Page 12 of Hand Picked
I gasped in shock.
But then a hand came down on the booth by my head, and suddenly, Webb Sunday was looming over me, all angry and gorgeous andspeaking directly to me.
It was harder to believe than talking glassware, frankly, but much less concerning for my mental health.
“Oh, Webb.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “Thank goodness it’s you!”
Webb sucked in a deep breath and then scowled, like the verysmellof me annoyed him.
“I hope you’re happy now, you… you…apple thief!” he accused. I looked around me for apples but found none.
The man had probably been drinking and gotten mixed up, poor guy. Or maybe the glasses had been talking to him, too.
Either way, I saw this moment for what it was.
Fate had given me a chance to make Webb like me.
But when he braced one hand on the vinyl booth above my head and the other hand on the table and stared down at me all hot-eyed and breathy, it was hard to remember what I was trying to do.
“Erm. Can I buy you a drink?” I offered in lieu of apples. I held up my nearly full Rusty Spike. “These’re yummy.”
“I cannot bebought, Luke Williams,” he informed me. He thumped his own glass onto the table beside mine. “I brought my own.”
The way he said my name like it was all one word made my stomach feel floaty and nervous.
He was so handsome, and God, it had beenso longsince I’d had a real conversation with anyone but Murray or someone under the age of eight, I couldn’t help smiling at him and wishing we could just… talk.
“Stop looking at me like that. You might’ve fooled my family, Williams, but the game is up. You’re an orchard-thieving con artist. Admit it.”
I shook my head sadly. I could maybe parse those words individually, but I wasn’t sure what they meant together. “I’m trying to understand you, Webb, but frankly, I’ve already used up all my brain cells tonight trying to understand the hockey, and— Oh! Oh, wait! You could explain it to me. That would be awesome.”
“Explain… hockey?” He sounded confused. “Like… all of it?”
“Yes! Exactly! I’m trying to follow along, but I need a hockey-teaching friend. I’ve been led to believe…” I licked a drop of alcohol off my lips. “…that Vermont has those.”
“We are not friends.”
“No, that’s true,” I agreed, and he frowned harder. “Buuuuut… we could be! You seem like the kind of knight in shining armor who’d pat my head if I asked him to. Or carry a man’s sheep home over his shoulders.”
My eyes widened.Mother trucker.Had I actually said that out loud? There wasn’t enough alcohol in all the land to makethatstatement okay.
I started to open my mouth and explain that for Christmas my mom had gotten me this farmer calendar sponsored by one of her local charities. Every month had pictures of half-naked men cuddling adorable lambs and baby goats, and Webb Sunday looked very,exactlylike Mr. May.
But before I could explain any of that, though, Webb said flatly, “I want nothing to do with carrying your sheep,” which was fair enough… but kinda too late. I was already busy admiring the way his arm muscle, which was conveniently close to my eye holes, bulged against the worn fabric of his navy blue Henley.
Hecouldlift a sheep. Possibly all three of my sheep at once.
I’d honestly never assessed a hot guy with that criteria, and I could see now that I’d been missing out. This was going to be a new personal fantasy.
Also, adding to the fantasy, his whole being smelled like Christmas trees and clean laundry, and I was pretty sure I’d just cracked some kind of secret code. Why were gay men out there buying Tom Ford cologne when we could rub ourselves with pine sap and a Tide pod and smell like a sex god?
Webb sucked in a breath and held it for a second, and my stomach plunged as I worried I’d said that out loud too.
He leaned in closer, threateningly close. “Stop it right now. I know what you’re plotting.”
“Oh, sugar.” I felt my face go hot. “You do?”
“Yep. And it’s never going to happen.”
