I shivered a little as I bounced along over the potholes toward the Maxwell Farm. Mmm, bouncing . . . more daydream fuel . . .

An enormous sign stretched across the driveway, proclaiming that I had arrived at Maxwell Farms. Stone pillars on either side held up the old oak beams spelling out the family name. It’d been here as long as I could remember. I suppose when you have more money than practically everyone, a simple name on a mailbox just isn’t enough.

The property was fronted by the rural highway, and once you turned down the driveway you were enveloped in a tunnel of trees, planted to feel majestic yet protective. It was an impression, that’s for sure. Tremendous live oaks, soaring proud and tall and arching across the drive toward their friends on the other side, their branches tangled together, shaking little acorn hands and making sure the sun was dappled and soft below. Signs appeared intermittently, pointing the way toward other destinations on the property. Hiking trails, turn left. English maze, head straight. Pond, turn right here. I stayed on the main road, marveling at how large the property was. It was a whole other world, living back behind this green tunnel that separated the real world from this rich one.

Now and again I’d see patches of sun on either side of the road, giving way to a meadow here, an outbuilding there. And finally, around one last curve, there was farmland as far as I could see. But not the kind of farm I’d seen as I drove across Kansas, Missouri, and Iowa. There the land was wide and mostly treeless, green corn or soybean marching away in uniform rows. But here, I saw an explosion of color. Small fields, plants of all shapes and sizes. Between the fields were bushes and small scrubby trees. There was activity everywhere I looked: people kneeling in the dirt, workers with baskets carefully picking over what looked like pole beans, someone spreading mulch on a freshly planted bed.

I even had to stop my car to let a flock of chickens cross the road. (Insert your own joke here, please.)

The main house was at the top of the hill, the highest point for miles, looking down on everything like a genteel old lady (beautiful but stone-faced). Signs pointed me to parking by the main house, and as I pulled into a spot I looked toward the enormous stone barn, where Leo told me he’d be waiting for me. And there he was, towering above a gaggle of Cub Scouts.

He caught my eye and waved, and a teeny tiny butterfly batted her wings in my tummy. I waved back, grabbed the slice of cake I’d brought for him, and set out across the yard. The barn was set up in almost a U shape, wrapped around a central yard shaded by an enormous oak tree. The fieldstone walls were half-timbered and two stories high. Wide beams were visible through open windows, their sashes painted bright red. The original hay bins now contained offices and classrooms. Maxwell Farms was not only a working farm but a teaching farm. I was hoping to learn more about what they were teaching on my tour today.

Boyish laughter made me turn from admiring the window boxes on the second floor, spilling over with brightly colored flowers, to the group clustered around Leo. The boys were jumping and shouting as he held what looked like patches over them, doling them out and calling the kids by name. As I got closer, I could hear him laughing along with the kids.

“I hear you, Owen; you’ll get your activity patch too—don’t worry. Who else? Here you go, Jeffrey, you earned it when you picked the biggest eggplant we’ve had yet this year! Who else? Let’s see . . . oh boy, we can’t forget Matthew—here you go, buddy. You guys are the best Webelos around.”

His smile really was contagious, and I found myself grinning as I crossed the gravel, admiring his high cheekbones, the curve of his lower lip as he laughed, and the green eyes that, when fixed on mine, turned my belly all butterflies.

And that beard. What constituted a hipster beard? Is it the length? The shape? The proximity to flannel and Mumford? We were within twenty yards of an heirloom tomato; does that count as hipster cred?

I hadn’t been a fan of facial hair beyond two-day sexy scruff, yet Leo was sporting an actual beard and I liked it. I more than liked it, I wanted to touch it. Was it scratchy? Soft? Coarse? Touch it, hell—I’d like to look down and see it, and his face, between my thighs. With significantly less clothing than in our previous encounters.

As my breathing speeded up, another image popped into my brain: sweaty, naked parts and grasping, clutching hands. Whew, it seemed hot out! Christ, the farmer was now affecting me physically. Which was good— I wanted physical. I needed physical. So when I saw him pick up a bottleneck squash that mimicked something very specific in my mind, I covered my moan with a cough.

“You okay?” he asked as I reached him.

“Yeah. Why?” I said, tugging at my T-shirt. Air, please—just a little air.

“Sounded like you were—”

“Just clearing my throat,” I said, and quickly changed the topic. “I made the black walnut cake, with cream cheese buttercream frosting.” I thrust the white box into his hands.

“Wow, you really made me cake?” he asked, looking quite pleased.

“Well, I made it for the diner; the rest got sold today.”

“Is it good?” he asked.

I grinned. “It’s fucking great.”

Leo closed his eyes and shook his head, and I realized I’d just F-bombed a Boy Scout troop.

“Ah shit,” I muttered, then clapped my hand over my mouth.

Leo just snorted, and rallied. “Hey there, Jason, you still need your badge, right? Roxie, maybe you could run this cake over to the cooler inside the store there, huh?”