“I did. You’re so well mannered.”
“That was more my mom’s wrath than my Catholic school education.”
She giggled. “Well, I’m glad. Now we don’t need to argue over who’s converting.”
He licked his lips. Should he ignore the fact she basically brought up marriage? He sneaked a peek her way. Visibly paler, and her eyes were rimmed in white. Yes, definitely ignore.
“You missed a turn back there.”
“Huh?”
“I figured we were going to the Back Forty.”
Shuddering, he said, “I think I can do better than that for our first official date. This is a date, right? Just wanna make sure.” He swung his gaze her way, and she rolled her eyes with a grin.
“Yes, a date.”
“Okay, well, now that that’s established ... the lady who runs the tea shop said there’s live music out at the fairgrounds tonight. I’m fully expecting a small-scale Lollapalooza.”
She chuckled. “Oh yeah, the folk and art fest. Lollapalooza it is not. But it is a step up from pigs and chickens.”
After a few minutes, he pulled up to a barricade, where a woman in a yellow vest was directing traffic. Quentin rolled down his window.
“Parking’s five dollars.”
He handed her a twenty and got his change, and they bumped over the grass to an open spot. He came over to the passenger side, and Alisha swung the door open. Between her short dress and the height of the truck, Quentin lost himself for a moment at the arresting sight of her bare bronze knees and the solid curve of her big thighs above them.
“Hey, beautiful.” He recovered and extended his hand. She slid her hand into his grip without hesitation and scooted down onto the runner of the truck, then jumped to the ground.
Folk music rolled out from a stage at the far end of the field. They waded through the crowd and stopped at an art booth. Watercolor pictures filled the white tent. Mostly landscapes, with a few close-ups of farm animals thrown in for variety.
“Avant-garde stuff here,” he whispered in Alisha’s ear. She dug an elbow into his ribs.
“Shh.”
The artist scowled at them, and Quentin offered a toothy smile, letting Alisha tug him out of the stall. He tripped over a cord on the ground, chuckling. She shook her head. “Serves you right.”
“Sorry, that just wasn’t my style.” Maybe he should’ve censored himself, been more diplomatic.
But Alisha grinned. “You’re not into drab watercolor paintings of livestock? How dare you.”
A weight lifted off his chest at her reaction. “You weren’t a fan either?”
“Ugh, no. But did you see the look on that guy’s face? He totally heard you dissing his cow painting.” Quentin opened his mouth to argue, but the man had come to the edge of the tent and stood glaring at them, arms crossed. Alisha dissolved into silent giggles. “Wonder what it was called. We should’ve checked. MaybeA Cow, Interrupted?”
More giggles. After four years of Mercedes’s type-A edge, he found Alisha’s silly side so refreshing. He could breathe with Alisha around. Except when she turned her earth-hued gaze toward him and sunk her teeth into her full bottom lip. Then suddenly there was no air in his lungs.
A group of elderly women in matching visors passed, forcing them to step aside into another tent. Quentin read the placard:HAND-CUT FRIES AND LEMONADE. “Hungry?”
“For french fries? Always,” she said, and the guy manning the booth laughed.
He bought them an order of fries and two lemonades, and they resumed strolling. One of the booths sold photographs, and Alisha lingered over a picture of a shoreline, waves frothing on the rocks.
Quentin took the chance to drink in her features. Her berry-red lips were parted, the once-slick edges of her hair lifting from the humidity. Her skin glowed satiny in the afternoon sun. Unconsciously, he dipped his gaze down to the curves accentuated by her painted-on dress.
“Want a fry?”
He snapped his eyes up, but she’d caught him. Her smile slid off, replaced by an intense simmer, her own eyes clocking down his front. So it was like that, huh?
