“I’ve got about ten minutes to get ready. Let’s go pull all your stuff together and we can continue what we started later.”
“Later,” I say again, and this time it feels like a promise.
Chapter 8
Logan
The October air nips at my fingers as I take Reese’s hand. We weave through the crowded farmers market, a maze of wooden stalls and colorful awnings stretching down the blocked-off street. Reese’s eyes light up at each new display—pumpkins stacked in orange towers, hand-knitted scarves draped like fabric waterfalls, jars of honey catching the sunlight. I’ve lived in Chicago for eight years and never once stepped foot in this place. Now I wonder what else I’ve been missing.
“Look at these!” Reese tugs me toward a stall overflowing with apples—red, green, yellow, and speckled varieties I couldn’t name if my life depended on it. Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, curls escaping from under her knit hat. “Have you ever had a Honeycrisp? They’re like nature’s candy.”
I can’t remember the last time I paid attention to what kind of apple I was eating. The women I usually date don’t get excited about fruit. They get excited about being seen at the right restaurants, about the flash of cameras outside exclusive clubs. Reese is different—genuinely thrilled by these simple pleasures.
“I trust your expertise,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “Lead the way, apple connoisseur.”
She laughs, the sound cutting through the market’s hum of conversation and live acoustic guitar. “Oh, I’m dangerous in places like this. Fair warning.”
We drift from stall to stall, stopping to sample local cheeses, warm bread, and something called apple butter that tastes nothing like actual butter. The smells blend together—cinnamon, yeast, roasted nuts, and the earthy scent of fresh vegetables. Reese seems to know half the vendors, greeting them by name and introducing me without fanfare or explanation. No one recognizes me, or if they do, they’re too polite to make a scene. It’s refreshing.
At the apple stall, Reese fills a paper bag with her selections, explaining the merits of each variety like she’s teaching one of her kindergarten lessons. When she hands me the bulging bag, I cradle it in my arms like a newborn.
“Careful now,” I say in a hushed voice. “They’re very delicate. We don’t want to bruise the little ones.”
Reese’s laughter bursts out of her. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing my parenting skills.” I rock the bag gently. “Shh, the McIntoshes are very sensitive. They need their afternoon nap.”
She doubles over, clutching her stomach, drawing curious glances from nearby shoppers. “Stop it! People are staring!”
“Let them stare.” I tuck the bag into the crook of my arm and pat it gently. “There, there, little Granny Smith. Daddy’s got you.”
Reese wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it,” I say, and then freeze, the words hanging between us. Too much, too soon.
But Reese just smiles, warm and genuine. “Maybe I do.”
We continue our loop through the market, stopping for cups of hot apple cider that steam in the cool air. Reese wraps bothhands around her cup, savoring the warmth. I watch her over the rim of my own cup—the way her eyes close slightly as she takes a sip, the satisfied sigh that follows. Her ease slices right under my defenses. I’ve never paid such close attention to another person’s small gestures before, never found them so fascinating.
“Oh!” Reese suddenly grabs my arm, nearly spilling my cider. “Photo booth! We have to!”
I follow her gaze to a vintage photo booth tucked between two stalls. It’s the old-school kind—black curtain, metal frame worn with age.
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “That thing looks like it hasn’t been updated since the Carter administration.”
“Exactly why it’s perfect.” She’s already dragging me toward it, her half-finished cider abandoned in a nearby trash can. “Come on, when’s the last time you did something spontaneous and silly?”
Besides deciding to go to a farmers market with a woman I met a week ago? I don’t say it aloud, just let her pull me along.
The booth is cramped, designed for maybe one and a half people, not a six-foot-four hockey player and a grown woman. Reese slides onto the small bench and I squeeze in beside her, our thighs pressed together, shoulders touching. She feeds bills into the slot and the machine whirs to life.
“Ready?” Her eyes meet mine, sparkling with mischief.
“For what, exactly?” I ask, suddenly nervous. I’m not great at photos—too stiff, too practiced from years of team pictures and media headshots.
“For making memories.” She shifts, pressing even closer, her warm thigh against mine making it hard to focus.
The countdown begins on the small screen—3, 2, 1…
