Page 19 of Handling Skylar
“You are an interesting package,” he murmured as he opened the screen door and waited for me to go first. The soft inflection in his voice made my stomach jump, sounding like he wanted to open me like a present and delve inside.
I guess other women would be getting antsy about now, but I respected Jake’s process. He and Anna Kate still had some unresolved issues, but I trusted him to deal with those as he saw fit. As long as he was honest with me in the process, we wouldn’t have any issues. I tended to be a go with the flow type of gal.
Inside his car, the top up again, I didn’t wait for his permission, but leaned over him and pushed the button to retract the canvas. “This time I’m prepared.” I jammed my cowboy hat on my head, a spurt of laughter rumbled doing crazy things to me. I grinned at him. “It worked wonders when I was galloping hell-bent for leather on a horse. I think I could handle this car like I would a bucking bronc.”
He laughed again and reached out and curled his arm around my neck like we were good buds and squeezed. It made me feel so…close to him. The act was more about affection than it was about desire. It felt so natural to be with him like this.
It was still warm, about eighty-nine degrees, not as oppressive as the middle to end of August, but in the Deep South humidity was the issue. This was going to be hot, sweaty work. I wasn’t a stranger to hard work, especially when I had someone as gorgeous as Jake to labor with. Talking about smelling good, Jake’s male scent was heavenly.
With the wind and the riding companion, the trip over to his orchards invigorated me. The first thing I noticed was a beautiful brown and caramel sign with white around the ornate edges that read, Vermilion River Pecan Company, Home of the hope parish nuts.
“I love your sign.”
“That was River’s idea. She suggested we do a specialty nut addition to our catalog with pecans dipped in sweet molasses. It’s called the Hope Parish, and it’s one of our best-sellers.
I made a soft sound in the back of my throat. “I’m well aware of that specialty nut, thank you very much. I buy them almost exclusively for the holidays and snack on them from the end of November all the way through December. I have a molasses cookie recipe handed down from my mom, and I use the pecans as one of my special ingredients. I have to do extra kayaking during that time.”
“You kayak? I do, too. Got hooked on the whole rowing and enjoying the water things when I crewed with Harvard. We should go sometime.”
I wanted to explode with excitement. Was Jake asking me out on a date? “Next weekend there’s an event on Lake Chicot I’m signed up for. It’s about a three to five-hour paddling trip, but I heard the lake is beautiful, especially at sunset.”
“Yeah, it is.” Giving me a glance that was rife with undertones that made my heart beat a little faster, I met his eyes briefly, but it was enough to get me going. Then, with regret in his voice, he said, “I can’t make that, but we could just launch from here. I know this river well.” He turned off onto a paved road, large well-maintained warehouses to our right. “Processing is done in those buildings. We shell some nuts for the American market and leave almost half in the shells. China has become a major player the last few years, and this season we expect they’ll want even more nuts.”
I was so impressed with Jake’s easy knowledge, the pride in his voice. I loved that he was so passionate about his family business. It touched something deeply inside me and brought back all the memories of my family business. Tears flooded and he parked in a lot with several other cars. Employees no doubt. I guessed there were plenty of tasks to be completed in an orchard this size.
I popped out of the car, wiping surreptitiously at my eyes, breathing in the scent of the fall flavors in the air and the smell of growing things. It made me feel unexpectedly at home.
“Hey,” he said, coming up to me and turning my face toward his. So, he was observant. Pushing at the wide flair of my hat, he took in my face. “What’s going on inside that pretty head?”
“I’m just remembering how much enthusiasm I had for my own family’s business. To hear that kind of passion in your voice…it touched me.”
He stared at me for a moment. “I love your honesty, your openness. You really say what you think. Don’t you? No subterfuge.”
I shook my head and wiped at my eyes again. “Thank you for including me in this project. Feels like coming home a little. I appreciate that.”
“If you work hard, I might even let you drive the tractor.”
“Really? Oh my crimeny! That would be so cool.” I gave him a serious look. “I will work very hard for that privilege.”
He handed me a pair of gloves and turned, indicating with his hand in a wide arc. “Welcome to my livelihood, my life, my joy—the orchard.”
I turned and took in the vista, rows and rows of pecan trees—they seemed to go on forever—green and lush against the bright blue Louisiana sky. The river snaked in the background, bordering the numerous, symmetrical, broadly oval crowns and the manicured string of trees. The wind tripped lovingly rustling the dark green leaves heavy with the ripening pods that would mature in a few months into ready to harvest pecans.
“Lead on. We’re not going to get anything done admiring this beautiful orchard.” He tucked the gloves into the back pocket of his jeans and I would say that Jake really needed to wear jeans more often, the denim cupped that impressive backside in a very distracting way.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled with a tilt of his head. I took a deep breath, and when he stopped in front of a golf cart with a cooler on the back and garden implements, I settled into the seat next to him.
He drove along the paved road for a bit until we got to a snarled growth in the back corner of the orchard.
He stopped the cart, and I got out. I looked at him, and he nodded in understanding. “Holy cow,” I whispered. “You’ve barely made a dent in it.” I walked up to the tangled mess of brush and weeds to the scaly, brown trunk and looked up into the downward curving leaves. “They look really healthy.”
He pulled the gloves out of his back pocket, and I did the same. Donning them, I turned to the brush and started pulling.
“All they will need is water, sunlight, and a little fertilizer,” he said confidently. We worked steadily, and, true to his word, I got to man the tractor. What a blast, and it felt so familiar to be in the seat. I could tell that Jake was impressed by my skill. It was like riding a bike. He caught my eye and sliced his hand across his neck, the universal gesture to cut the engine.
He pulled off the gloves and grabbed a cloth from his back pocket and swiped it over his face and hair. He looked the most mussed, dirty and sweaty than I’d ever seen him and it put us on common ground. Two people working together for a shared cause. I was so proud we’d already cleared one whole row. But there were almost ten left to go.
He started toward me in that loose-hipped gait. From the thick brown hair cut short on the sides and spiked on top, to the lean, chiseled lines of his face, there was no ‘give’ in the way he looked, no softness. Southern planter or not. His shoulders were so impossibly broad under his shirt, his hands large and strong, the way he moved filled with purpose. He wasn’t sedate, no, not exactly, there was a bit of wildness in Jake that he kept under wraps and I wanted to release that wild boy. He was something. A hard-muscled egg-head, smart-mouth, playing-it-cool, bad boy.
