The farmer’s market bloomed like a summer hymn—sun-drunk stalls, basil in the breeze, and blues guitar humming beneath the scent of ripe fruit. Kids dripped popsicles down their wrists, old men argued over the price of peaches, and bees flirted with lavender bunches in the heat.

Tessa’s stand was dead center. The best spot, and everyone knew it.

She stood barefoot behind a spread of tomatoes, stone fruits, and honey jars, her cutoff overalls hugging curves that turned heads every week. Her tank top clung damp to her skin, braless and carefree, and the sun kissed the bridge of her nose and the slopes of her breasts with equal devotion.

She bit into a slice of watermelon, juice running down her fingers, and spotted him hovering near the cherries.

Julian. The shy one. Faded button-down rolled at the sleeves, collar damp with sweat, always alone and always stalling too long at her stand.

“Well hey there, Professor,” she called. “Back for your weekly inspection?”

He stepped forward with that awkward half-smile. “Hi. Yeah, just ... looking around.”

Tessa leaned an elbow on the table and handed him a slice of cantaloupe. “Looking for something sweet, or something juicy?”

His ears flushed. He took the fruit.

She turned, slow and deliberate, and plucked a banana from the crate behind her. Speckled gold. Perfect curve. She peeled it with lazy grace, drew it to her mouth, and took a bite—just enough to show her teeth. A smear of flesh caught the corner of her lip, and she licked it clean.

“These came in fresh this morning,” she said, her voice low and syrupy. “Still got firmness to ‘em, but if you know where to press...”

Julian cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh. Take a bunch.”

“Mmm. You sure you can handle it?”

He blinked.

She grinned and leaned close enough for him to smell the peach blossom clinging to her skin. Then she slipped a note into his hand—folded neatly, written on the back of a peach cobbler recipe.

Meet me behind the stall in ten minutes.

Come hungry.

As he turned to go, a family stopped by, interrupting the moment. Tessa gave them her wide, innocent smile while Julian escaped, his ears glowing red. The note was already crumpled tight in his fist.

The back of the stall was screened in by crates and shadecloth. Tessa’s pickup sat half in shadow, bed lined with an old quilt and baskets of fruit tucked along the rails. It smelled of mint and melon and heat.

She was waiting barefoot in the truck bed, overalls unbuckled and loose around her hips. She wasn’t wearing underwear.

“I see you made it,” she said, twirling a cherry by the stem. “Thought you might.”

Julian stood in the shade, uncertain. “Are we ... really doing this?”

She cocked a brow. “ ... unless you came back here to discuss the finer points of zucchini pricing.”

He stepped closer, drawn like a moth. Tessa reached down, cupped his face. “Start with your mouth.”