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I try to jump, my fingertips grazing the forbidden fruit, but I still can’t reach. My simple work heels make it impossible to get off the ground.

My frustration grows. Why can’t it hang a tiny bit lower?

Fuck it.

I kick off my shoes and take a few steps backwards. With the focus of an Olympian competing for a gold medal, I take a deep breath and train my eyes on the prize. I barrel forward and leap. My fingers grip the bottom of the orange, but I still don’t have enough leverage to pull it off the branch.

I groan loudly. “Jesus, why?”

“I think because Jesus wouldn’t approve of stealing,” a deep and unfamiliar voice grumbles behind me.

I whirl around, a yelp escaping from my lips. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

“I get that all the time, but sadly, I am not him.” The handsome stranger grins.

I don’t acknowledge the sarcasm. My heart pounds as I take him in.

He is at least a foot taller than me, with broad shoulders and dark brown hair. He is dressed in dark jeans and a black hoodie with its sleeves pushed up to his elbows. An abundance of intricate tattoos cover his tan forearms, and a motorcycle helmet is tucked under his arms.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Sorry, I––I didn’t expect anyone to be here.” I give him a weak smile.

He gives me a brief once-over and embarrassment floods my cheeks. I probably look insane. There was no time to wash my hair this morning, I’m almost certain I smudged my eyeliner, and I’m barefoot.

And he caught me stealing.

I try to sound unbothered. “Nobody ever takes these oranges. They just fall off and go bad, so I didn’t think it would be … I was just going to take the one. I don’t like food waste.”

“Yes, I agree it would be quite the waste.”

“I didn’t think anyone would mind,” I murmur. I shift my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do next. “Well, anyway …” I stop as he steps closer to me.

“Stealing is still stealing, even if it’s for a good cause,” he scolds.

“Yup, I won’t do it again. It’s been a long day. Sorry, I––” I stop when he reaches around me to effortlessly pick the orange off the tree.

Another reminder that everything is easier if you’re a tall man.

“I was kidding. I don’t care. Steal all the oranges you like. Take the whole tree if you want.”

“Thank you,” I say shyly as he hands it over to me.

“I promise I won’t tell a soul. Not even Jesus.”

“I appreciate that.” I stare up at him. He hasn’t stepped back yet, so we’re standing closer than two strangers should. His chestnut-brown eyes appear richer up close, with an intensity to his gaze I didn’t notice before. I wonder what his skin would feel like. Despite his tough exterior, I have a feeling it would be soft.

The sound of a passing car snaps me out of my trance before I can do something I’d later regret. I scramble to pick up my heels, give him a curt wave, and hurry toward my car.

“Thanks again,” I call over my shoulder.

The hot asphalt pricks my bare feet, but I’m too embarrassed to linger for much longer. I’m parked a few feet away, but in my current state it feels like a long, shameful trek through the desert. Arizona is almost unbearable this time a year.

When I reach my old, beat-up car, I contemplate putting my heels back on but decide against it when I see the black soles of my feet. These are my only good work shoes, and I don’t want to get them dirty.

I can drive barefoot, right?

I gently place the orange in the cup holder and settle into the driver’s seat. I exhale loudly and wonder if the guy is watching me. He probably already disappeared. I hope he did. I get easily embarrassed, especially around guys as attractive as him.