Chapter 3
3
Twenty Questions
Noun, plural but singular in construction ~
A game in which one player or team
tries to determine
from yes and no answers to
not more than 20 questions
what word or object the others
have chosen to be guessed
B aylin placed a variety of squash, onions, and potatoes on the countertop beside the single basin ceramic sink. She turned the faucet to warm and began washing her hands, using a small bristle brush around and under her nails.
Her unwanted guest sidled up beside her and did the same.
She cast a withering glance his way. Once again, he seemed immune to her normally proficient stink-eye.
Instead of drying her hands, she began washing the vegetables she’d brought in for dinner. Again, and without asking permission, he copied her actions move for move.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, his tall, hulking body radiated more heat than the small kitchen could handle. Well, at least more heat than Baylin could handle.
To be fair, he wasn’t hulkish, but he appeared too strong and too stout for comfort.
And too pretty.
Those eyes…the color of soft leafy greens, lighter than romaine but darker than cabbage. Baylin struggled not to stare in an effort to define their exact shade.
And the hair! What person not styled by a professional on a Hollywood set had that perfect swoopy thing going? He’d been driving a convertible! No one’s hair looked good — and never great — after the wind blew through it for hours on end.
Baylin refused to acknowledge his stubbled beard, thick eyebrows, and light plum lips. They weren’t worth considering…because no man should be so attractive.
Baylin left Mr. Perfect Body at the sink, assuming him capable of scrubbing vegetables without her assistance. She gathered the cast-iron skillet from the range, a cutting board from a bottom cabinet, and slid her chef’s knife from its storage block. Setting up her station a healthy distance from the stranger in her kitchen, Baylin began slicing the squash he’d finished rinsing.
“Do you have a name?” she asked, careful not to sound the least bit interested in his answer.
He responded with another exuberant smile. Did the shining gleam in his eyes ever turn off?
“Theodore Robinson Gwenn,” he replied. “But the whole world calls me Teddy.”
“Well, Teddy, after dinner I’ll drive you into town. Then you can be on your way.”
T heodore-Call-Me-Teddy didn’t get the hint.
As short-tempered and brusque as she’d tried to be all afternoon and evening, her demeanor had done zilch to diminish his good mood or inspire him to leave.
Teddy had hummed and chattered while they worked. Then he’d chattered and hummed some more while she cooked.
Baylin used all her energy to adjust to his presence, to the way he filled her farmhouse kitchen with natural ease. She worked hard to ignore the way Teddy’s being there transformed the space back to the way it felt before Papa Joe’s accident and before Grandma had needed round-the-clock dementia care.
Baylin’s parents hated the farm, had never spent much time there, so she was alone in the house most of the time. And that suited her just fine.
She didn’t have time for beautiful boys driving flashy cars…boys who drove those hot rods right out of Green Hills with the same careless speed that had brought them into town. Baylin didn’t need complications, didn’t have room to add one more time-consuming, energy-zapping item to her to-do list. The farm filled her days, quilting and reading and canning filled her evenings, and her friends and community filled her heart.
Essentially, life was perfect.
And that’s how she intended for it to stay.
“ A nd what can I call you?” Teddy asked, shaking Baylin from her wayward, some might say prickly, thoughts. “Just until you abandon me in town, of course. Without a place to stay. And no transportation. No friends…or even a?—”
“Baylin,” she interrupted. “I’m Baylin O’Casey.”
Why had her voice come out that way? All deep and breathy? Good heavens, what was wrong with her?
Get a grip! He’s here today, gone in five minutes.
“Baylin O’Casey,” Teddy said with a glint of appreciation sparkling in his gorgeous green eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand to shake hers, and for a split second, a vision of him yanking her off a cliff into a free fall over a cavernous abyss flashed through her mind.
Baylin shook off that thought, too, reprimanding herself for being a silly fool. Since when had a random passer-through made her doubt herself? Never, that was when! And this wanderer wasn’t about to be the first.
But when her palm met his, in what was supposed to be an innocent handshake, the zing of sensation that zapped through her hand and up her arm straight into her chest belied her certainty.
Baylin yanked back her hand and busied herself by sliding the chopped veggies into the skillet, drizzling olive oil over them, and adding seasonings to the pan. She lit the gas burner, stirred the mixture, and laid the lid on the skillet at a slight angle to let steam escape.
Teddy watched her like a hawk.
She refused to be unnerved.
When she took a leftover ham from the fridge and began cutting thick slices of the meat, Teddy helped himself to a scavenger hunt through her cabinets.
Seeming to find what he’d been looking for, Teddy set her small kitchen table with two plates, two napkins, and two sets of silverware.
Baylin had gotten in the bad habit of eating at her desk in the library, working on her computer between bites. The place settings, positioned with exacting care, looked strange. The pairs of everything felt too homey, too intimate. But also inviting…and nice.
“Can I steal a glass of milk? Or two?” Teddy asked after he’d located the tall, clear glasses in the upper cabinet by the refrigerator.
“Sure,” Baylin allowed. “There’s more where it came from,” she added, making a slight attempt at conversation. She should’ve known better.
“Is it from your farm?” he asked. And he didn’t come up for air until dinner was done, the dishes washed, and the kitchen spotless…
“So you have a real live dairy cow?” he marveled.
“I do,” she confirmed.
“And a poor little pig died for us to have this ham?” Teddy didn’t sound the least bit offended by the prospect as he piled multiple bites on his fork and devoured another slice.
“That he did,” Baylin affirmed.
“All those vegetables in the garden shed are for the Sweetheart Festival?”
“Not all, but most.”
“Why not all?
“Because I have to eat for the foreseeable future.”
“That’s fair,” he agreed.
She only lifted an eyebrow in response.
“So, the Valentine’s fair is a big deal?” Teddy asked.
“It is.”
“And you’re going to be working, selling your produce, the entire time it’s going on?”
“I am.”
“At a table?”
“I’ve rented booth space.”
“That’s cool.”
“Thank you?” Baylin’s reply came out like a question because really… What was he getting at?
“And you have to man the booth?”
“I do.”
“The whole time?”
“Pretty much,” she answered.
“But not every second?”
“No, not every second.”
“What does it take to have a produce booth?”
“Lots of fruits and vegetables.”
“Ha, ha,” he said, oozing with charm. “What does running the booth entail?”
“Well, I’ll spend Wednesday and Thursday gathering, baking, and packaging. Friday, I’ll set up the produce and products I hope to sell…maybe decorate my booth a little, if I have enough time. The festival starts that afternoon. The vendor hall opens that evening.”
“How long does the festival last?”
“Through Sunday; although, I hope I’ve sold everything by Saturday night so I can spend Sunday afternoon taking it all down.”
“Do you have someone to help with the weekend?”
“Not really.”
“You can’t do all that by yourself,” Teddy protested.
“I can . I have before, and I will many times again,” Baylin corrected. “But I won’t have to; whoever’s around will be more than happy to lend a hand here and there throughout the festival.”
“Huh,” Teddy grunted.
Baylin cast up a quick prayer of thanksgiving that he’d run out of conversational steam.