“Smell this,” she says and holds it up to my nose.
I bend and smell. “Doesn’t smell nearly as good as you,” I whisper in her ear.
Romy doesn’t look at me, but I see pink creep up her neck. She puts the candle down, and we continue to walk down the road, stopping at different booths.
Every chance I get, I touch her. A brush of her fingers here. A graze of my knuckles there. My hand rests against her hip when we step aside for a family with a double stroller.
Nobody stares for too long. A few smile politely, some nod. One older man selling honey gives me a firm handshake and welcomes me to Willowbrook. It’s strange, as if I’m camouflaged or something. Everyone acts as though I’m not who I am while the paps keep taking pictures.
I catch DeSoto’s tight jaw. He hates crowds. They’re too unpredictable. But I’m… weirdly calm. Maybe because the only thing I’m focused on is Romy.
She leans over to smell a bouquet of flowers, and I nearly lose it. The way her hair falls forward, the soft curve of her neck exposed. My hand twitches at my side, itching to cup the back of her head and kiss her in the middle of the market.
Instead, I step closer, my arm brushing hers. She glances up, eyes flicking to mine for half a second, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
Yeah. I could get used to this life.
“Zander?”
I look up and see Zara Sloane walking toward us. Her hair is in two pigtail braids with oversized sunglasses perched on top of her head. She holds three different bags, looking like she’s lived here her entire life and fits right in.
“Wow, small world!” She laughs at her own joke. “How adorable are these little vendors? Did you see the macramé booth? And the vegan donuts! They’re giving samples, you have to try one.” Her attention finally lands on Romy, and she says Romy’s name as if they’re best friends.
“Hi, Zara.” Romy lifts her hand and eyes Zara’s bags. “Man, you’ve really done well today.”
I step closer to Romy, putting my arm around her waist, and Zara’s eyes flick from my hand to me with her eyebrows raised. A small smile tips her lips. “You didn’t find anything?” She frowns.
“Well, I live here, so… but I saw a lot of cute things.” Romy shrugs.
“It’s great here. I was telling my friend we should do a girls’ trip here sometime. I was talking to…” She looks toward the sky. “She’s blonde and has a baby on her hip a lot.”
“Briar,” Romy answers.
“Yes! And she was telling me they can put together a whole thing for us. And we can maybe camp outside.”
“You’re going to camp?” Beau says, joining us.
“Yes, Beau, I’m not one of those high maintenance girls.” She rolls her eyes at him.
“If you say so.” He laughs.
She narrows her eyes at him and turns back to Romy. I have to admit, I love that she’s giving all her attention to Romy, but I’d like us to get out of this conversation so I can have Romy all to myself.
I open my mouth to end it, but Zara claps. “Let’s grab lunch! Someone said The Sprout House has the best chicken sandwich.” She slides her arm through Romy’s and escorts her away from me.
I stare at Beau in disbelief, but he just laughs.
The Sprout House is packed, sunlight streaming through big windows onto reclaimed wood tables. It smells like roasted vegetables and fresh herbs, and the hostess can’t take her eyes off me but composes herself enough to lead us to a booth in the back.
I slide in next to Romy. DeSoto and the four others take seats at a nearby table, scanning the room. Beau sits across from me, next to Zara, who can’t stop gushing about the farm-to-table feel of the restaurant. Beau looks as if it’s taking everything in him to pretend he’s interested.
I tune Zara out, turning my focus to Romy.
Romy’s thigh presses against mine, and I don’t move. Neither does she. My hand drops casually to my lap. Then over a bit. I brush my fingers against the outside of her thigh. She picks up the menu and turns to me, giving me a stop it look.
Beau looks up from his menu. “Everything good over there?”
“Fine,” Romy says quickly, cheeks flushed.
