Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink by Stephanie Kate Strohm Read Free Book Online Page B

Lemonade and gingerbread it was. The girls were enthusiastic but very respectful of the rules about the fire and the knives. I split them up into little teams, sending a few out to pump water, some to squeeze lemons, and others to measure sugar. Luckily, the water pump was hooked up to a modern, sanitized water source, so we didn’t have to worry about bacteria. The lemonade came together quickly, and I turned my attention to the gingerbread. Flour flew like summer snow and covered us all in a light dusting. We made shapes in the flour on the table and powdered flour hearts onto our cheeks. Two of the girls carefully poured the batter into a tin pan, and I placed the pan into the Dutch oven in the ashes, explaining how the baking process worked while the rest looked on.
    â€œMiss Libby! Miss Libby!” A tiny blonde with rainbow braces was peeking out the kitchen window. “There’s a boy outside!” She giggled. “And he’s not wearing a shirt!”
    I quickly joined her at the window, and the rest of the girls swarmed around me. Cam was out in the backyard, chopping wood. And she was right—he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Wow. Tacking the jib boom and hoisting the mainsail and whatever else they did must have been really, really good exercise. Sweat glistened on his tanned torso as the ax flashed in the sun. Now that the fire was really going, it was altogether too hot in that kitchen. I fanned myself futilely with a corner of my apron.
    â€œHe looks like a Disney prince,” said one of the girls, giggling.
    â€œHe looks like John Smith from
Pocahontas,
” another one corrected.
    â€œGirls, let’s get some lemonade, okay?” I suggested. I, for one, definitely needed to cool down. A couple of them followed me over to the earthenware pitcher, but most of the girls stayed clustered around the window. I pulled pewter mugs out at random and absent-mindedly poured several glasses. Never in a million years was Dev going to believe this. There was a sexy, shirtless lumberjack outside my window. I pinched myself. Nope, this time it wasn’t a dream. I wondered if there was any way I could pull my illegal cell phone out of my bra and take a video to record this for posterity without being detected. Probably not.
    â€œHe’s coming! Miss Libby, the boy is coming!” one of them shrieked, and the rest of the girls dispersed, echoing her shrieks, several running straight into my skirts. I pretended I was very busy and involved with a jar of molasses.
    â€œWhy, Miss Libby,” Cam called, leaning over the kitchen door. It was one of those Dutch farmhouse doors that split in half, with the top half open and bottom half shut. “Oh, Miss Libby, Miss Libby,” he called again, a twinkle in his eye. “Chopping all this wood is hot and thirsty work. You wouldn’t have anything sweet and refreshing, now, would you?”
    â€œWe made lemonade,” said a slip of a brunette peeping around from behind my skirts.
    â€œNot quite the sweet treat I had in mind, but it’ll do . . . for now.” He winked. “Might I have some lemonade, Miss Libby?”
    â€œOh, pleathe, Mith Libby,” one of the girls lisped. “Can we give him thome?”
    â€œOf course.” I tried my best not to stare at his chest, but it wasn’t easy. He was making no such effort with regards to mine. “Would you get, um, Mr. Cameron a mug”—I glanced at the nametag of the girl next to me—“Amanda?” She trotted eagerly over to the cabinet. “Thanks, sweetie.”
    My hands shook slightly as I lifted the heavy pitcher to fill his pewter tankard. Amanda grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the door.
    â€œThith ith for you,” she said.
    I handed Cam the mug. He took a long gulp.
    â€œ
Mmmm.
” He licked his lips somewhat lasciviously. “Delicious.”
    â€œWe made gingerbread too, if you want to wait and have