Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 92996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92996 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
“You think stupid crap when you’re tired.”
“Pardon?”
“Everything you do affects me, Xander Corey, so knock it off.”
“How do you do that? Just know?” I asked, trying to wiggle free.
“Because I can read your mind,” he replied with a grin. “Now stop trying to get off the bed. Stay here.”
I chuckled, turning around so I could see his face.
“You’re all flushed right now,” he told me, “and your eyes are that peaty brown I love.”
“What?” I draped my legs over his thighs.
“They’re hazel, so they change. They turn this gorgeous brown with gold in them when you want me.”
“I always want you.”
“Yeah, but sometimes you’re ravenous for me, and I would like nothing better than to attack you right here, but for one, there’s kids out there.”
“That’s what a door is for.”
He shook his head. “And two, we still need to talk, and three, I wanna hear about the pomegranates.”
“You have a one-track mind.”
“Definitely a plus in situations like this when we’re looking for a foul creature from the pit, but go on now about fruit.”
“Foul creature from the—I’m sorry, who’s tired?”
“Please…explain.”
Long sigh. “I prefer apples to pomegranates, and lemons, cherries, strawberries, blueberries, loganberries, things of the berry persuasion in general.” I took his left hand in mine, and the smile I got was so fond, I had to swallow a couple of times to find my voice. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said, out loud, that I would really love a lemon tree. A peach tree. A bigger assortment of berries. Cantaloupe, even.”
“Cantaloupes don’t grow on trees.”
I glared at him.
“They don’t,” he repeated. “But also, don’t Charles and Allie send their boys down here all the time with all those things you mentioned?”
“Not the point.”
“You bake for them, protect their land, their crops, and in turn, they keep you in fruits and vegetables, both fresh and canned, because, as we all know, you’re not so great at gardening.”
I could own that, and had earlier in the evening with Father Dennis.
“The birds, the deer, the bunnies, all frickin’ love your garden, but it’s more of an open buffet than anything you’re doing something with.”
I said nothing, instead watched his face as he spoke.
“It all works so beautifully. You get honey, eggs, and beeswax candles from Troy, and Troy gives the same things to the Wingates. They give Troy fruits and vegetables, his bees pollinate their crops, and then his chickens—and the geese that don’t actually belong to them—eat anything that would normally be thrown away. The Wingates give you goat milk—it’s crazy that none of you people eat meat, just a lot of salad and…ugh. And Troy with that mead he’s making now from the honey, and what the hell was with that cherry wine Charles brought over, and salsa with those amazing habaneros, and—”
“You are so tired,” I said, laughing at him. “You’re babbling.”
“No, I know, but…between all the people who live on this lovely little street in this tiny town, you are all completely covered. There’s no food the Wingate Farm, the Johnson Apiary, and Corvus don’t provide for each other. I mean, you deliver so much bread and rolls, regular and cinnamon, and muffins and cookies. And as I’ve said a million times, the house smells so good every Sunday when you make the sourdough. I like to nap on the couch so I can fall asleep breathing it in.”
“That makes me deliriously happy every single time you say it.”
“And that lavender cake with the lemon icing. I…” He grabbed me suddenly, and I was crushed to his chest. “I love you and my life and this cottage and the land so much.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck. “I love you too. And so does the land. Because for you, and only for you, there are stupid pomegranates growing next to the hydrangeas along the fence line between us and the apiary. Troy reports they’re beautiful and enormous.”
He froze, which was adorable. “There are?”
I nodded. “I have no lemons, which I need, or oranges, which I also need, but you—”
“The land knows you get those from Troy. It doesn’t need to provide them,” he said matter-of-factly. “Don’t try and fool the land.”
“Really?”
“There are pomegranates? Just for me?”
“Apparently so, and all because you mentioned in passing one day—when you were out there in early spring, checking on birds’ nests with me, and that everyone has enough to eat, even the annoying squirrels—how much you love pomegranates, which, with their symbolism, is very problematic, but whatever. And so now, suddenly, we have—”
“What problematic symbolism?”
“Fruit of death,” I barked at him, enjoying that quite a bit. It was petty, but I was jealous.
“No.”
“Yes, look it up. It’s true.”
“I’ll bet you there’s a lot of good stuff too,” he goaded.
There was. Pomegranates also symbolized life and regeneration, resurrection and fertility, but I was annoyed, so he didn’t get to hear all that. “No,” I lied.