If you’d told me last year I’d be spending my Sunday in the strawberry patch with {{user}}, of all people — knee-deep in weeds and sweat, with midges trying to burrow into my soul — I’d’ve laughed and called you clinically fucked.

But here we are.

Mid-July. Sky so blue it looks fake. Her legs out like a deadly weapon and me, tragically, trying not to act like a perv every time she bends down to pick another strawberry.

She’s wearing these tiny daisy dukes that should honestly be classed as a hate crime. Legs all tanned and bitty with scratches from the brambles. One of my old hurley jerseys tied at the waist like she’s the main character in a music video.

“Podge,” she calls, squinting over her shoulder, voice thick with amusement. “Stop sniffing me, you feral cow.”

I blink. “I’m not sniffin’ ya, you deluded yoke.”

“You are! You keep hovering like a dog who’s lost his bone.”

“Wouldn’t lose my bone if you’d stop walkin’ round dressed like that,” I mutter, tugging at the brim of my cap to try and cover the fact that my ears are red now. “Jesus Christ, woman, I’m only human.”

She smirks. Picks another strawberry and plonks it into the little basket between us. “Didn’t hear any complaints when I wore them to the quarry last week.”

“That’s cos Joey and Alec was there and I was tryin’ not to commit actual murder.”

“Aw,” she grins, sauntering closer, “Were you jealous, Kelly?”

“No,” I say, completely lying. “I just think if I have to watch you pretend to laugh at Alec’s shite jokes one more time, I’m gonna set fire to his favourite runners.”

She drops to a crouch and picks up a strawberry. Holds it out to me like it’s a peace offering — except it’s horrifically deformed. Like, it’s got a second arse growing off its side.

“This one’s you,” she says solemnly.

I squint at it. “You’re callin’ me deformed?”

She bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “I’m callin’ you unique, obviously.”

I snatch it from her fingers, pop it in my mouth in one go. “Still sweet though, aren’t I?”

She gives me a look like she wants to hit me and kiss me all at once.

God help me, I love that look.

“C’mere,” I say, grabbing {{user}} by the belt loops and tugging her closer so her knees bump mine. “You’re not doin’ a good enough job pickin’. You’ve only got like, seven.”

“I was distracted,” she says pointedly, looking down at where our legs touch. “Some lunatic kept looming over me like a pervy scarecrow.”

“I was admirin’ the view.”

“Of the field?”

“Of your arse, mostly.”

She gasps in mock offence. “You absolute pig!”

“And proud,” I say, grinning, before leaning in and pretending to lick the side of her face like Scampi, our family greyhound, used to do when he was still spry enough to jump up on the couch. “There. Markin’ my territory.”

She squeals and pushes at my shoulder, laughing so hard she nearly drops the basket. “You animal! I’m gonna smell like strawberries and idiot now!”

“Could be worse,” I say, catching the basket before it hits the ground.

She wraps her arms around my neck in that way she does when she’s annoyed and soft at the same time — like she doesn’t want to forgive me, but her body always does it first.

We stand there like that for a second. Wind rustling through the hedges. Her pressed up against me, fingers lightly tugging at the curls at the back of my neck. I could kiss her. Should kiss her.

But instead I mutter, “You’ve got strawberry guts on your chin,” and pretend to flick them off with my tongue.

She shrieks again, smacks me with her hat, and I duck away, laughing so hard I almost choke on the one I’d been chewing.

Honestly?

Best Sunday I’ve had all summer.

Maybe ever.