Page 21 of A Simple Life

Never.

And I certainly didn’t fantasize about that mouth of hers. Silencing it with my own or seeing it wrapped around⁠—

“Hi, Farmer John!”

I startled at the sight of the little girl now sitting across from me in my booth. She clutched a doll in one hand and a cookie in the other. She was a replica of her mother, right down to the sweet smile and the stubborn temperament.

And unfailingly irresistible.

“Hey, Pumpkin.”

She grinned, her teeth uneven and crooked, missing a couple in places. It gave her an impish look. She wore overalls, paired today with a plaid shirt. I knew without looking there would be sneakers on her feet.

Again, just like her mother.

“What ya doing?” Abby asked.

Tammy appeared, sliding a huge plate in front of me. Steam drifted off the soup, and the sandwich and fries looked delicious. My mouth watered, and I forgot all the reasons I was against this place and could only see the one right thing.

Lunch.

“Eating lunch,” I responded, picking up the thick roast beef sandwich and taking a bite. I chewed slowly, the tender meat and cheese tasty. The horseradish tickled my nose, and I almost groaned at the taste.

“Are you gonna eat all that?” Abby asked in wonder.

“Yep.” I held out a French fry. “You want one?”

She grinned. “They’re my favorite. Momma only lets me have them every so often.”

“Oh yeah?” I turned my plate, pushing it closer and adding more ketchup to the side. “Help yourself.”

There was silence for a few moments as I ate, the food dispelling the slight headache and feelings of discontent that had been forming. I took a bite of the large pickle on the plate, surprised at how delicious it was. I knew the catch of the place was every sandwich came with a huge homemade dill pickle, hence the silly name. And now that I had tried it, I had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea. I stood by my thought that the name was ridiculous, though.

The soup was rich and thick with vegetables. I was enjoying it all, even the quiet company of Quinn’s little girl, when she spoke. She had taken a few of the fries, dipping them several times in the ketchup, licking it off her fingers. She was polite, not greedy, and she had good manners.

“Do you like my momma’s pickles? I help make them!”

“They’re really good,” I assured her.

She leaned close. “Are you gonna order dessert, Farmer John?”

I had to smile at her nickname. She had called me that since the day she’d come to the farm with her mother to return my toolbox.

It had been an unmitigated disaster.

“Maybe. Any suggestions?”

“The chocolate cake with cherry ice cream is the best.”

“Is that your favorite?”

She nodded.

“Does your momma only let you have it every so often?”

Again, she nodded, eating a French fry smothered in ketchup.

I got Tammy’s attention, ordering the chocolate cake and cherry ice cream.