Though he wasn’t exceptionally tall, Chris was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with short chestnut hair and delicious green eyes. A bit of chest hair peeked out from the top of his T-shirt and I found myself distracted, wondering just how hairy he was. If he had a soft pelt that covered his chest and tapered into a yummy happy trail that led into his denim shorts, and would I have to hunt for his nipples to nibble at them.
“Nice to see you again, Fiona.”
Every year we seemed to play the same game of cat and mouse. Though it was also my job to flirt with the customers, to sweet-talk them into buying more than they came for, Chris always got more than his fair share of flirting.
Rumor had it he was from Tennessee, where he did something in the music business. He usually spent the festival weekend eating himself silly on peach cobbler (usually mine) or peach ice cream and the remainder of his vacation fishing and drinking beer with the friends he brings with him.
This year was different, however. Not only had he come sans an entourage, he’d come sans a woman. I’m not much of one for poaching, so beyond the usual chitchat about his vacation, I’d never managed to learn much about him. No one had. The man liked his privacy and I could respect that, but I had every intention of getting in his bed this weekend. Or getting him into mine.
I threw the last of my strawberry in a nearby trash can and slowly licked my fingers clean. “Did you decide?”
“How about just a bowl of fruit?”
With a smile, I filled a bowl with chilled peaches, cantaloupes, and strawberries and handed it over to him. He accepted it and returned my smile with one that crinkled the corners of his brilliant green eyes. Even dressed in nothing fancier than denim cutoffs that showed his thickly muscled thighs to perfection and a faded T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, he was yummier than any damn peach. My nipples puckered under the covering of my own baby-blue shirt as I accepted the bills he handed me.
Thankful for a lull in the crowd, I leaned over and rested my arms on the pitted wooden countertop, giving him a peek at my cleavage.
“Where are your friends?”
“I came alone this year. Wanted some privacy.” He popped a slice of cantaloupe between his lips and chewed thoughtfully.
“Good?”
“Worth waiting all year for.” He gave me that grin again, the one that turned my insides into a puddle.
“My cousin brought them up from The Valley. Just picked this week.” Texas’s Rio Grande Valley was nearly as famous for its fruit as were Florida and California.
“No wonder they’re so good,” he muttered, slipping another piece into his mouth. “Let’s talk…cobbler.” His voice dipped dramatically on the last word.
In Carthage my peach cobbler was nearly as famous as my cleavage. The women stopped by my booth to chitchat and try to wrangle my secret cobbler recipe out of me—the men, well, they came for my cleavage. I flicked a long dark curl behind one ear and gave him a smile I knew bordered on a smirk. “I made six this year. I hear three are gone and the bidding is fierce over the last three.”
“I know…those assholes outbid me!” He leaned in so close I could nearly count his eyelashes, his freckles, and every shade of green that made up the brilliant hue of his eyes. “I dream about your cobbler. All. Year. Long.”
“Poor baby.” I laughed, then pursed my lips thoughtfully. “Is that all you dream about?”
“I’ll never tell.” His eyes lingered on my cleavage before meeting mine again. The husky tease of his voice made my skin tingle. The late-afternoon breeze ruffled his hair and plastered his T-shirt to his chest. “I think you should come home with me and make one for me every day.”
“Come home?” I quirked one eyebrow and chuckled. “To your little fishing cabin?”
“No, Nashville. Since you won’t give me the recipe for my cook.”
“You don’t need me, querido, if you got a cook,” I purred, leaning closer.
“Querido?” he repeated with a frown.
“Darling,” I translated with a smile and added, “or dear, if you prefer.”
“Ah, I see. So, my little peach, what would it take?” He fished a slice of strawberry from the bowl and slid it into his mouth, then licked his fingers just as slowly and provocatively as I’d done earlier.
“I like a man who knows how to use his tongue.”
Even as Chris howled with laughter, a deep sound that drew more than one censorious stare, I heard a gasp from behind him. It was my seventeen-year-old assistant, who I’d surely corrupt if she spent any more time in my company. Poor Fankie took naive to a whole new level. I should’ve behaved myself, but I wasn’t a woman to let something like that stop me, and I wasn’t afraid to go after what I wanted.
“You want my recipe? What’s it worth to you?” I murmured while quickly assessing the crowd. We only had an hour or so before we closed down for the day, and all of downtown became a dance floor. Surely Fankie could handle the last hour by herself.
“The sun, the moon, the stars—all my earthly riches for just a taste—”
I licked my lips, aware of those eyes focused on my mouth. “Maybe we can come to some sort of arrangement.”