ve fallen into a rhythm during our farm visits. On the drives, I’ll talk about farming, then she’ll break down the story behind whatever she’s wearing.
The history is fascinating.
Just yesterday, she shared that Coco Chanel started from practically nothing—just a rented room above a Paris shop—and became one of the biggest brands on the planet.That’s grit. She didn’t inherit wealth or status. She hustled and innovated. I can respect that.
But right now, all I can see is how those shorts fit her as if they were made for this moment.
“You’re keeping my shirt?” I tease.
She tugs at the collar. “Do you mind? I like it. It smells like you.”
I tip up her chin and kiss her. “It’s yours.”
I check the path from the window. “No Garver brothers. No angry Farmer Muldowney with a shotgun.”
“Definitely good to start the day without gunplay,” she says, giggling.
We slip out and sprint down the gravel walk, like we did when we were kids. At the side of the house, we press flat against the siding, both of us breathless. She turns to me, cheeks flushed from the run, the sunlight bathing her face in its morning glow.
“I’ll see you soon, farm porn,” she teases.
I shake my head. “Hold on.”
