I yawned as I pulled into my spot behind the diner. I’d slept particularly poorly last night. Was it because I’d had a farmer ambling in and out of my dreams? And in and out of . . . Well. Yes, indeed. I touched my lips in remembrance of the feel of his mouth on mine, and with a secretive smile, I unlocked the back door and started my day.

By 8 a.m. I had veggies prepped for the day, six batches of blue-ribbon meat loaf mixed up and ready for the oven for the lunch service, and I was barking right back at Maxine and Sandy when they asked for four on two over easy, and fry two, let the sun shine. I ran the griddle until Carl came in at 9, then I headed into the walk-in fridge to see about something new for tomorrow’s lunch special. Wednesday had been Beef Stew Day since time began, but I thought I might try something a little different. If Albert was willing to try something new, some of the other stalwart customers might be open to it as well. Modifying the stew wasn’t exactly negotiating a peace treaty in the Middle East, but it could be my own little victory.

Propping the door of the walk-in open a bit to avoid becoming trapped, I perused the shelves, noting my mother’s disorganization. “Carl, you good if I work in here for a bit? Rearrange some things?” I called out.

“Sure, sure Roxie, leave me alone out here,” he grumbled good-naturedly.

I knew he was happier when he was left alone. Carl had worked here as long as anyone can remember; even my mother wasn’t sure how long he’d been there. One of my earliest memories was Carl flicking water on the griddle to clean it off. I liked working with him. He was quiet, he didn’t let the waitresses pull him into any drama, and he never lost his cool, even when we were at our busiest.

I stepped back out into the kitchen to grab my sweatshirt. “Call me if you get in the weeds, okay?” I stepped back into the walk-in, grabbed the clipboard from its hook, and started doing an inventory.

As I did, I rearranged everything so that like went with like. Proteins on one side, vegetables and fruit on the other. The menu was so heavily dependent on the standard diner items (Salisbury steak, chicken pot pie, burgers, etc.) that the fresh selection was a bit sparse; most of the fresh deliveries went directly into the freezer for later. As I reorganized, I started thinking of ways I could repurpose some of these ingredients. I was deeply engrossed in calculating how many pounds of potatoes I needed for fries and if I’d have enough left over to do a fennel and potato gratin when I heard a knock on the propped-open door.

“I’m coming, Carl,” I called, setting down the clipboard and starting to push open the door.

“Why am I suddenly jealous of Carl?” Leo filled up the doorway with his big body and grin.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he took a step toward me. “It’s not your normal delivery day.”

“Would you believe me if I said I had some beets to bring by?”

“It would depend on the beet,” I said. “What else you got?”

“What are you wearing?” he asked, taking another step.

I backed up into the lettuce. “This?” I opened the sides of my very attractive gray zip-up hoodie.

“It’s pretty fucking great,” he said, taking the last step and slipping his hands inside my sweatshirt, settling low around my hips.

“You didn’t really bring me beets, did you?” I said, not feeling the cold around me at all. I let my hands come up to his chest, sliding up and around his neck.

“I did,” he murmured, his thumbs sliding underneath my T-shirt the tiniest bit. “I brought mad beets.”

“Oh man,” I snorted, which changed to a snortmmm as he nuzzled my neck. “Did you bring me anything else?”

He brought his face back to mine, tinged with the slightest of blush. “I hesitate to say it now.”

“What did you bring?” I asked, shaking his shoulders.

He buried his head once again into my neck. “A really big zucchini” was the muffled reply, and I threw my head back and laughed. He continued on his nuzzle path, now sweeping kisses back up toward my ear.

“I’m taking my beets and going home,” he whispered, and my laughter stopped as he licked my skin.

“No, no, you went to all that trouble to bring me that zucchini. At least let me see it.”

He groaned into my neck. “Now you’re just killing me.” He made to pull away, and I tugged him back.

“You should stay just another minute,” I said, turning my head to allow him better access to my sweet spot. Well, the sweetest spot accessible right now. “Oh yeah . . . you should definitely stay another minute . . . or seven.”

He answered with a kiss on my collarbone. “Is that the diner version of Seven Minutes in Heaven? I feel like a teenager.”

“I’ll go you one better,” I said, arching up into him, feeling my breasts press against his chest. “My mom’s out of town; you wanna come over for dinner tonight?”

“Now you’re talking,” he told my bra strap, which he was pushing aside to dance little kisses on the skin underneath. My shoulder was in heaven. He gathered my hair back into his fist, sweeping it off my shoulders. He inhaled deeply. “Did anyone ever tell you that you smell like honey?”

“It would certainly explain the bees.”

He lifted his head. “Are you aware that the second you said the word bees, your entire body froze?”

I sighed. “I truly believe ‘so goes the colony, so goes the planet’—but bees are assholes.”

He dropped his head to my back to my shoulder. “You’re twisted.”

I smiled. “But you still want to lick my honey, don’t you?”

He groaned.

Approximately six and a half minutes later, after running his hands through his hair to smooth out the furrows my hands had made in it, and straightening my bunchy shirt, Leo backed out of the walk-in, saying, “Okay—so I’ll bring you beets as long as I have them in season.”

I knew he was making sure people knew he was just there for business—and not monkey business—but I couldn’t help giggling.

Tonight, I was having Leo. Over for dinner. Yes, that period was intentional. It was rare that I sat down with a guy and shared a meal I had prepared. But with Leo providing so much of the food, and little potential for strings attached, it only seemed fair. And more to the point, I liked the idea of cooking for Leo. I wanted to cook for him.

I waited a few minutes, getting my giggles under control and zipping up my hoodie, wondering if my lips looked used. God damn, the man could kiss.

When I returned to the kitchen, clipboard in hand, everything was normal—the world had continued to turn.

But lunch was approaching, so my curiosity about the basket he’d brought me—I needed to see just how big this zucchini was—would have to wait. As I prepped the stew, I realized I was curious to get to the bottom of the Leo Story, as I’m sure it was a good one. And now I was off on a daydream tangent about his bottom, which was considerably cute.

I pondered this and other ponderables throughout lunch, and during the hour afterward roasting mad beets. I had some ideas of what I wanted to make for dinner tonight with Leo, and beets would be figured prominently. And speaking of prominent, I finally peeked in the basket he left me and saw the zucchini. He should have been arrested for carrying that thing through town. Honestly.

After I closed up the diner and collected my beets, I went shopping for the rest of what I’d need tonight. Being so close to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, this area had always had its share of impeccable palates. But with the farm-to-table explosion, the number of shops selling local and homegrown foods had multiplied significantly.

I’d spent the last few years being spoiled by the riches of living so close to the San Joaquin Valley, one of the greatest agricultural areas in all of the United States. Access to locally grown fruits and vegetables was something I took for granted.