“Fantastic,” he says as a concentrated pressure forms in one spot against the back of my leg. “First things first, though, I think we need to get you back to your place so you can change. Seeing you in my clothes is driving me crazy.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Especially because I know there’s nothing underneath. ‘Nothing’ is also the alternative, which only makes the problem more severe. If we don’t do something about it, I’m going to have to have sex with you every hour on the hour—and while that sounds amazing, I’m not sure it’s medically advised.”
I roll my hips and press into him a little.
To that, he says in a whisper against my throat, “You … are going … to kill me, Harmony Sonora.”
“May you rest in peace.”
Sweet Dreams Are Made of This
RIFF
HarmonyhumsalongtoImagine Dragons’ “Bad Liar” next to me in my Bronco Raptor while the warm Ventura County summer wind blows wisps of her hair around. It’s a perfect seventy-one degrees—cooler than inland cities even though it’s June, since we’re near the coast.
The Bronco’s doors and top are off, giving us the full cruising experience as we approach a stretch of the road lined with hundreds of orange trees.
“Is this it?” Harmony asks.
I nod, gripping the wheel. The air smells sweeter already, reminding me of my youth and all the time I spent here.
Craning her neck, Harmony observes the endless rows, where oranges dot the branches so abundantly they almost overpower the leaves.
We’ve spent a glorious nine days no longer hating each other (or even pretending to), meeting up after work or for lunch on less busy days. Sometimes she stays at my place, other times I stay at hers. I’ve already developed a love-hate relationship withher cat Mimi, who bites one minute and is adorably cuddly the next—like owner, like pet, I guess.
In theory, it’s probably too soon to bring her to meet my family, but when my mom called to ask if I wanted to get together with everyone to pick some oranges, I realized I didn’t want to go without Harmony. Quite frankly, there’s not much I care to do without her anymore, so I asked if I could bring her along and Mom said sure.
“It’s the best time to come,” I tell Harmony. “We grow Valencias, which peak during the summer.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Did you just say ‘Vuh-len-shuhz’?”
“Yeah …”
Now she’s laughing at me. “You mean Vah-len-see-uhz?”
“Sure, that’s how some people say it. Agricultural people are more laid back with their speech.”
The way white people pronounce all these Spanish names here in California must be murder on her ears.
Harmony shakes her head and adjusts her hair tie to keep her dark waves in a low ponytail. “You really are a little bit country.”
“Well, this is the kind of country I don’t mind.” I point to the upcoming rows, where the fruit isn’t orange but bright yellow. “We also grow lemons here.”
“Really?”
“A few blocks of land, yeah. It started out with just oranges, but my grandpa started the lemons when I was a kid. They’re great; they produce fruit multiple times a year.”
“Nice. No limes, though?”
“No limes.” I laugh.
As we approach the driveway, where an ECKHART GROVES sign arches overhead, Harmony says, “You’re family’s going to hate me.”
I take her hand. “No they won’t. You’re awesome.”
“I released multiple hate songs about you.”
