“And which is your favorite?” he asks as we cross to the next row.
I click my tongue at him. “A mother loves all of her children equally, but…” We walk a little further and I pointto my selection. “Sunflowers. They’re the scraggly stalkers of the farm.” When he cocks a brow at me, I laugh. “They’re always tracking the sun, checking out what she’s up to. Don’t be deceived by their big, innocent faces; they’re very nosy creatures.”
He sniggers, shooting a few more pictures, and I direct him to a shrub with white, four-petaled flowers. “I also feel obligated to point out our state emblem. It’s called the syringa but is more commonly known as the mock orange. You can make soap from their leaves, and the Native Americans used their tubelike stems for snowshoes, arrows, and pipes.”
He gives me a look between his thick lashes. “Practicalandpretty. That’s a winning combination.”
I smirk, but there’s no denying the growing buzz of attraction as we meander on through the beds. He has a lean, rangy build, only a few inches taller than my own, but his shoulders are broad in his linen shirt, the sleeves rolled back to reveal corded forearms dusted in pale gold hair. Out in the sunlight, his hair has coppery tints, and his high cheekbones have a ruddy flush that give him a boyish look. Even in a field of flowers I can still pick out his scent, which has the tang of green apple mixed in with the freshness of peppermint.
I feel a little giddy as he takes my hand to guide me around a wheelbarrow, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the growing heat of a summer’s day.
When we reach the end of the flower part of the tour, I direct him over to the berry bushes. At this time of year, we have an abundance of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, and some early-ripening blueberries. Our sweet cherries are typically the first fruit ready for harvest, but the tart huckleberries, which are a local treasure, don’t really come into their own until July. I’m explaining all this to my curious customer as I pluck a plump strawberry and hold it out to him.
“Just like that?” he asks, looking surprised.
“We’re a clean farm,” I promise him, holding the stem and nudging the rest of the berry between his lips. “Maybe don’t eat a whole bucket without washing them first, but what harm can one do?”
He groans as he chews and swallows. “If you keep handfeeding me, I think the problem is going to be stopping atone.”
I laugh, and his eyes light up as he watches me snare my own strawberry. We exchange a smirk as I pop it in my mouth, but then he scratches a thumb along his cheekbone and puffs out a breath. “Ah, given we’re talking about coming clean, I should probably fess up to why I’m really here. I was driving around scoping out locations, and I just couldn't pass this place by. Everything about it is perfect for an ad campaign I'm shooting. I'm Tristan Berkeley, photographer and creative director at The Zenith Agency.”
I take his proffered hand, trying not to dwell on how cool and smooth his palm feels against mine. The few men I’ve dated have had almost as many calluses as I do, although there’s still an intriguing strength in his long, slim fingers.
Get a grip, Lily. He’s here for business, not pleasure.“Okay...”
“Have you heard of Eros Chocolates?”
I roll my eyes at him. “It’s Idaho, Mr. Berkeley, not Middle Earth.”
“More's the pity,” he muses, “although squint your eyes and this lush paradise could be the Shire.”
I look around, and I don’t have to squint much to see it. The flowers are in full bloom against a backdrop of tall grass, the bumblebees and butterflies adding pops of extra color to the sun-soaked scene. Still, if you look a little further at the old barnand tired stables, it’s clear we’re a long way from the glamor of Hollywood. “Thanks, that’s high praise.”
He grins as he fiddles with the camera perched on his hip. “Well, the client – that’s Eros’ founder and CEO, Carlos Della, - is very particular about capturing both a pastoral feel and a romantic vibe for this campaign.”
I quirk a brow at him. “Because chocolate comes from brown cows?”
He coughs out a laugh. “Yeah, I doubt he’s ever been east of Beverley Hills, but that’s the brief. And not an easy one to fill, when most farms look like a cross between a prison and an abattoir.”
“Tell me you’re a city boy without telling me you’re a city boy.”
Tristan bites his lip. “Guilty as charged, but not from choice, believe me. I would’ve thought I’d died and gone to heaven growing up in a place like this. Unfortunately, I’m from an old steel town, where the only thing that bloomed were the smokestacks.” He brushes back his brown curls and gives me a determined look. “Which is a roundabout way of me saying that I think your farm is delightful, and I’d love to use it as a backdrop for the shoot.”
I can tell he’s being genuine, and I feel a flash of regret as I shake my head. “I appreciate that, Mr. Berkeley, but despite appearances, Rosie’sisa working farm. Scratch the pretty surface and you’ll find just as much grit, sweat, and manure as the next agribusiness.”
He blinks at me, a smile tugging at the edge of his wide mouth. “Most people would be talking the place up, telling me it’s twice as magical at sunrise.”
“It’s actuallythreetimes as magical at sunrise, but I prefer to be upfront about things.” I place the unused buckets at my feet and hold out my hand for the pair of floral shears he tucked inhis pocket. “It’s better to miss out than get our wires crossed and end up disappointed.”
He tilts his head, but he only looks more intrigued as he hands over the shears. “Is that an Idaho saying? I’m just asking because you don’t hear this kind of talk where I'm from. Would it be rude to say it’s incredibly refreshing?”
I give him a soft smile, because despite our obvious differences, there’s something completely endearing about Tristan Berkeley. “I don’t think you could be rude if you tried. But I fear I'm going to have to be.” I point down the drive to where a small coach is chugging towards us. “That minibus is my first booking of the day. It’s carrying the fine folk from West Farthing, also known as the Floral Art Appreciation Society of the Hillcrest Retirement Village.”
His brow crinkles at the mouthful, but I’m distracted by the familiar rumble of Logan's motorcycle. It was hidden by the coach, but now I watch as it flanks the bus and travels slowly up the gravel drive. Not slow enough, though, especially when I see a Leo-sized shape leap off the back and come running our way. The only reason I don’t completely lose my shit is because he's pulling a helmet off as he skids to a stop in front of me. “Mom! Guess what!”
“Leo, what are you doing on that bike?” I spin to glare at the much larger figure stalking towards me in all his denim and leather glory. “Logan, are you serious? You know he’s too young to be riding with you!”
He clicks his tongue as he drops a kiss on my flushed cheek. “Relax. I only picked him up at the end of the drive. We went over one bump." He runs a hand over his buzzcut and winks at Leo. “Maybe two.”
