She runs inside to grab her bag, and then we hop in my car. On the way over to the farm, I catch her a few times out of the corner of my eye turning to look at me before quickly looking away. I’m not sure if she wants to say something and doesn’t know how, or if she’s subtly trying to check me out. But I straighten up a bit in my seat in case it’s the latter.
I still can’t believe this woman wants me the way I want her. I can’t believe I even let myself want someone at all. I had no intention of getting involved with anyone anytime soon. Or possibly ever again.
If it’s only sex, though, I suppose that’s safe. As long I don’t go doing something crazy like falling for her. Becausethatwould be really dumb.
At the main entrance of the farm, there’s a large wooden sign featuring three red apples painted on either side of the nameshaw family farm & orchards. We pull into the small dirt parking lot behind it, and Riley hops out of the car first, gleefully energetic as she meets me around my side.
I’m surprised she chose to wear a sundress and her red cowboy boots to come here, but then again, it’s not like she’ll be out in the fields harvesting crops. And I can’t say I don’t appreciate the way she looks.
As we walk toward the store, which is in a small red barn, I let her get a couple steps ahead of me so I can check her out from behind. Anddamn. Last night I didn’t even get to scratch the surface of the things I’d like to do to her. But I need to drag my mind out of the gutter, because we’re out here to enjoy the late afternoon together. If she was looking for another hookup, she wouldn’t have suggested leaving the inn.
“Oh, look!”
I quickly shoot my gaze up and away from her ass as she spins toward me, pointing at a little sign stuck in the ground by the entrance to the store.strawberry picking $5 a basket.
“We could pick strawberries. That might be fun,” she says excitedly.
Without thinking, I reach out to give a piece of her hair a twirl. “I suppose it’s only fitting we do it, Strawberry.”
Her cheeks flush red, but she smiles at me before leading the way into the store. The woman behind the register greets us warmly, and when she recognizes Riley, she becomes even friendlier, asking how she’s been and asking about her parents.
While they chat for a minute, I take a look around. There are shelves filled with jams, a large table with various pies, and loaves of bread nestled inside a couple large woven baskets.
Riley appears at my side as I’m eyeing a display of fancy looking soaps in all sorts of colors. “See anything you like?” she asks.
“They make soap here too?”
She glances at the display and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. But they do sell some stuff from other local businesses near Mayweather.”
“That’s cool.”
“Do you want to do the strawberry picking first, and then we can browse some more when we come back here?” she suggests.
I agree, and we each grab a small basket from Mrs. Shaw. They’re about the size of the pints you buy at the grocery store, maybe a little larger. Mrs. Shaw directs us to the field and tells us to have fun.
I’ve never picked strawberries before. Or picked anything, really. Unless you count picking out a lobster from the tank of them at my favorite high-end seafood restaurant in Chicago.
Riley seems to know exactly what she’s doing, though, so I follow her lead. We take our time wandering up and down the rows of short, leafy plants, and I try not to notice how far her dress rides up every time she squats down to pluck the berries off their stems. Key word beingtry.
It’s a nice day to be outside. The sun is half-hidden behind the clouds, so it’s not excruciatingly hot. But every so often the sun peeks out and pleasantly heats our skin.
Mrs. Shaw told us we could also walk through the sunflower field, so after we fill our baskets with bright red strawberries, we follow the wooden signposts and head that way. Seeing how tall the flowers are, I realize the ones that are planted at the inn must have been cut down quite a bit. We could easily get lost in here if the stalks weren’t arranged in such neat rows.
Riley looks mesmerized, brushing her fingers ever so gently along the stalks as she strolls by them. I walk beside her, feeling the inexplicable urge to hold her hand. But I wouldn’t be foolish enough to do it, of course. That isn’t what this is. We’re not on a date.
Still, it’s probably a good thing that she’s carrying her basket of strawberries in the hand closest to me, because that helps me avoid the temptation.
“It feels funny doing something like this,” she says, “and not taking a dozen pictures for social media.”
“Do you have to take pictures of everything you do?” I ask her, carefully keeping any judgement out of my tone.
She shakes her head. “No. But my publicist likes me to include snippets of my personal life on my feeds, so that it’s not only professional promo photos. It helps with letting my fans feel closer to me. That way they’re more invested in my life, and therefore, in my music about my life.”
“Makes sense.”
“That doesn’t mean everything I post isn’t still carefully curated, though. I don’t let people seeeverything, obviously. But it’s gorgeous here. A place like this would make for a nice little photo shoot.”
I agree the setting is gorgeous. And she looks gorgeous standing between the flowers. Then again, she always looks gorgeous, doesn’t she?