With eight kids, everyone in her family’d had a chore. She’d been in charge of cooking breakfast, getting everyone to the table, and cleaning up the kitchen afterward. That skill set had come in handy many, many times as an adult. Not only for overnight guests, but also when out on the road with a troupe of dancers. She refused to let anyone who danced for her starve themselves when she needed them at their very best and she had wooed more than one figure-conscious performer with her signature blueberry and lemon pancakes.
She was just pouring freshly squeezed orange juice into glasses when Grayson walked in. He was sweaty and had wood chips stuck in his hair and to his clothes, but at least he’d put his shirt on, thank God. She didn’t think she could handle another close-up shot of all that male perfection—not before getting some sustenance in her to build up some resistance, anyway.
He didn’t say anything, not “Good morning” or “Thanks for breakfast,” just sat down and started to eat. With a roll of her eyes, she followed suit.
Last night their silent meal had been perfectly fine with her. She’d been tired and in no mood to chat. But she’d go crazy having silent meals forever. Clearly, if she wanted to start a new mealtime trend, she was going to have to make the first move.
“I’d love to know more about your farm.”
He ignored her and kept eating, but Lori had grown up with six older brothers. She wasn’t the least bit daunted by being ignored.
“What do you specialize in?”
He took a long glug of orange juice before answering her. “I run a CSA.”
“I was reading an article about Community Supported Agriculture on the airplane yesterday.” He gave her another look that had her realizing she’d accidentally said too much. “A couple of my siblings are members of CSAs. So people come here once a week to pick up their fruits and veggies?”
“No one comes here.”
Wow, that sounded a little ominous. No one comes here. Geez, he acted like they were in some gothic novel. She worked to shake off a little shiver at the darkness in his tone. Certain that it had come out more strongly than he had to mean it, she asked, “Then how does everyone get their food?”
By now he was looking more than a little irritated with her endless questions, but if she was going to work with him she’d have to understand how his business operated.
“Eric picks up the boxes. People go to his farm once a week to pick up their food.”
“But in the article I read,” Lori said with honest confusion, “it sounded like the farmers sell directly from their own farms, and most of them even have barn stores where people can drop in throughout the week if they need something extra.”
“That’s not how I do things.”
But Lori was already two steps ahead as an exciting idea hit her. No doubt Grayson was simply too busy running the farm and producing the food for his CSA to find those extra hours for the weekly community pick-ups. But she could change all of that for him.
“Now that I’m here, I could run the pick-up days so you don’t have to have your friend do it on his farm.” She instantly loved the idea of it, getting to meet everyone in town. It was how her life and house had always been—an open door for friends and family. Maybe she’d been wrong about life on a farm being so isolating. “I could even open a farm store for you!”
Grayson’s eyes were cold as he pinned her with them. “I said, that’s not how I do things.”
This time his words were loud enough—and hard enough—for her not to miss them, or their intent. He wasn’t doing things this way because he was too busy. He’d set it up specifically so that he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone else.
“Do you have agoraphobia?” The words popped out of her mouth before she could shove them back inside.
“No.” He shoved away from the kitchen table, his plate in his hands. “I just don’t like people.”
She was torn between wincing and laughing. What kind of person didn’t like people? She just couldn’t understand it. Which was why, even though every inch of his body language was telling her to back off, she had to ask, “Why?”
* * *
She asked too many questions, damn it. Worse than that, though, was that despite himself, Grayson wanted to ask her just as many. Where had she come from? What did she do for a living when she wasn’t trying to masquerade as a farmhand? And how the hell was she able to make the best damned breakfast he’d ever eaten...so good that he’d almost embarrassed himself when he’d started eating it?
“Do you want to hear about my last farmhand?”
She looked a little wary at the unexpected question. “Something tells me this is a trick question. But if you’re finally feeling all chatty, go ahead.”
No question about it, she wasn’t just pretty, she was smart, too. And sassy as hell, despite the pithy one-word answers he’d growled at her throughout breakfast.
“He was twenty-two, young enough and strong enough to work circles around me. He couldn’t cook, but he could chop wood, herd cows, shear sheep, bale hay, harvest the crops, and do construction. But his best quality was that he didn’t speak. At all. He just grunted when he was hungry or needed help with something.”
Lori blinked up at him with wide eyes, at least a thousand times too pretty for his peace of mind this morning. He hadn’t been able to sleep just a wall away from her and had finally given up and gone outside to chop firewood.
Good. Maybe he’d finally gotten through to her. If she wanted to stick around for much longer, she needed to zip it.
“Wow,” she said in a tone that had him being the wary one this time, “I don’t think you’ve said that many words in total to me since yesterday.”
He turned and started to wash his plate off with hard strokes of the sponge over the porcelain, a string of curse words playing out in his head. He’d been trying to make a point—quite a clear point, he thought. He wasn’t interested in conversation, just in getting the work done.
“Hey, that’s my job.” She shoved in beside him at the sink. “Scoot.”
He could wash his own dishes, damn it, but when he felt her hip bump against his to gently push him out of the way, he dropped his plate so fast to put distance between them that he practically shattered it on the bottom of the sink.
Just touching her hand last night when she’d cut her finger had been too much. Knowing anything at all about the feel of her hips—that they were toned, yet with a woman’s softness—was miles beyond anything his self-control could deal with.