Every other video focused on seeds, whether it was interviews with the other members of Ethel’s co-op or drone shots of row upon row of heirloom varieties thriving in this upstate New York microclimate, nestled between the Catskills and the Hudson River. I even got the time lapse feature to work for once and made a cool video of a row of bright green sprouts emerging from dark brown soil.
It smelled like cow poop, but my viewers will never have to know.
Anyway, Ethel assures me that Ethan and Alex have made up and that tonight’s Sunday dinner will be a peaceful one. The minute we wrap a quick shoot where Ethel demonstrates the best ways to harvest herbs, we’ll be heading upstairs where said herbs will get mixed in with heirloom green beans, cherry tomatoes, boiled potatoes, and a neighbor’s chicken to make a hearty salad that already has my mouth watering. Even better, dessert is a berry crumble topped with ice cream made from Udderly Creamy milk–Ethel is helping them expand their product offerings, and we’re testing out cheeses and milks.
“I think I’ve got what I need,” I tell her, checking the footage briefly on my camera.
“As do I,” Ethel says, holding up a metal bowl piled with fragrant herbs.
Promising her that I’ll be in shortly to help out in the kitchen, I take the steps from the basement that lead directly outside to stow equipment in my car. The first time I stayed here, Ethel had ordered me to enter the house through the side door without knocking, “like family.”
The phrase warmed my heart and sliced it open in equal measure. If only I were a member of this family. Or any family that wasn’t my own.
I’ve learned my lesson, though. Best not to get too close to my subjects. This time, I found a VRBO to rent while I interview the rest of the folks in Fork Lick and, as she has requested, give Ethel pointers on shooting her own videos.
The sun has dipped behind the hills, meaning dark’s falling quickly as I lock my Subaru. My belly grumbles as I take the porch steps, making me wonder if I’m good enough at shooting food to add cooking and recipes to my video lineup. People need inspiration to grow their own food, right? Need to know what to do with it? As I round the corner of the house, a scrabbling sound yanks me out of my head seconds before a furry beast barrels into me.
I let out a super embarrassing girly squeal before I register that it’s just a very friendly, very large dog. German shepherd, maybe. Whatever he is, he seems very excited to see me because he can’t stop wiggling. Stroking over his soft fur, I try to calm him down.
“Who are you, buddy?” I ask, but that just makes him whine and wiggle more. Before I know it, I’m on my ass and he’s licking my face.
I’m trying to figure out if the dog has a collar and tag, when a man barks, “Gomer! Off!”
There’s something about that voice, something that sends a shiver of excitement down my spine, but I can’t quite—
“Oh my god,” he says. I’ve heard those exact words gritted out in passion in that voice. Just the thought of it has my nipples perking up and aiming themselves in his direction.
Words pour out of his mouth as he pulls the dog off me—apologies, reassurance that he's friendly, that he never acts like this—but I’m too stunned to react.
Happy memories of the night I spent with this man vie with enraged ones from the following morning when I learned what kind of person he really is. Not to mention the way his testimony ramped up my own residual guilt.
Now, I’m mostly confused at what I see in the dim light. There isn’t a suit in sight. The knees of his Carhartt work pants are streaked with mud. A faded t-shirt strains across a chest that’s more defined than I remember. Rolled up sleeves reveal corded forearms, now tanned instead of pale. His hair is longer too, curling at his collar and flopping over his brow, more Henry Cavill in Night Hunter than Superman.
But the ice blue eyes and full lower lips are the same.
“My grandmother made me tie him up out here,” he says. “So he’s probably extra squirmy. But he wouldn’t intentionally hurt a fly.”
“Ethel is your grandmother?”
Hope surges behind my breastbone. Colleen’s a twin, so maybe this guy’s a twin too—the twin of the asshole who testified before the state assembly, not the man himself.
“Are you okay, Diane? Did he hurt you?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, even as I check my arms and legs for scrapes. I don’t feel hurt, but I’m kind of having an out-of-body experience right now. But wait, if this is the good twin… “Hang on. How do you know my name?”
“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” Squinting, he steps closer. “Do you not remember me? Samuel? Daniel12051 on Trivia Crush?”
When he reaches down to help me up, I scoot out of reach. “So you’re not a twin?”
His brow furrows. “No. I am. A twin.”
“An identical twin?” I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m a fraternal twin. Colleen’s twin.”
“Not a twin of one of her brothers?”
He side-eyes me like he’s now sure I hit my head. “My brothers don’t have twins.”
Disappointment lands on my chest with a crushing blow. “So you’re Samuel.”
“That’s what I said. We met in Albany. Just nine months ago.”
The dog squeezes between us like he’s protecting Sam. From me.
Want-to-kiss-him hormones flood my body, but anger throws up a dam. If he’s the evil twin, I’m mad at him. Scrabbling to my feet, I straighten my spine and pin back my shoulders. He may be a head taller than me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t face him down. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m invited to dinner. If you’ll excuse me, I need to wash up and help with the preparations.”
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my elbow.
When I look down at his hand pointedly, he frees me.
“Sorry, I just… uh…”
I meet his gaze, brows raised in challenge.
“Maybe at dinner we can pretend we don’t know each other?” he asks.
My cheeks heat with shame, but I lift my chin, banishing it. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. “Fine with me. We don’t ever need to speak again. Besides things like, you know, pass the salt.”
