She nods vigorously. "I'm a regular at my Pilatesreformer class." She absentmindedly strokes her stomach. I've noticed she's been doing that more often now. "I was, anyway. My center of gravity isn't going to be able to handle the reformer for a while. Definitely no inversions."
"Now I understand why you have such strong legs." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Mallory is pressing her lips together, looking at me with mirth. "You've noticed I have strong legs?"
"Yeah," I say, playing it off. "What else was there for me to look at in the fitting room when you needed my help with your stuck zipper?"
Mallory's teeth graze her lower lip, her cheeks turned up in a smile. "I can't think of a single thing. Or two things."
"Nope," I say, palming the back of my neck.
I want to kiss her again. Wrap her up, run my hands through her hair, cup her cheeks, taste those pink lips. It's only been a few weeks since the day I met Mallory, but something about this feels...special.Like she was delivered to me.As if there's some sort of magical force making this happen.
"You're welcome to use the gym," I tell her. "No reformers in there, but it should be able to cover all the basics."
"I appreciate that," she says. She finishes her coffee. "And I appreciated my latte. And now, I would appreciate the tour of Summerhill."
Chapter 30
Mallory
Summerhill iseverything.
Earthy, beautiful, unpretentious but luxurious. I regret that this is not the first place I came when I arrived in Olive Township. Sammich is a local treasure, but this…Wow.
The first stop on our tour is what Hugo simply refers to as the 'shop.' The large sign on the front reads Merry Little Market.
"It was my mom's job to name it," Hugo says, holding the door open for a stream of people. Some say thank you, some say nothing, and none of them know the person holding open the door for them is the operator of this whole business. "I think she was high on Christmas cheer at the time."
"It's cute," I defend.
"Better for a Christmas tree farm," he gripes.
The doorway clears, and Hugo places his hand on the small of my back, urging me inside.
Backwards caps, and small of the back hand placement. This man knows just how to get this girl riled up.
The interior of Merry Little Market veers toward industrial. The floors are a finished gray concrete, and in lieu of a ceiling is exposed ductwork. Row upon row of six-foot-tall rolling carts hold jars of what I'm sure are olives and many other types of goods. There is a section for olive oil soaps, a wall of local wine, and a refrigerated grab-and-go section of food from the restaurant. Near the back of the large space is an adorable coffee shop with cases of baked goods.
"This is amazing, Hugo," I say in awe, watching people mill around, choosing their items. We walk in deeper, and I start on the first aisle.
Vinegars. A classic balsamic with traditional pairings turns into a white balsamic with prickly pear, blueberry, and peach, and even specialty bourbon flavors in bottles that resemble bourbon casks. I keep going, perusing each aisle, taking it all in. I've always felt in awe of what the earth provides for people in terms of nourishment, and this is a bit like that. It's made even better knowing a family like the De la Vegas have a hand in it.
Hugo is quiet as he stands beside me, letting me soak it all in. "Bacon olive oil?" I ask, pointing at a bottle.
"One of our best sellers," he answers. "The olive oil sommelier I'm working with right now is creating a vanilla bean oil."
My eyebrows raise. Lips purse. I say nothing.
His eyes narrow. "You still don't believe an olive oil sommelier is a real job."
I shrug, teasing him. "There are all kinds of weird jobs. Professional mourner," I point out.
Hugo's eyebrows draw together. "Come again?"
"They go to a funeral with low attendance, so it won't look empty. Or someone might hire them to attend a funeral and make a scene. Wailing, sobbing, all the theatrics."
Hugo's hands slip into his jeans pockets. "That sounds fucking terrible."
