Flash. I’m still turning toward Reese, caught mid-laugh as she makes a silly face, her nose scrunched up, tongue sticking out.
“Come on, loosen up!” she teases as the next countdown starts.
3, 2, 1…
Flash. This time I’m ready, making my best “blue steel” model face while Reese throws her head back in laughter.
“Last one,” she says, but instead of facing the camera, she turns toward me. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me down.
3, 2?—
Her lips are on mine, soft and insistent, tasting of apple and cinnamon. My brain short-circuits, all thoughts of cameras forgotten. My hand finds her waist, then slides under the edge of her sweater to touch warm skin. She gasps into my mouth, the sound vibrating between us.
Flash. I barely register it.
Reese pulls back slightly, her lips still close enough that I feel her smile. “That should be interesting.”
The machine whirs and clanks, then spits out a strip of four photos—not three like I expected. The first shows us laughing, the second caught my ridiculous model pose and Reese’s reaction. The third is the money shot—Reese kissing me, my eyes closed, hand disappearing under her sweater. And the fourth, which I didn’t even realize was happening, shows Reese with her head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan as my lips find her neck.
“Half sweet, half filthy,” Reese whispers, studying the strip with pink cheeks. “I love it.”
I take the photos from her hand, tucking them into my jacket pocket. “Definitely keeping these.”
We stumble out of the booth, slightly disheveled and grinning like teenagers. The market continues around us, oblivious to the fact that I’ve had first dates at Michelin-starred restaurants, on private jets, at exclusive clubs. But this—applesand cider and a cramped photo booth with a kindergarten teacher who spilled coffee on me a week ago—this is the best date of my life.
Reese’s fingers are intertwined with mine as we drift away from the market’s center, seeking fresh air that isn’t all farmer’s market scents. My heart’s still hammering from what happened in the photo booth, from the unexpected heat of her kiss, from the way she looked at me after—like she wanted to consume me right there between the apple cider stand and the homemade soap display. I spot a wooden bench at the market’s edge, nestled under a canopy of maple trees.
“Let’s sit for a minute,” I suggest, nodding toward the bench.
She follows my lead, our paper bags of market treasures rustling as we settle onto the weathered planks. Dried leaves crunch beneath our feet, a carpet of gold and rust. The market hum is distant here, replaced by the gentle rustling of branches overhead.
Reese leans into me, her shoulder against mine, and sighs contentedly. “This was a good idea.”
“The bench or the market?” I ask.
“Both.” She smiles up at me. “I wouldn’t have pegged the captain of the Chicago Blades as a farmers market kind of guy.”
“I’m not,” I admit. “Or I wasn’t. This is new territory for me.”
“And how do you like it so far?”
I look down at her—rosy-cheeked from the cool air, eyes bright, a strand of hair stuck to her lip—and feel a pull I didn’t see coming. “I like it more than I expected to.”
We’re not just talking about the market anymore. We both know it.
Reese’s smile softens as she reaches up to brush her thumb across my cheek. “You look serious all of a sudden. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
A dozen deflections rise to my lips—the practiced lines I’ve used for years to keep conversations light, to maintain the comfortable distance I prefer. But Reese deserves better than my PR-approved responses.
“I’m thinking that this feels different,” I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. “You and me. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it.”
Her eyes search mine, patient and open. “Try.”
I look away, watching a maple leaf spiral down to join its fallen comrades. “I’ve dated a lot of women.”
“I’m aware,” she says, a hint of teasing in her voice. “Your Wikipedia page has a section titled ‘Personal Life’ that reads like a tabloid highlight reel.”
I wince. “Not my proudest accomplishment.”
