Moving quickly, she pulled on her jeans and T-shirt from last night and looked through the shoes in her bags. Mostly heels. The closest she had to farm-appropriate shoes was a pair of ballet flats. She sighed at the thought of just how quickly they were sure to get ruined in the dirt and mud and grass, but slipped them on anyway. Just then, she finally looked out her bedroom window and her breath caught at the view of Grayson’s land in the morning light.
My God, it was beautiful here. She’d noticed the beauty yesterday, of course, but every moment since she’d gotten on the plane in Chicago had felt like such a battle, and she’d been so tired that she hadn’t really seen Pescadero clearly.
With wonder, she drank in the open sky, grass so green it almost hurt her eyes, and—
Oh my. Grayson was working without his shirt on, sweat gleaming on his incredible muscles as he chopped wood like a man possessed.
The natural beauty of his farm was breathtaking, but once she caught sight of him, she couldn’t pull her gaze away. Not when he had to be the most perfectly built man she’d ever seen. Which was saying a lot, considering that as a choreographer and dancer she worked with amazingly chiseled men on a daily basis.
And then, suddenly, he paused and turned his face toward her window, catching her with her mouth watering and her body reacting to him even from a distance.
Normally, she would have thought being stuck with a gorgeous man was a plus. But now, instead of being a bonus, Grayson’s looks were a huge negative. Thank God he had such a gruff personality, or she’d really be in trouble.
In any case, she decided as she forced herself to turn away from the window, she was determined to be positive from here on out. No more self-pity. No more wallowing in how bad her decisions had been over the past year or so, especially those that had involved Victor. She was going to charge full speed into the fresh start she’d decided on yesterday.
Starving again, when she walked into the kitchen and didn’t see any evidence that Grayson had eaten yet, she decided to make them both breakfast. When the bacon was nearly crisp and the eggs were almost ready to slide out of the frying pan, she opened the front door and yelled, “Breakfast!” the same way she had her whole childhood when it was time for her brothers and sister to come to the table.
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?”