Chapter 8
Sophie
Davis was nowhere to be found when I made my way to the kitchen Monday morning. I was desperate to see him in the flesh to convince myself that last night hadn't been a dream.
Had he really kissed me like he meant it? I'd turned into a giant puddle of swoon on the couch. Keeping my cool long enough to retreat to Jo's room was a testament to my self-control, which was waning fast when it came to him.
Spending time alone with him had been an education.
The cute, growly farmer had morphed into something else altogether: a beast when it came to kissing.
Who knew Davis had that much passion in him?
Apparently, my nipples did. They were freaking psychic, tingling when he was near.
I'd written off the attraction as stifled hormones, but nope.
He was the real deal. Which was going to make things forking complicated.
I visited Jo and the farm weekly and was bound to run into him, whether or not we made it as a couple.
And that was assuming a heck of a lot. One kiss did not a relationship make.
The way I was desperate for more excuses to hang out with him was a red flag.
The attraction imbalance between us made me wary.
If we got together, I wanted it to be because it was what we both wanted, no reluctance on either side.
Getting caught up in my enthusiasm when he didn’t share it would make for another red flag.
Heck, at this point, I was verging on red flag bingo.
Which sounded bad, until I considered that Davis was the prize.
But I didn’t want to watch his interest turn to contempt.
Not everyone had the stomach for a full dose of my enthusiasm, and he seemed more immune than most to my charms.
However, he had been slowly revealing more of himself over the weekend, warming to me. Those glimpses of the man behind the grunts gave me hope. I was beginning to suspect that his bluster protected a soft heart.
Maybe it was time to give him a chance and see if he’d soften further. After all, Izzy and Ivan were making it work. Ditto Eve and Brady. If they could stick the landing, why couldn't Davis and I?
I winced.
Not that I'd been doing so good with smooth landings lately.
Shuddering, I relived the last few seconds of my flight in Bee-gonia.
I was already dreading taking her up again, and I hadn't even figured out what was wrong with the burner yet.
Frowning, I opened my note app and added taking my burner for servicing to my to-do list. It was still early in the season, and I hadn't booked many flights yet, which might be my saving grace.
I wouldn't have to force myself back into the air before I was ready.
After a quick breakfast, I texted Davis. Considering I’d stayed over as part of my offer to help him with chores during his recovery, I hadn’t actually done much.
Sophie: Hey, roomie. Heading to work in five. Need any help before I leave?
Davis: Warming up my truck for you. Come on out.
Davis's sweet gesture made the bitter cold when I stepped outside more bearable.
March weather in eastern Washington was capricious.
We bounced from rain to snow to sun on any given day.
Thankfully, the summers were hot and dry, a great match for hot air ballooning.
My hobby lined up perfectly with my school schedule.
I'd leased Bee-gonia so I could offer chartered flights during my weeks off. It made for a fun side hustle.
However, I would not be telling my parents about my crash-landing. If Mom realized that taking me to a balloon rally at the tender age of thirteen would lead to me piloting and crashing my own balloon, she might have regrets.
Frost covered the ground, and I could see my breath as I shivered on my way to Davis's truck. He loomed next to the passenger side, nodded his version of good morning, and opened the door, watchful as I scrambled inside with my purse and school bag.
Very aware that he'd kissed me silly the night before, I kept up a steady stream of chatter on the ride to Bluff Elementary.
The familiar brick building eased some of my anxiety over trying to make small talk.
I should have realized that was a losing proposition after his first grunt.
Making conversation with Davis when he wasn't in the mood to talk was like conversing with a rock.
Impenetrable. He'd been so open with me last night, almost teasing and playful, and I'd thought that some of that new comradery might stick. No such luck.
I opened the truck door, stopping when he called my name. He paused, and I held my breath, willing him to speak.
He shook his head, the motion almost imperceptible. “Don’t overdo it on that foot.” He looked like the words pained him, like he wanted to say something else altogether.
I took my time gathering my bag, giving him more time to speak. When he remained silent, I hopped out of the truck with a cheery wave, wincing when I landed hard on my bad foot.
Davis waited until I reached the door to my school before pulling away, and that small courtesy warmed my heart. He might not always know what to say, but he knew what to do to make me feel special.
My day was every bit as exhausting as I'd feared, and by the end of it, my foot ached.
Davis was waiting for me outside when I finally wrapped up for the day.
Even though I'd texted and was expecting him, his presence hit me like a punch to the gut.
He leaned against the hood of his truck, booted feet crossed at the ankle.
A ballcap covered his dark hair, casting his expression in shadows.
At least he'd dressed for the cold in a heavy barn jacket.
I hobbled toward the truck, and his straight mouth turned down in a frown.
He opened the passenger door as I approached, and I tried not to let the gesture turn me to mush.
Davis climbed into the cab, expression forbidding. His mood matched my exhaustion, and I settled into the seat, letting my eyes close. Everything ached. Maybe I should have taken a sick day.
"Here," he said.
The rough gravel in Davis's voice jarred me out of my pity party. He still looked grumpy, but my heart softened when I saw he was offering me an ice pack.
"Thanks," I murmured, hissing when I placed the cool pack against my ankle.
"You going to call out sick tomorrow?" he asked.
"Nope," I responded cheerfully.
"Stubborn."
"I know you are, but what am I?"
"Bee, you've been hanging out with second-graders too long." His tone was dry, but I noticed the smile that flirted with his lips. Davis may not want to find me funny, but I was getting to him.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Okay," he said. "I did some routine maintenance on my harvester."
From Davis, that was a dissertation. Was it a red flag that I felt honored he shared even that much with me?
"Is that the big red trailer-thing in your main barn?"
"Yes, it strips the bines and leaves me with just the picked hop cones come harvest time."
"I bet my students would think that was really cool. You know, my farming unit is coming up soon. I'm going to invite Dallas Lachman in to talk about his potato farm, but I'd love to have you share with my students too."
"About beer?"
I chuckled, imagining the parent phone calls. "No, about rhizomes. We're going to sprout new potato shoots in class, and I thought I could do an experiment sprouting a hop plant for comparison."
"You're teaching second-graders about the difference between tubers and rhizomes?" He sounded both incredulous and interested.
"Why not? A bunch of them live on farms, or their parents work with crops in one way or another. It's science."
My words brought a rush of memory that made my skin tingle. Just last night, I'd been focused on a very different kind of science. Chemistry. Maybe Davis would be interested in a do-over? After all, repeatability was a good indicator of a solid experiment.
"Sure."
His gruff agreement caught me off-guard. For a flash, I thought he was agreeing to personal experimentation. I’d moved light-years beyond my original request for him to speak to my students.
"Gre-at," I said, my voice catching mid-syllable.
I needed to work on my resting teacher face and responses if I was going to fantasize about Davis in the middle of a conversation. Desperately, I grasped for a topic change to cool my over-heated imagination.
"How do you feel about tacos for dinner? I noticed you had most of the ingredients in the fridge at home."
"Tacos are for Tuesdays." He said it with such finality, I didn't argue. After all, I was still essentially an intruder in his life.
"And what are Mondays for?" I asked, curious.
"Meatless meals."
"Like… grilled cheese?"
He nodded. "For instance."
"Okay, I can work with that. What are the other days of the week?
" I asked, intrigued by this peek into Davis's life.
Maybe I should have guessed he'd be this disciplined.
After all, his hops were always arranged in neat rows.
It wasn't a stretch that he was just as particular in his personal life as he was with his crops.
"Meatless Monday, Taco Tuesday, Wish Wednesday, Tryout Thursday, Fish Friday, Soup or Sandwich Saturday, and Noodle Sunday."
Fascinated by his habits, I had to ask, "How did you get started with this dinner planning method?"
He shrugged. "My dad. After my mom left, he said he had his hands full with us and the farm and needed one less thing to think about."
"Your parents are divorced, right?"
"Since I was twelve." He said it easily, like it didn't matter anymore, and I guess after twenty-odd years, it didn't.
"Did you see your mom much growing up?"
"Nope."
Again, with the matter-of-fact delivery, I squinted at him, looking for any signs of discomfort. I'd had some idea of their background from comments Jo had made, but I hadn't realized their mom basically left her kids when she left their dad.