Page 59 of A Whisper of Summer Magic

“It doesn’t.” Meghan loaded the second basket of strawberries into the Gator. “That’s why I try not to look at it or I’ll be here until dark and then be too tired to make the new jam for the shop. We have ripe cucumbers. Do you want to start pickling? I’ve harvested some each night this week and have been treating them so I can make my first batch tonight using a recipe I found in the book.”

There. She’d come out and suggested the book, making a move.

“Which one is the love potion—jam or pickles?”

The question made her choke on her spit. “I’m acting crazy, right? Just say it. I’ve quit a lucrative job that was sucking me dry, moved back to my grandma’s childhood farm and am becoming a part-time farmer, and I’m totally ill suited.” She swept a hand down her body as she hadn’t changed—not even into her boots she wore when she worked around the farm.

Jackson had been at the edge of the blueberry bushes, judiciously picking the plump ripe fruit among the bulk of the smaller, greener berries.

“Sounds pretty ideal to me,” he said. “I never liked the big city, and I like living in a place with memories, family, people who used to know me.”

Her throat constricted and she felt pressure in her chest. “Yeah,” she said, likely too softly for him to hear. “I always thought I wanted to go far from here,” she admitted. “I did study abroad in Paris and then a year of law school there as well, thinking I might want to qualify for EU citizenship as I worked for a multinational law firm. But now I’m back here to stay.”

She stared at the same view he’d been looking at—rolling fields, large trees, and the valley beyond dotted with the lights of a few neighborhoods and small towns that would look like the sparkle of stars that had shot their wishes and landed on earth.

“Yeah,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “Here where I belong.”

He walked toward her carrying his one basket of blueberries—not a lot but it was early in the season. The setting sun kissed his hair, lit him up like an angel.

“Regrets?” His voice was low and scratchy.

“Not a one, and that should be scary.” She laughed nervously.

He slowly reached out, cupped her chin, and stared into her eyes for what seemed like forever. Such a beautiful, clear light blue, like cool pool water beckoning on a summer hot day. She wanted to dive in and swim.

“Live dangerously, Meghan Maye.”

He bent toward her. She sucked in a breath fragrant with green, heat, and the woodsy, pine-fresh scent she associated with Jackson.

His lips brushed hers once, then again. She placed her hand over his and parted her lips on a gasp as sensations tingled through her body. It was such a sweet innocent kiss, like the first kiss a teen might have. She stepped into his body, breathed him in, and kissed him again, nibbling on his lips and sliding her tongue across the seam of his mouth.

“Meghan,” he breathed.

“No regrets,” she said again. “But we have a lot of work ahead for both of us if you want to participate in the romance-for-Sarah experiment.”

“I’m not exactly sure how that’s going to work.” He kissed her forehead so chastely, but she felt his heart pounding against hers, so he wasn’t as cool as he looked, and her own heart soared in a surprised excitement to think that she was impacting him as much as he was impacting her.

When was the last time she’d felt this bubble of hope?

“But I have to warn you making pickles with the vinegar, spices, and fermenting can be smelly.”

“We’ll open the windows and take a shower.”

She swayed toward him as she imagined them together, skin to skin, water sluicing down, steam rising.

“One rule,” she whispered before she got too carried away. “We can’t taste-test what we make. This is science.”

“Rules are meant to be broken.”

*

Meghan didn’t wantto think about how fun it was to cook with Jackson. How easy it was to share the kitchen with him and chat about her day, her dreams, her worries. Twice she nearly blurted what she and her sisters had learned about Chloe. Their father. Family business. The impulse startled her because she was, by nature, reticent with everyone but her sisters. Yet she’d valued Jackson’s opinions and trusted him. She didn’t think he’d spill any tea.

So what did that mean?

Were they friends or moving beyond that? And why did she have to analyze everything? He’d eaten jam she’d made, and it hadn’t seemed to shake up his world. He’d flirted with her before, and if there was a new watchful intensity to their interactions, she wasn’t sure if it could be attributed to the jam because she was hyperaware of him as a man.

“If you do make elderberry wine, I definitely want in on that,” Jackson said, interrupting her useless and racing thoughts. “It feels so Miss Marple and Agatha Christie.”

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