I was excited to be invited to a party; it made the prospect of spending the summer here more fun. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little bit of High School Roxie lingering as I reached the doorstep. I reminded myself that was then, this was now. Besides, I was carrying my famous Tuscan white bean dip, studded with lemon and garlic and accented with perfectly bias-cut brioche crostini. So there. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

Logan answered the door with a big hug and a smile, took my dip, handed me a brush and pail, and just like that, I was at a Cool Kids Party. And yeah, there were people there whom I remembered, but they were actually glad to see me. They asked if I was still cooking, and expressed admiration at my graduating from one of the top cooking schools in the country and envy at my living in Los Angeles, a place that was still considered very exciting and “cool” and “awesome” and “dude, that’s fucking great!” No one knew how butter had sunk my career; they were just impressed I was doing something most people would never do, and they were curious.

It had never seemed hard or adventurous to me; it was just what I supposed to do. So now, chatting with people who thought I was brave for venturing out and doing something different from everyone else? Dude. I was cool.

I mingled happily, seeing more of the house. A big and sprawling old Victorian, it was in rough shape but beautiful. The main floor had gorgeous wide windows, wainscoting, and an enormous fireplace with built-in bookshelves on either side. The kitchen had been recently renovated, and Chad told me that when they knocked down an old closet to gain more room in the new kitchen, they found old newspaper clippings from a hundred years ago. The house oozed charm, even in the state it was in.

Everyone was assigned a room to paint, with each part of the house telling a different color story. I was trotted up to the third floor, where there was a giant converted attic space, with a small room off to the side with a curved exterior wall.

“Oh my goodness, is this the turret room ?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s my favorite room in the house. The rest of the attic will be sort of a second living room, but I thought I’d make this into my home office,” Chad said as I explored.

“It’s perfect, I love it! What color will it be?”

He opened up a can and showed me the deepest, silkiest slate gray I’d ever seen. “I know conventional wisdom says a room this small shouldn’t be this dark, but I thought it’d be cozy.”

“No no, I think it’s perfect,” I said, laying down a drop cloth. “Now get outta here and let me paint your office.”

“Knock yourself out, sister. There’s more people coming over, and I’ll send a few up to paint the rest of the attic so you’re not alone up here for too long,” he said, then headed back downstairs.

I started pouring the dark, inky paint into the paint tray. This would be a great room.

I was lost in painting when I heard someone coming up the stairs. I turned around to say hi with a smile on my face, confident I could make whoever it was feel welcome.

And of course it was Leo. And the third time was the charm apparently, because after falling down and pea flinging the first two times, this time I got to just slow turn and take him in. This guy was some kind of handsome.

Even better than the tall was the broad shoulders. And those eyes were going to be the death of me. Green, oh so green, and fixed solidly on me. With that twinkle. He filled up his space with an easy confidence. Not cocky, just self-assured. Now I could see the Maxwell edge that had been softened by the delivery-guy first impression. He assessed, calculated, and appraised, wearing a ten-dollar plaid shirt with an impeccably designed submariner watch. Richie Rich with a green thumb?

“Hey, it’s the girl with the sugar snap peas,” he said, setting down his roller and paint tray.

“Oh no, no no no, stay right there,” I instructed.

“Why?” he asked, puzzled.

“Are you kidding?” I asked, looking at the minefield laid out between us. “Open paint cans, rollers, brushes—this could end very badly.”

“Good point,” he admitted, shrugging out of his jacket and setting it on a ladder. “But I think I’ll risk it.”

“I practically went down on you in public. Now, that was risky,” I said, crossing my arms and popping out one hip with a little swagger.

Then I heard what I’d just said. I might have been overcompensating just a bit.

He began to laugh. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“LA,” I said with a carefree wave of my hand, getting paint across my boobs. He laughed harder, leaning against the wall for support. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d just painted that wall.

“So, how do you know Chad and Logan?” he asked, picking up a paintbrush.

“I went to high school with Chad, and Logan I just met. How about you?”

“They’re part of the CSA out at the farm,” Leo said. “I usually see them once a week when they pick up their box.”

“CSA, CSA—why does that sound familiar?” I crinkled my forehead as I thought about it. “Oh sure! Community Supported Agriculture, right? They’re popping up in Los Angeles too—all over California, actually. I’ve never belonged to one, though; how exactly does it work?”

“It’s really simple. A group of people pay an agreed-upon fee before the growing season, and in return, each week they get a box of whatever’s fresh from the field. The farmer gets the money in advance, which is great when figuring out a budget ahead of time, and the consumer gets a price break on the weekly box, paying less than he would at the farm stand, and much less than at a conventional grocery store.”