We sat there, in the parking lot of a Charlottesville shopping mall, grinning at each other like idiots. And it suddenly hit me.
I'm in so much trouble.
Chapter Eight
Farley
The mustache had been a thing of beauty.
I was still thinking about it as we pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot—that lopsided disaster clinging to Samuel’s upper lip like a dying caterpillar. The earnest determination in his eyes as he’d tried to explain his disguise strategy. The way his face had fallen when one side detached mid-conversation.
I hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Maybe months.
“You’re still thinking about the mustache,” Samuel said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“I’m absolutely still thinking about the mustache.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was actively terrible.” I turned off the engine and looked at him. “But I respect the commitment to the bit.”
Samuel grinned—that wide, unguarded smile that made him look nothing like the carefully polished heartthrob I’d seen in Google Images. This version of him was rumpled and real, wearing a baseball cap at a normal angle and a forest-green sweater that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget but looked wonderfully ordinary.
“Come on,” he said, climbing out of the Range Rover. “Let’s go buy overpriced organic produce like the insufferable people we are.”
I followed him across the parking lot, watching the easy way he moved now that he’d shed the sequined sweater and fake facial hair. He seemed lighter somehow. Less guarded.
Or maybe I was projecting. Maybe I felt lighter, having someone to drive to Charlottesville with, someone who made me laugh instead of wince.
Inside, Whole Foods was doing its best impression of urban sophistication transplanted into Virginia farmland. Gleaming produce displays, artisanal cheese counters, a juice bar that probably charged twelve dollars for sixteen ounces of kale-adjacent sludge.
Samuel made a beeline for the refrigerated section, and I grabbed a cart, following at a more sedate pace.
“Found it!” He held up a bottle of kombucha like he’d discovered the Holy Grail. “Ginger-turmeric. This is the good stuff.”
“It looks like something dredged from a swamp.”
“That’s how you know it’s working.” He tossed three bottles into the cart. “Gut health is no joke, Farley.”
“I’m lactose intolerant. I’m intimately familiar with gut health.”
“Then you should be thanking me for introducing you to the wonders of fermented tea.”
“I’m not drinking that.”
“You haven’t even tried it.”
“I don’t need to try it to know it’s a crime against beverages.”
Samuel’s eyes lit up with competitive glee. “Okay. Challenge. You try my kombucha, I try your—what do you drink? Besides bourbon and judgement?”
“Coffee. Like a civilized human.”
“Boring.” He grabbed another bottle. “Come on, Farley. Live a little.”
There was something about the way he said my name—playful, teasing, intimate—that made my chest do something complicated. This was flirting. We were definitely flirting.
Which was fine. Flirting was harmless.
