Page 101 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

His thumb moves across my knuckles. “You like to wear a lot of rings.”

“I do?” I mean, I know I do, but I’m not wearing any now at all. I didn’t want any confusion about my availability, plus that didn’t seem very farm-girl.

“I can tell from the tan lines. See?” He lifts my hand, and sure enough, there are the barest blurred rings of paler skin. I can even make out the ghostly circle of my favorite moonstone.

“I guess I’m outdoors a lot.” I’ve never noticed this myself. It must have happened during all the walks from the office to my car. California sunshine at its finest.

I take in his face. He’s not as handsome as Zachery, but that’s like comparing someone to Brad Pitt. Most men would lose.

His face is tan and well honed with a sharp jaw and broad, sweeping eyebrows. His eyes are hazel, the glittery kind that always make me think of the sparkle batons I loved as a kid. I had one just like his eyes, gold and brown and green and blue.

“You still owe me at least twenty minutes of high school bragging before we’re even,” he says. “Were you an A student? I bet you were. You look sharp as a tack.”

Nobody ever says I look smart. Sunshine, yes. Pretty, sometimes. Bright, often.

“I thought blondes couldn’t be smart,” I say.

He reaches out to tap my nose. “You’re the whole package, I bet. Beautiful and brainy. And crafty, too. And a farm girl, so you know hard work. Girls like you don’t come into Glass, Wyoming, very often.”

The glow in my gut is warm and good. This is happening.

I glance around the tiny restaurant. “It’s all so beautiful here and the shops are quaint, and that homestead of yours is a dream.”

“It’ll be mine when I want it. Jack took the original cabin when he got married, and Gina prefers to live in town. It’s too much house for me right now, although Mom thinks it’s set up nicely to be a bed-and-breakfast. All depends on how I settle down.”

During this, his fingers keep their easy pressure on mine.

“Is that what you want?” I ask. “A bed-and-breakfast close to the tree farm?”

“I think it sounds all right. This is where I started, and this is where I’ll end up.”

Unlike me. I shot out of that dairy farm the first chance I got. My father without my mother was unbearable while I was growing up. And it never got any better, no matter how many times I went back between college semesters to try again. He was toxic and mean, and most of us escaped.

Without the glue of our mother’s care, we scattered, talking only a few times a year. Twice, we managed to get everyone back at Christmas, but the way it ruined everyone’s holiday made most of us quit trying. I haven’t gone back in years.

I really don’t want to go there, and this is looking good. I want to know more about Randy. The urge to jump as many hurdles as possible is strong. “Do you have other interests? Anything else you ever wanted to do?”

He shrugs. “No point in it. Jack went to college. Got an ag degree. Then he came back and did the same things he was doing before, minusabout forty thou in our parents’ savings. Didn’t seem much point in it, so I skipped.”

“That wasn’t that long ago. You could still go.”

This unsettles him. “I don’t see any reason to leave. And if I like somewhere else better, doesn’t that mean I never belonged in the first place?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about you? You left your parents’ farm.”

This is hitting close to home.

We’ve strayed from the formula. The questions are going too deep. Aren’t we supposed to be baking something? Cupcakes? A pie?

Where’s a bunch of carolers when you need them?

But then I hear it. The strains of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

I peer out the window at the sun-drenched landscape. A teen boy in shorts and a tank top saunters by.

The sound grows louder.

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