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I lift the box in my arms. “Working, Martinez.”

His mouth moves at one corner. “Good.”

I continue toward the barn. I don’t ask about what I saw. Some things are offered. Some things aren’t. I’m learning the difference.

The afternoon settles into an easy rhythm.

I help Emma with the dogs, spend an hour sorting produce, and somehow get recruited by Cole to fix a spreadsheet he claims has been trying to kill him since Monday. Martinez passes through twice. The first time, he’s carrying a crate of peppers. Our eyes meet. He keeps walking. So do I. The second time, I’m standing beside Betty near the packing tables when he comes in looking for an invoice.

Betty gives it to him. He thanks her. Then he looks at me. I look back. Neither of us says anything.

Betty’s gaze moves between us. I become very interested in a tomato. She says nothing, which is somehow worse.

By late afternoon, the farm begins to quiet.

I’m washing my hands at the outdoor sink when Martinez comes around the corner.

“Hart.”

“Martinez.”

He stops beside me. I dry my hands on a towel. “Yes?”

His expression changes. Just enough to make me curious.

“You wanted to try the finished version.”

It takes me a second. “The sauce?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the basil?” His eyes narrow slightly. I smile.

“I made it again.”

“You did.”

“And you can try it tonight, if you want.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. For dinner.”

I look at him more carefully. Martinez is asking me to dinner. At least, I think he is. For a man doing the asking, he looks remarkably uncomfortable about it.

“Dinner,” I repeat.

“That’s generally when people eat at night.”

There he is.

I smile. “Are you asking me on a date, Martinez?”

His blue eyes hold mine. “I’m asking you…” He pauses. “I guess I am.”

“Very romantic.”

His mouth almost curves, but the humor fades before it gets there. “Is that a yes?”