Cream of the Crop (Hudson Valley #2)

“Can you raise the blinds a little bit? The sun is setting; it makes for a nice view,” I directed.

“While you reel them in?” Liz teased, letting the soft afternoon sun into the conference room.

Forty-seven floors up, you got a helluva nice sunset across the Hudson River. It made the room seem warm and inviting, and with the powerful backdrop of Manhattan behind me, what client would dream of saying no? Especially when a ray of sunlight landed directly on my cleavage like some divine sign.

I heard the gasp of a guy crushing on me; the intern was clearly looking at my boobs again.

“Hey, junior, eyes up here,” I instructed. I felt the teeniest bit sorry for him as he blushed and stammered his way out of the room, promising to return with the bound copies of the proposal I’d asked for. He was mostly able to keep his eyes redirected. Mostly.

“Poor pup, he’s totally enamored.” Liz chuckled, adjusting one of the pie charts that were propped up along the wall. Even in the days of easy-to-use PowerPoint presentations and glossy, slick color printouts, there was nothing like a giant pie chart hung on the wall to make a client feel like you’d done your homework.

And I had. I was pitching a new ad campaign to T&T Sanitation, one of the biggest distributors of Porta-Potties in the Northeast. Make all the jokes you want, but this business was incredibly lucrative. And incredibly competitive. T&T sanitation was the second-largest distributor; they’d been

chasing Mr. John’s Portaloo for years, always coming in second in sales. They were determined to outdo them this year. That’s where I came in.

I started unpacking twenty-by-twenty-four-inch pictures mounted on foam core and kept the images facedown as I arranged easel stands all around the conference room. Once they were distributed, I began to flip them over. Liz came back in with an armful of handouts, and nearly tripped right out of her Jimmy Choos.

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly,” I replied, grinning broadly. I’d literally covered the entire room in pictures of T&T potties, stationed around some of the toniest locations in town. The Bronx Zoo, the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, even one on the lawn of Gracie Mansion.

“Wow, their outhouses certainly have gotten around,” Liz said, walking the room and taking in all the images. “Has Dan seen these?”

“Dan has not seen these,” an incredulous voice boomed from just inside the door. “Dan has not seen these, but would love to know why his walls are covered in Porta-Potties.” My boss stood in the doorway, jaw ticking as he realized his conference room had been taken over by something most unusual.

“You knew I was leading off with this, Dan,” I said, quickly walking to his side and handing him one of the proposals. “The cornerstone of this new campaign is bringing up the one thing no one wants to talk about when discussing their product, and the one thing people really want to know about.”

“Pictures of portable toilets,” he stated, eyes widened. He had faith in me, sure, but this much faith?

I nodded reassuringly. “Pictures of their product placed all around town, pictures of exactly what you get when you hire T&T: a high-quality portable sanitation unit that’s not nearly as tacky as you might think. It’s designed to make the customer think about all the different reasons you might need one of these, and how much nicer they look than the ones we typically think of. These are updated, clean, pretty, even. This”—I pointed to a particularly fetching picture of a mint-green one juxtaposed against the skyline of Central

Park West—“is what you want for your daughter’s wedding, for the Fourth of July picnic. Even the mayor uses this one when they’re doing renovations on the official residence.”

Rob, the intern, hurried back in, eyes steadfastly fixed on the exact spot in between my eyes. “They’re here,” he said in a hushed tone, then realized what he was surrounded by. “Wow, that’s a lot of Porta-Potties.”

“It most assuredly is,” Dan replied, his tone measured as he met my eyes across the room. This had better work, they said to me.

Message received and acknowledged, my own look sent back to him.

Liz tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle, and we gathered around each other in the conference room.

At least no one was looking at my boobs anymore. Which, to be fair, was a first.

In the end, it was the pictures that did the trick. Mr. Caldwell, president of T&T Sanitation, walked into the conference room, and while his marketing team stared in horrified silence, he walked up to a picture taken outside the Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue featuring a prominently displayed unit and burst out laughing. “I’m already in love with this idea,” he pronounced on his way to the seat with his name on it. He and I were already on the same wavelength. It was time to bring the rest of them around.

I spent the better part of an hour describing in detail exactly the campaign I was proposing, buying ad space on television, radio, and the Internet. I’d put together a plan that made his product something people would be talking about, and would stay in a consumer’s mind long after the initial promotional push had ended. Every question asked by his team was answered efficiently, either by myself or by a member of my own team. We’d covered every base, we’d thought around every corner, and we were confident that we were presenting something very different from what any other advertising firm had created to sell portable outhouses.

Dan sat in on the pitch as he always did, occasionally commenting, but letting me take the lead as usual. He’d been surprised to see the display I’d created, sure, but once the clients were in the room he was 100 percent

supportive. And now he watched me bring it on home with a secret smile on his face, a smile that told me I’d nailed it.

“In the end, I think you’ll see that no one else will be able to deliver such a unique, specifically crafted campaign as we can here at Manhattan Creative Group.” I leaned across the table a little bit with a twinkle in my eye, looking straight at Mr. Caldwell. “This is the one occasion where we here at MCG think it makes perfect sense to talk shit about the competition.”

The room was silent and still. I could feel every set of eyes on me, including Intern Rob. His were about ten inches below my eyeballs. Eh.

Mr. Caldwell leaned across the table, mimicking my posture. “I do love a pie chart.” His eyes twinkled back.

The call came in two hours later. T&T Sanitation could now officially be counted as a client of MCG.

There is nothing more glorious in the entire world than Manhattan in October. I sighed happily to myself as I walked up the steps of the Fourteenth Street station along with everyone else heading downtown on a Friday afternoon, anxious to get the weekend started. After the smell of stale air and countless bodies, when I emerged into the sunlight and the crisp autumn air, it felt like a little bit of heaven. With only a six-block walk to my apartment, I slowed my pace a bit, lingering as I often did at the windows along the shops, nodding to some of the shopkeepers I’d come to know. Some by face, but more than a few names in the shops I frequented often.

I didn’t understand people being scared to come to New York. Being born and raised here, I tried to see my city as others might. Loud, noisy, brash, full of concrete. I saw excitement, lively, vibrant, architecturally magnificent. A college friend had once asked me, “It’s only thirteen miles long, two miles wide. Don’t you get bored of seeing the same things every single day?”

I’d drawn myself up and told him, “It’s 13.4 miles long, and 2.3 miles at its widest part near Fourteenth Street. And anyone who could get bored in Manhattan doesn’t deserve Manhattan.” I’m not friends with fools.

I walked along the street, noticing for the thousandth time how charming my neighborhood was. Anyone who thought New York was endless blocks of cement and concrete high-rises had never spent any time downtown. Or in Midtown for that matter. Or the Upper West Side. Or the Upper East Side. Regardless of where you plunk yourself down on my island, I can guarantee you that you’re within a few blocks of a park. A green space. An old beautiful brownstone. A hundred-year-old pub. There are pocket neighborhoods and incredible history literally around every single corner. And in a city made up of corners and right angles and hard turns, I lived in the pocket that was all wonky angles and soft turns, winding streets and impossible-to-follow street signs. Off the city grid, in a neighborhood built before the city laid out its easy-on-the-eyes pattern. The West Village.

And it was in this Village that my favorite cheese shop on the entire planet lived, this cheese shop that I walked three blocks south of my normal route to stare at. And quite possibly drool at.

Cheese. Cheeeeeese. What a thin, flat, nasal-sounding word for such a luscious, rich, gorgeous thing. Hard. Soft. Ripe. Grainy. Creamy. Often stinky. I’d yet to find a cheese I didn’t adore.

My love affair with cheese went back to childhood, when I’d sit in our kitchen with a dish of ricotta sprinkled with sugar. My mother, a world- renowned artist, would work on her sketches; there were countless sketches in every room of our brownstone. I’d eat scoop after scoop of the decadent cheese, and we’d talk about anything and everything. As I got older, my palate developed further, and I continued my love of all things dairy. If I ever developed lactose intolerance, I’d throw myself into the East River.

I’d often wondered if the size of my considerable posterior was directly related to my love of Gorgonzola. If the size of my thighs was exacerbated by my craving for Edam. Probably. But I could live with big thighs and a grabbable ass. Live without Roquefort? Perish the thought!

As I approached La Belle Fromage, I felt the fontina sending out a tendril or two. Come here, Natalie, lay your gentle head down on these pillows of Camembert, or cradle a chèvre against your lovely bosom. And here, Natalie

—come sit by this English cheddar, a cheeky bastard but strong and capable,

willing to prop you up if you are tired from your long journey underground . . .

“Never skip lunch again,” I muttered to myself as I pushed open the heavy oak and lead-glass door.

“There she is!” a voice sang out, and my favorite cheese monger, Philippe, came around the counter.

“My beautiful Natalie. I worried when I didn’t see you! It’s almost six o’clock, I was almost ready to close up!”

“Had to work a little late.” I smiled, leaning in for the double kiss but with a curious look. “How’d you know I’d be stopping by?”

He rolled his eyes in a way that only a Frenchman could get away with without seeming rude. “Être vénère. You think I don’t know the habits of my best customer? Always on Friday, always on your way home. ‘How’d you know I’d be stopping by’ indeed . . .” He walked around the counter muttering, knowing I’d follow. The shop was almost empty, just one other customer. Younger guy, knit cap, with a few blond curls escaping. Bottle- green eyes that met mine in the mirror behind the case. I let the tiniest smile creep over my face as I checked out a display just to his left, making sure to make eye contact once more.

Good boy, come this way. He grinned at me in the mirror, and I pretended to not see it. I played with the edge of my coat, letting my fingers do their lingering along my collarbone. He put down his Gouda, picked up a cheese log, and from the way he was holding it, I knew I’d hit pay dirt.

Mmm, start out the weekend with a quickie? Good goddamn I’m good.

Knowing that I had the pup right where I wanted him, I headed over to the counter where Philippe was still going on and on about how well he knew me and how I alone appreciated his perfect palate. I paid attention, but mostly my eyes were on the Cheese Mecca that beckoned.

Philippe prided himself not only on having one of the most complete selections of French cheeses, of course, but on finding the most interesting and wonderful local cheeses from all over the Northeast. He knew my favorites, he knew what I liked, and he knew what I loved.

“Now then, you must try this. I’ve been sold out of it all week, but I just got more in for the weekend business. Taste this!”

I tasted this and that, a little here and a little there, my toes curling inside my shoes as he placed slice after slice of heaven in my hand, where it quickly disappeared into my nearly panting mouth.

“Now then, this one is really going to knock your shoes off,” he cried, pulling a new round from the case with a look of delight.

“Socks, not shoes.”

“Oui, of course.” He leaned across the counter with a spoonful of something rich and dense.

I opened my mouth, he slid it in, and the second it hit my tongue, I moaned.

I knew that taste. I dreamed of that taste. I moaned again.

I heard a small cough from behind me, and I knew Knit Cap Quickie Guy was very aware of the sounds I was making. I didn’t even bother blushing; I was enjoying this too much. To be clear, I was enjoying what was in my mouth.

I opened my eyes to find Philippe standing there, grinning widely, delighted that he’d picked exactly the right one. This cheese was killing me.

“Where did that come from?” I asked, delicately licking my lips, already knowing the answer.

“It’s brand-new, from a small dairy in the Hudson Valley. Bailey Falls—” “—Creamery,” I said, the word creamery falling from my lips like a

caress.

I knew the man who had made this. Strike that. I was aching to know the man who had made this. Know him, and know him.

“I’ll take it,” I told Philippe, my voice breathy. I looked left and saw the other customer, the guy who just moments ago I was considering bringing home for a Friday Night Special. He now paled in comparison to—

Long tanned fingers Beautiful strong hands

No no. Save it until you get home and can enjoy. No mental pictures right now, get home before you—

Ink. Up one forearm and down the other. At least as far as one could tell— the ink disappeared via biceps covered by a thin cotton tee. Did the ink go all the way up? Circle around his neck and back? Did the ink go all the way down? Cutting along his torso, snaking around his hip to—

Get. Out.

“I’ll take all three, Philippe. Can you wrap those up for me?” I said, dabbing at my brow. Pulse racing, I handed over my money, collected my delectables, bestowed a “sorry, it’s not happening tonight” smile on Former Mr. Wonderful, who was looking so hopeful it was almost pitiful.

I hurried out of the shop, fifty dollars’ worth of cheese under my arm, and headed home. Needing something to change the images in my head, I turned on the mental soundtrack that I almost always had playing.

Cue “Fireball” by Dev.

What, you don’t have a running mental soundtrack?

As I walked quickly down the street, I was aware of the glances I was getting from men. I didn’t need to look in the reflection of the windows to know what I looked like. Long, bouncy strawberry-blond hair, pale Irish skin, likely still flushed from my heated imagination. Deep-blue eyes, almost indigo, set off by an array of freckles across my nose and cheeks.

My body was poured into a deep-green wrap dress, accentuating my true hourglass figure. Rather than slouch my tall body around town, I kicked it up even higher by wearing ridiculously high heels, the higher the better. I’d learned to walk across the old cobblestones of Lower Manhattan, and I could walk in heels almost better than in sneakers. These golden peep-toe pumps weren’t practical at all, unless you wanted to make sure your legs looked fantastic. Which I did.

Size-eighteen women weren’t supposed to show off their legs, which I did. They weren’t supposed to show off their cleavage, which I did. Size-eighteen women were supposed to wear trench coats in the winter, long sleeves in the summer, and somebody better cancel Christmas if they wore a dress that showed off some cleavage. Size-eighteen women were supposed to dress like they were apologizing for taking up too much space. Fuck all that noise. I took up space. I took up space in a city where space was at a premium, and I

never apologized for it. And right now, I knew exactly how much space I was taking up, strutting down Fourteenth Street to the song playing in my head, with a bag full of delicious and already fantasizing about my favorite pastime.

Oscar the Dairy Farmer.

I made the last turn onto my street, feeling the smile that broke over my face every time I did. I was incredibly blessed to be able to live where I did, the way that I did. Most gals in their twenties in this city were lucky if they shared an apartment with only two other girls, and I knew plenty who shared with more than that. I lived alone, a luxury, in an apartment I owned, an unheard-of luxury.

Well, technically my father owned it. But it was in my name. So according to my own version of the rules, I owned it . . .

I grinned back at the pumpkins and gourds that peeked merrily over the brownstone stoops. Halloween was only a few weeks away, and decorations were going up all over town. As I clicked up the stairs to my own home, a gaggle of white Lumina pumpkins glowed in the twinkle of the streetlights. Juggling my purse and bags, I unlocked the front door, then paused to gaze up at my building. Three stories with an attic, it was three separate apartments, with my own on the first floor, or parlor floor. The other tenants had been here for years, and helped me take great care of the building. We shared the garden out back, and the fourth-floor attic was a shared storage space.

It was converted from a single-family residence back in the fifties, and much of the original woodwork and detail was still intact. The main central staircase had been preserved when it was closed in, making each apartment a self-contained unit sharing the same stairs. Beautiful honeyed wood shone brightly in the entryway, with an original period mirror poised just inside. A bronze umbrella stand, complete with antique parrot-head parasol, stood proudly in the corner, another shared item.

I let myself in my own front door, which had been rescued from a salvage yard when my father renovated the building years ago. The original renovation had been done on the cheap, with ugly flat steel doors. My father had scoured antique shops and architectural salvage dumps until he found beautiful mahogany doors, likely pulled out of another brownstone in the city. Replacing them throughout the building made it feel more homey, and certainly more fitting for a house built in the late 1870s.

I carried my bags through the living room with its shiny pocket doors and eighteen inches of intricately carved crown molding, in through the dining room and its waist-high chestnut wainscoting, on into the galley kitchen with its marble tiling and butcher-block counters. Setting my bags down as I slipped out of my shoes, I listened to the relative quiet. Relative because it was never truly quiet. Cars honking over on Bleecker, a faraway siren, and the ever-present background hum of 1.6 million people living in twenty-two square miles.

It had been a great day. I’d landed a great account based on my unconventional yet killer pitch. I had the entire weekend to look forward to. I had a bagful of luscious cheese to indulge in. And I had a headful of luscious images to indulge in. Pouring a glass of red wine, I let my mind run wild . . .

Oscar. His name was Oscar. I know this because my best friend, Roxie, had clued me in, knowing him from the small hometown she had recently moved back to. Her boyfriend lived on the farm next to Oscar’s. Before I knew this, I only knew him as The Hot Dairy Farmer I Crushed On at the Union Square Farmers’ Market.

I had it bad for Oscar. I’d lived most of my adult life able to date pretty much whomever I chose. A late bloomer, I’d spent much of my teen years hiding my ample body under big sweatshirts and a loud mouth, never letting boys close and certainly never letting anyone under the big sweatshirts. My freshman year at culinary school (a disastrous decision considering I could burn water, but a great decision considering I met my two best friends, Roxie and Clara), I embraced my curves, my natural good looks, and realized that confidence went much further than a small ass in tight jeans.

I’d spent the first part of my life as an observer, watching the world as it went by instead of participating, particularly when it came to men. I’d watched my girlfriends fumble through relationships, watched guys run circles around them, especially when the girl lacked confidence. I learned things about how men and women operate by listening and watching and remembering.

I’d had one boyfriend, just the one, and when it ended, it ended badly. It nearly broke me, in fact, and when I came out the other side of it I was determined to never let a man define me again. Moving across the country and enrolling in culinary school on a whim, I found a new family of friends that welcomed me with open arms.

No one knew me. No one knew my story. No one knew I was the ugly duckling, and in a school where everyone was as in love with duck fat as I was, no one blinked an eye at a pretty (which was news to me), chubby girl who was finally finding her way back out of the dark.

When I finally found my own confidence, I took my sharp tongue (honed from years of defense humor) and my surprisingly good looks (a mother with gorgeous Celtic genes mixed with a Viking-like father) and used every trick of the trade I’d observed over the years on the opposite sex.

I found a certain kind of power in walking into a room where I knew no one, and figuring out how everyone ticked. Narrowing in on the best-looking guy in any room, and going on the offense. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be timid. Size-eighteen women were supposed to be shy. Size- eighteen women were supposed to be grateful for any male attention, and to feel especially honored if a good-looking man paid attention to them.

Fuck all that noise. I took the best-looking guy home with me whenever and however I pleased. Confidence went a long way. You walk into a room armed with the knowledge that you can have anyone you want? You can literally have anyone you want.

Plus I had a sweet rack. Which always helped.

I made up for lost time, dating as much as I could, discovering what men liked and what men loved. And when it became apparent that a career in the culinary arts was not in the cards for me, I said good-bye to my new best

friends, packed my bags, and headed east. I crashed back onto the scene in Manhattan, unpacking confidence and a touch of cheeky along with my new sexy clothes, determined to keep the party going New York style.

Enrolling at Columbia, where I’d had been accepted my senior year of high school but deferred while I played line cook in Santa Barbara, I discovered a newly untapped talent for writing quick and edgy copy. I spent four years pursuing an advertising degree, dating almost nonstop the entire time, and when I graduated at the top of my class, I had my pick of junior copy editor positions at several New York advertising firms.

Mmm, professional men. I loved it.

I loved men, and I didn’t apologize for enjoying them. I wasn’t looking to get married, I wasn’t looking for someone to take care of me, and I certainly wasn’t looking for a man to take me home and stick me in an apron. But I did enjoy myself.

Did I run into jerks? Sure, that was par for the course. Are there great- looking guys out there who are also assholes? Of course. But instead of shying away, I went crashing right on through, making them want me, making them need me, making sure the thought of sleeping with a big girl as a pity fuck was a thought they’d never have again.

I was confident around men of all sizes, shapes, colors, and political persuasions. I prided myself on being a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and never felt “lucky” or “grateful” when a man dated me.

I overheard a beautiful man once say that fat chicks give great blow jobs, because they needed to make sure a guy kept coming around. That same man gave me incredible head three times a day for a solid week, and I never once sucked his dick. He was lucky. He was grateful. I was grinning.

I dedicated my days to becoming one of the youngest advertising executives in the business. I dedicated my nights to indulgence in all the things I never thought I could have, figuring out what made a man tick and then taking him home with me.

Yet there was one guy who reduced me to mush every time I saw his gorgeous face and heard his gorgeous voice say that one gorgeous word to me, every week at the farmers’ market.

The first moment I’d laid eyes on him, I’d been dying to lay thighs on him. My thighs. On his shoulders. I’d been hit with an instant wave of lust. Months ago I’d been visiting my favorite farmers’ market, visiting my favorite stalls, chatting with some of the producers I’d come to know, as I was here almost every Saturday. A new stall caught my eye: Bailey Falls Creamery, Hudson Valley, NY. Thinking I might have stumbled onto a new source for yummy local dairy treats, I headed over, drawn by the chalkboard sign advertising butter, milk, cream, and . . . oh!

Behind the counter was the best-looking man I’d ever seen. Six feet six inches of stunning. His skin was a deep golden color, tan but swirled through with the lightest caramel. Thick chestnut brown hair was caught back in what looked like a leather tie, but a few wavy pieces had escaped and were strewn about a chiseled face. That perfectly tousled pony would have cost forty dollars at any decent blow-dry bar, but you know he just tugged it back in the morning and ran with it.

The hair framed a sinful face, deeply set gray-blue eyes shone out from under heavy brows, one of which had a slashing scar through the middle. Very Dylan McKay. Except this guy could have broken Dylan McKay with his ponytail alone.

His features were dark and, coupled with the golden skin, hinted at sun- swept island beaches and South Seas waves. I’d ride those waves.

But the ink! Sweet mother of needles, the ink. From across the market I could see the swirls of red, green, orange, and black coating him in full sleeves, stopping just above his wrists.

I’d dated bad boys, and I’d fucked my share. But this guy was like . . . hmm. Cross a bad boy with a supermodel, add a dash of linebacker with a big scoop of Polynesian love, and then you might, just might, have an appreciation for the wet dream across the market from me.

And then he—oh lordy—he pulled a tall bottle of purest white milk from the cold case, twisted the cap, and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sweet—”

“—Christ,” I finished for the woman next to me, standing there with her mouth hanging open, who’d been lucky enough to witness the same glory I had.

“Almighty,” a third slack-jawed bystander added to the mix, this time a tall stockbroker-looking type, his own mouth falling open in worship.

I immediately pinched myself, certain I’d fallen asleep somewhere and was experiencing some kind of wonderful, but imaginary, dream.

Ouch. Not dreaming.

I began looking around, trying to find the hidden camera, as this was surely a prank show of some kind. The city of New York would never let someone this beautiful just walk around loose like this; it could start a panic.

The two people I’d been staring with had already gotten in line, so it was time to strike, before someone else claimed him.

I straightened myself up to my full height, glad I’d worn something casually sexy this morning. A silky summer shift, it was a little like a bathing suit cover-up, a little like a nightie, and a lot like sexy. I threw my hair back over my shoulder, breathed in deeply, and strutted over to his stall.

I waited in line. I looked over his wares. I was convinced we’d be horizontal before noon. I tasted a few of the samples he’d thoughtfully provided for his customers. I tasted sweet grassy clover in the buttery Camembert, deliciously twisted dark in the Stilton, and was bowled over by his strong cheddar, finally selecting a lovely Brie. I was convinced we’d be vertical before midnight.

I watched and listened as he interacted with his customers, picking up little hints here and there about the man. He was commanding, forceful, short on words but long on brooding, and the furthest thing from a natural-born salesman. His products must be good enough to stand alone, because clearly this guy wasn’t winning anyone over with his conversational skills. Would I go in strong, and knock him down a few pegs? Or soft and demure, thinking he liked a soft, sweet girl who turned into a crazy one in bed?

Didn’t matter. Because the closer I got to him, the strangest thing happened. My skin flushed, my knees wobbled, and my heartbeat got all fluttery. It was my turn in line next—what would I say? I tried to will my

racing heart to calm down, to tell the butterflies inside me to shut it, it was time to snag this guy. But when his eyes fell on me, those beautiful blue piercing eyes, and they traveled the length of my body and back up again, the eyebrow with the scar rising in (Appreciation? Admiration? Carnal frustration?) question, he merely said one word.

“Brie?”

“Oh. Yes,” I whispered, not trusting my voice to go any louder. He nodded, wrapped up a package, and handed it to me. For one instant, one glorious fireworks-filled instant, his finger brushed mine.

I mentally placed an order for wedding invitations.

“You pay the cashier down there,” he said, jerking his chin toward the cashier.

As he looked past me to the next customer, I suddenly remembered I had legs. And boobs. And a lovely round bottom. I remembered how to regain control and get us back on the horizontal schedule. But he afforded me only one more glance, and while it was clearly at my legs, he was done with me.

I shook my head to clear it, somehow made my way to the cashier, and paid for my Brie.

I mean. This guy.

I stole one more look over my shoulder, and saw his gray-blue eyes flash once more toward me, feeling it all over my body.

But I was left holding his Brie, and nothing else.

Back at home I started plotting for next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. And . . . you guessed it. Because week after week, cheese after cheese, I’d lose all my nerve and all my strut the second those eyes looked at me, looked through me.

“Brie?” he’d ask, and I’d answer, “Oh yes.” He’d wrap it up, I’d walk away on shaky legs, and our time together was over, but for the exquisitely lustful fantasies that ran through my head every day as I counted down how many more days I had to go before seeing him again.

This was beyond a crush. This was beyond a quick naked tussle behind the dairy truck. This was maddening.

And I’d see him tomorrow morning!

I fell onto the couch, squealing, kicking my legs into the air like a cricket.