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
“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
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