“Sounds like a cannabis farm.” Her merry giggle tinkled like wind chimes.
He snorted. “I grow organic herbs—sage, oregano, dill, thyme—not weed.”
“Organic herbs? That’s so cool.” He could practically see the cartoon hearts shooting from her eyes—but they were aimed at his carton of leaves and twigs, not at him.
“It’s just a farm. You know, seeds, dirt, mud. Here.” As he proffered a bundle of sage, his hand brushed hers. A zing danced up his arm. The sudden widening of her eyes proved she felt it too. Weird, considering he seldom drew much reaction from beautiful women. He’d never cultivated a confident swagger, and he had zero talent for small talk or witty flirtation. Just a dull homebody—according to Shauna, anyway.
The corners of Gemma’s mouth ticked up. “You clean up nice, for a farmer.” Snarky or flirtatious? Hard to tell.
“I scrape the mud off before coming to town.”
“How’s it going with the farm?” Zora asked.
“Still in the red but creeping slowly toward the black. Gramps’ bookkeeping baffles me. It’ll get better in spring when the farmers’ markets start up again. Right now, my only customers are local restaurants, the organic food co-op, and you.”
Zora squeezed his hand. “Frankie del Toro was a good man. I miss him.”
“Me too.” Six months after losing the man who was more father to him than his own dad ever was, he still expected to see Gramps striding through the greenhouse door or sipping coffee on the front porch of the rundown farmhouse he left to Jesse.
Gemma gazed up through misty eyes and grazed his arm with her fingertips. “You lost your grandfather? That must be so hard. I can tell you were close.”
“How?”
“Our Gemma is quite intuitive.” Zora edged away, a calculating smile on her apple dumpling face. “Let me go get my ledger.” She ducked into the back of the shop, leaving them alone.
Her gaze darted to his, then away. She rubbed a leaf of sage between her fingers. “So soft and fuzzy.” She closed her eyes, inhaled its scent, then rubbed it against her cheek. “Mmm.” Her melodious hum struck a magic chord that made his dick jolt in his jeans. He tugged his jacket closed to cover the evidence.
“This is white sage, right? Do you grow other varieties?”
He gulped air and struck a casual pose, leaning on the counter. “I’m surprised you know the difference. Most woo-woo types don’t.”
Gemma’s lip curled. “Some of us woo-woo types do our homework.”
He raised his hands, palms out. “Hey, no offense intended. Your aunt’s good people. What she does with the herbs is her business.”
She scowled, a pretty flush painting her cheeks.
Great. Now he’d offended her.Real smooth, dumbass.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ve got blue sage, common garden sage, purple sage, pineapple sage…”
Zora returned with her ledger, her warm presence slicing the tension between them.
Gemma shot him a pointed glance. “Blue sage is good for dispelling negative energy.” She addressed her aunt. “And pineapple sage eases anxiety. We should order some for smudge sticks and teas.”
Zora scribbled in the ledger before pressing a check into his hand. “Speaking of—cup of tea, Jesse?”
“Thanks. Your tea is almost as good as my grandma’s.”
The old gal chuckled as she filled a paper cup from her antique samovar. “Someday I’ll talk you into sharing her recipes. Quick tarot reading?”
Wincing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”
Zora handed him the tea. “I bet you’d discover something unexpected about yourself.”
“Yeah.” Gemma added with a smirk. “A wise man keeps an open mind.”
So much for impressing her. Ever since that long-ago summer, Gemma flitted through Trappers Cove like a butterfly every few years—a flash of delicate beauty that disappeared before he could approach her. As far as he knew, she’d never recognized him after that night on the beach.
