Wander and Roam (Wander #1) (8 page)

I’m tiring of my self-imposed isolation though.

I still haven’t mastered vegetable gardening, and I hate to bother Susan with my endless questions. She’s already so busy with caring for Zachary, cooking meals for us, and preserving the harvest. The last thing she needs is my twenty questions about every task.

If I’m honest, I don’t just miss Sage’s patience in answering my gardening questions. I miss his silly jokes and his philosophical discussions. I think of his kind smile and over-the-top optimism way more than I should.

This scares me. I used to think that I was only physically attracted to him, but my feelings are bigger than that. It was easy to dismiss physical attraction. It’s much harder to ignore the budding friendship we were developing.

Footsteps crunch down the leafy path, sounding louder and louder. When they still, I turn away from the bay. Sage waits where the wooden planks meet the soil.

Speak of the devil. If devils could be that cute and kind.

“I finally found your hiding spot.” He walks across the short dock. “Can I join you?”

I nod and turn back to the water. “I wasn’t hiding—”

“Hiding, running, avoiding.” He pulls off his shoes then sits next to me, placing his feet in the water. “Call it whatever you want.”

I can’t keep denying his words. He’s right, after all. How does he know me so well?

For the next few minutes, the only sound is of Sage’s splashing feet. I try to think of something to say, but I can’t find the words. I’m not even sure how to respond.
Do I apologize for over-reacting to the kiss?
I can’t stop replaying that moment in my mind. I certainly don’t want to talk about it.

I could just explain why growing close to someone is so hard. But that would mean talking about Robbie. I’m not ready. I can’t say his name or tell our story without drudging up a torrent of feelings.

Silence is certainly the easiest response. Maybe he’ll give up and go away. Leave me to my misery.

Sage sighs. “I’m sorry, Abby.”

An apology? That certainly wasn’t what I was expecting. “Why? What do you have to be sorry for?”

“I didn’t mean to push you,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“How do you
know
that?” I turn so I’m facing him.

“It’s kind of obvious.” He pulls his feet from the water and faces me.

His words sting. Do I really look that broken? I study my lap, unable to look at him.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude.” He places one finger under my chin and raises my head until our eyes meet. “If you ever want to talk about what happened, I’m here. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”

“Thanks, but I’m not…”

“Not ready. I get it, but can we go back to being friends?” He pauses. “I miss you.”

I miss him too. Even during this awkward conversation, I’m just glad he’s
here
.

“I’d like that.” Feeling brave, I add, “A lot.”

Sage grins. As always, his smile lights up his face. “Should we get breakfast? I finished the field so we actually get to work together today.”

As we hike back to the picnic tables, I can’t help smiling. I’ve spent too much of this past year alone. I’m ready for friendship. Maybe with time, I’ll even be ready for more.

O
VER BREAKFAST,
Susan does not give us her daily list of chores. “The raspberries are ripe, and the lorikeets have been flocking, waiting to snatch whatever berries they can. We’re going to spend the day canning.”

“Canning?” The term conjures up memories of the Amish farms back in Ohio. “We’re going to make jam?”

Sage groans and rubs his stomach. “I’m picturing tomorrow’s breakfast already.”

“I have to warn you. Canning is a tedious chore that’s going to take the entire day,” Susan says.

The nice thing about being on the farm, away from the rush of school and friends, is that I have nothing better to do. “What do you need us to do first?”

Susan grabs eight white buckets off the highest shelf and hands them to us. “Fill these with the ripe berries then meet me back in the kitchen.”

The sweet-tart smell of raspberries fills the air as we pick. The sun’s warmth and the breeze waft the berry fragrance around even more. At the university, I once wondered why anyone would settle for manual labor, but now I understand the rewards. The slight ache in my muscles satisfies me, as one by one each bucket brims with berries. While picking, I have been able to shut off my thinking and focus solely on the task at hand.

“You’re taking this job way too seriously,” Sage calls, popping a handful of berries into his mouth. “I haven’t seen you sample one single berry.”

“We aren’t getting paid to eat all of Susan’s berries,” I call back.

“We aren’t getting paid at all.” Sage munches on more berries. His words are only somewhat true. When WWOOFing, you aren’t paid in money but in free accommodations and meals.

“Maybe Susan will let us take home some of the jam. It would make great presents for next Christmas.”

Sage squeezes his eyes shut, and his smile disappears.

I can’t imagine what I said that would be that distressing. “Are you upset about missing this Christmas with your family?”

He blinks away whatever is wrong and crosses over to my row. “I’m pained that you’re missing the true delight of berry picking—eating a sun-ripened berry right off the bush.” Sage plucks a berry and holds it to my mouth between fuchsia-stained fingers. “One of life’s true pleasures.”

I hesitate, staring at the puckered berry to avoid his gaze.

“When will you have another chance to eat an Australian raspberry just after it’s been picked? Seize the moment, Abby.”

Slowly, I take the berry into my mouth. My lips brush gently across his fingertip. As I close my eyes, warmth and sweetness explode in my mouth. Sage was right. This is hands-down the best raspberry I have ever eaten.

“So? What do you think?” He watches me carefully.

“Yum!” I carefully control my reaction.

“That’s it? ‘Yum’? Clearly, you need to try one more.” He offers another berry to me.

The next few hours pass quickly, between berry-tasting, laughter, and some actual work. We manage to fill up every white bucket, and by lunchtime, we haul the last two buckets to the kitchen.

He sets down his bucket then grabs for mine. His fingers move softly down the back of my hands until they reach the handle. Sage has been openly flirting with me since I tasted that first berry. I’m not sure whether it’s due to the sugar or the sunshine, but I don’t mind. Our fingers crisscross over the handle, and our eyes meet.

“Oh good, you’re back.” Susan sets two plates on her kitchen table. “Why don’t you snack on some sandwiches while I start jamming?”

By the time we finish eating, the berries bubble in three enormous pots. Susan measures sugar with one hand while she stirs with the other. “Good timing. I’m glad you came back before Zachary wakes from his nap. It’s so hard to get anything accomplished when he’s awake.”

The sounds of a baby wailing punctuate her words.

“You jinxed yourself,” Sage teases.

“You’re right. Never mention a sleeping baby.” Susan pulls off her berry-splattered apron. “I need to nurse him. Can you stir these pots until I return? They need constant mixing so the jam doesn’t burn.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll watch over it,” I say.

She rinses her hands. “If the sauce starts to gel together, turn down the heat.”

“Go feed your baby,” Sage calls as Susan heads upstairs. He looks at the two clean aprons then ties on the strawberry-dotted one.

“Pink is a good look on you.” I put on the remaining apron—a black-and-yellow checkerboard with tiny bumblebees flying along the border.

Sage mixes the jam then dips one of the tasting spoons into the bubbling mixture. He lets the reddish-pink sauce drip back into the pan. After blowing on the spoon, he holds the warm metal to my nose, dotting it with a sticky pink circle. “Pink is a good look on you, too.”

Sage grasps both my upper arms when I grab the spoon. “No double-dipping,” he whispers before lowering his mouth. My lips wait—eagerly—for the kiss that has been building up all day. I close my eyes, and he licks my nose. “Tasty,” he says between laughs.

“We should test it again,” I whisper back.

“Wouldn’t want the jam to burn.” Sage hands me a clean spoon.

I stir, test, blow, then hold the still-warm spoon above Sage’s nose. He lifts his face as I lower the spoon, and I accidentally paint his lips with the raspberry-scented mixture.

“Wow, I’m kind of disappointed that cooking isn’t one of our duties. I like how feisty you get with your apron on,” he says, his mouth sticky. “When I got you messy, I helped you clean up.”

“But you moved!” Placing my hands on his shoulders, I raise myself up.

Sage remains completely still. “So? Susan will be back any minute. Do you really want to leave all this evidence?” His lips glisten with pink jam. He smells like sun-kissed raspberries. I can’t help but lean closer.

Zachary’s baby talk loudens. Shoot, Susan really is on her way back to the kitchen. I swipe the back of my hand over his lips, wiping away every trace of jam.

He turns back toward the pots, dutifully stirring. “I feel cheated,” he whispers.

“How’s the jam coming?” Susan places Zachary in his highchair with a handful of Cheerios to snack on.

While she’s distracted, I subtly try to clean my hand on the bottom of my apron. My efforts leave a telltale pink smear. It barely matters. I probably wear my guilt on my face, anyway. I came
way
too close to kissing Sage. If we were alone for another few minutes, I probably would have given in to the temptation. Again.

When we maintain our distance, I’m rational and in control. But every time I get close to Sage, my brain shuts off and my body goes on autopilot. I don’t like the course it’s taking, though. Or maybe, I like it too much.

“I think it’s done. You should come check it.” Sage stirs continuously as if nothing happened.

That familiar pressure to write—no, confess—returns, but I don’t have time to focus on it. Sterilized jars wait to be filled, lidded, and steamed until they seal. We wipe clean jar after jar until dozens of glistening jams line Susan’s table and counters.

“Thank you for putting in so many extra hours.” Susan hands us a bag stuffed with dinner foods. “Why don’t you take this weekend off in appreciation?”

The exhaustion of today’s work makes a weekend to myself tempting.

“We could go to the city. Have you seen Sydney yet?” Sage asks.

“No, I came straight from the airport.” This wasn’t a tourist trip, after all.

“We have one of the most beautiful cities in the world,” Susan says. “It would be a tragedy if you didn’t see some of the sights during your stay.”

“So it’s decided. We’ll spend tomorrow in Sydney,” Sage says.

It’s decided? Did I miss the part where I agreed?
While a part of me wants to argue the decision, another part is completely tempted by an entire day to spend together. I’ve spent as much time feeling confused this month as I have harvesting vegetables.