“This is an air gun,” he said. “Your friends are dealing with the main course, and you are in charge of side dishes.”

Nory laughed. “I hope those turnips are free range.”

“Of course,” said Isaac, managing to keep a completely straight face. “All our vegetables are free roaming.” He laid the sack on the ground. “Lay on your stomach.” He gestured for Nory to lie down on the sack and then he lay down next to her.

For the next forty-five minutes, Isaac taught Nory the subtle art of shooting root vegetables, otherwise known as target practice. This was usually done with tin cans, but as Isaac pointed out, Nory was an unusual kind of guest, which pleased her immensely. She accidentally exploded one of the turnips and sheared a beetroot in two, but by the end of her shooting lesson she had become rather good at it if she did say so herself. Most of the vegetables were still usable. Her final shot—at the smallest of the swedes—was a perfect bull’s-eye and the swede remained intact.

“That is what we in the trade would call a clean kill,” said Isaac, taking the gun from her and easing himself up onto his knees.

Nory had to admit she had very much enjoyed having Isaac sidled up close beside her, helping her to take aim, even though he had been consummately professional, much to her disappointment. But then, this was his livelihood. Who was she to ask him to put it on the line for a roll in the hay? Still, she felt the cold seep in where he’d left her side. She sat up and brushed the mud off her knees.

“What will the chef say about the shot in the vegetables?”

Isaac smiled. “Not much surprises the chef. We had a guest in the summer who would only eat windfalls. And another who only ate raw or dehydrated foods.”

“Am I the first guest to slay a swede?”

“I think you might well be.”

Isaac reached his hand out and Nory took it, allowing herself to be pulled up to standing. They stood for a moment, very close to each other, her hand still in his. The tension between them was palpable. Nory was hardly breathing. She was so close to him, she could see the shadow of stubble along his throat, smell the lingering scent of pine and eucalyptus soap on his skin. He made no move to step away and neither did she. She let her eyes roam up over his chin, his ridiculously perfect Cupid’s bow lips, and his equally perfect nose. Never mind kiss him, she wanted to eat him! Her gaze met his eyes, less dark in this light, flecks of amber in warm brown iris, framed by black lashes, which by rights should only have been possible with mascara.