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.
Sage hands me the dinner bag. “I’ll be up in a few minutes. I just need to talk with Susan for a moment.”
I silently approve the plan when I accept the food bag without complaint. The entire hike up to our yurt is spent contemplating what my decision means. Tomorrow, I’ll spend the day with Sage. The entire day. We won’t be picking vegetables, shoveling mulch, or doing any other distracting farm chores.
We’ll spend the day riding the ferries, seeing the sights, and enjoying one another. Almost like a date. That one thought sours everything. Tonight, I will write away my guilt and tuck it inside one of the remaining purple envelopes.
W HEN I wake up Saturday, Sage is nowhere to be seen. Odd. I fill my backpack with the essentials then head to the dining area. Susan waits with a small paper bag.
She tucks the bag into my backpack then pulls the zipper securely. “You’ll find raspberry scones for breakfast. You can nibble on them while on the
“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.
Sage hands me the dinner bag. “I’ll be up in a few minutes. I just need to talk with Susan for a moment.”
I silently approve the plan when I accept the food bag without complaint. The entire hike up to our yurt is spent contemplating what my decision means. Tomorrow, I’ll spend the day with Sage. The entire day. We won’t be picking vegetables, shoveling mulch, or doing any other distracting farm chores.
We’ll spend the day riding the ferries, seeing the sights, and enjoying one another. Almost like a date. That one thought sours everything. Tonight, I will write away my guilt and tuck it inside one of the remaining purple envelopes.
W HEN I wake up Saturday, Sage is nowhere to be seen. Odd. I fill my backpack with the essentials then head to the dining area. Susan waits with a small paper bag.
She tucks the bag into my backpack then pulls the zipper securely. “You’ll find raspberry scones for breakfast. You can nibble on them while on the
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