Page 19 of Restored By the Mountain Man
"Um, Ezra?"
"What?"
"There's no sofa."
He steps up behind me, his chest nearly brushing my back in the narrow doorway. "What do you mean there's no sofa?"
I gesture to the main living area. There's a small dining table with built-in benches, a compact kitchen, and some storage cabinets. But no sofa. No convertible bed. Just empty floor space where a seating area should be.
"Many RVs have sofas that convert to a bed," Ezra says, his voice tight.
"Well, unless it's invisible, I'm not seeing it." I move further into the space, searching for any hidden furniture. "Maybe it folds out of the wall?"
We both examine the walls, looking for any mechanism that might reveal hidden seating. Nothing.
"There," Ezra says, pointing to a small placard on the wall. "RV recently refurbished. Some furnishings still pending delivery."
"Great," I mutter. "So we have one bed and no alternative sleeping arrangements."
Looking back at the bed through the open door, it suddenly looks both enormous and impossibly intimate.
"I can sleep on the floor," Ezra says, but even as he says it, we both look at the hard, narrow floor space available.
"Stop being ridiculous. You're six-foot-whatever. You'll wake up looking like a pretzel." I take a deep breath, channeling my most professional demeanor. "Like I said, we're both adults. We can share a bed for two nights without it being weird."
Ezra stares at me like I've suggested we run naked through the wheat fields. "Zoe."
"What? It's just sleeping. People sleep next to each other all the time without it meaning anything." I'm talking fast now, trying to convince myself as much as him. "Besides, it's a big bed. Plenty of room for both of us to stay on our respective sides."
He runs a hand through his hair, looking deeply uncomfortable. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Do you have a better suggestion? Because I'm open to alternatives that don't involve one of us sleeping on the floor or driving four hours back to Eden Ridge."
His jaw works silently for a moment. Then he nods curtly. "Fine. But I'm setting up a barrier. Pillows down the middle."
"Whatever makes you comfortable." I grab my bag and head for the bedroom, needing to put some distance between us before I do something stupid like point out that he's being ridiculous. "I'll take the left side."
The bedroom feels even smaller with both our bags in it and suddenly, all I can think about is lying next to Ezra in the dark, listening to him breathe, feeling the warmth of his body just inches away.
Professional, I remind myself.This is professional.
But when Ezra appears in the doorway and I see the way his broad shoulders fill the frame, I know tonight is going to be anything but professional in my dreams.
The farm touris fascinating and exactly the distraction I need. Francisco walks us through the grain storage facilities, explains their harvesting process, introduces us to key staff. His passionfor sustainable farming is evident in every word and I’m genuinely excited about the possibility of partnership.
"We've been organic since before it was trendy," he explains as we walk through rows of golden wheat. "My grandfather always said the land has to be respected if you want it to provide."
Ezra asks intelligent questions about yield, weather patterns, and transportation logistics. While I take notes on quality control processes, testing protocols, and storage conditions. By the time we head back to the farmhouse for dinner, I'm convinced this partnership could be transformative for the distillery.
Veronica Morales is a force of nature. Barely five feet tall with silver streaked hair and the kind of warm energy that makes you feel like family within minutes. She's prepared a feast that could feed twenty people: pan-fried pork chops, arroz con gandules which my mother also makes at home, fresh vegetables from their garden, fried tostones with garlic oil, and homemade bread that's still warm from the oven. All that’s missing is my father’s Jamaican roasted sticky sweet potatoes and this would be Thanksgiving at home.
"You're too skinny," she declares, loading my plate for the second time despite my protests. "Both of you. Don't they feed you in Eden Ridge?" Veronica sets the piled up second course in front of me. Then turns to ask Ezra. “More arroz?”
"Ma'am, we eat plenty," Ezra says with the first genuine smile I've seen from him all day. “Arroz?” He asks, his pronunciation endearing.
Smiling, I point out the Spanish flavored yellow rice with pigeon peas.
“Yes,” he grins, watching Veronica add a heapful to his plate. At this rate, we’re both going to knock out from food comas.
