The women seemed to care nothing for what the farm had to offer. “Your shift isn’t supposed to start until one-thirty. Why don’t you stay in the guesthouse until then, at least? I can handle this.”
“Thank you, but no. I’m staying. I adore the women who do my studies.”
He looked to the women, then back to Gen.
“I’m sure about this,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”
Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound cut through the chatter, and female faces swung in his direction. He raised his voice. “Kindly move this way.”
The group migrated, which cleared the area around the farm stand.
“Welcome to Sugar Maple Farm,” he said. “I’m Sam Turner, the owner. Thanks for visiting today.”
A plump young woman looked between him and Gen, raised her phone, and snapped a picture.
He paused, not sure how to respond to that oddness. “If you’re here to meet and speak with Genevieve Woodward, please raise your hand.”
Every person raised their hand, except for a confused-looking man who he guessed was of Indian descent.
“Sir, please see the woman named Anna at the stand, just there, yes.” He faced the women again. “Has anyone been waiting for Genevieve for more than an hour? Raise your hands, please.”
Taking his time, he assembled a line based on how long people had been waiting. Then he stepped back and assessed each and every person. They all looked harmless.
He made his way to the farm stand, where Oliver and Anna stood.
“It’s wonderful that these guests have read Genevieve’s books,” Oliver crowed. “Literate people! If it’s all right with you, I may treat them to some amusing historical anecdotes while they’re in line.”
“That would be terrific.” He managed to keep every trace of sarcasm from his voice. The line didn’t look like a fast mover, so Oliver would have a captive audience.
Oliver’s chest swelled as he approached a foursome of women at the back of the line and made opening remarks. He braced one hand against his hip, gesturing grandly with the other.
“This situation is so cool,” Anna said to Sam. “It reminds me of a food truck.”
“How?”
“You know how food trucks just show up anywhere? Genevieve’slike a food truck. A really popular one. That serves tacos. I’m starving. I could totally go for some tacos right now.” She thrust her phone in her back pocket. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“No.” He wasn’t in a smiling mood, but he gave the girl a small smile to soften his answer.
“In that case, I won’t ask if you and Genevieve are a couple even though I’m dying to know.”
“Thanks for practicing restraint.”
“You guys would be great together. You’re both older—”
“Excuse me?” He lifted an offended eyebrow.
“Oldish,” she qualified. “She’s down to earth and nice and pretty and...”
“Like a taco?”
“Yes! How can you resist tacos? I totally love them.”
Howwashe supposed to resist Gen? He wished he knew.
He made a trip to the barn for more cider. Helped a couple who’d come to pick their own produce, then waited on some farm stand regulars. A family drifted up, interested in the next farm tour.
There was no way he was going to abandon Genevieve here, so outnumbered, while he took guests on a farm tour. Nor did he trust Oliver to drive a flatbed full of people. The older man might get sidetracked talking about Bogotá and drive them into an apple tree.
