She glances down at herself, tugging at the hem of the tank top self-consciously. “You think? I wasn’t sure about the yellow.”
“Are you kidding?” I say, plating the French toast I’ve been working on. “It’s perfect. It fits you great.”
It really does. But I don’t elaborate because I’m already dangerously close to sounding like I’m hitting on her, which is the last thing she needs.
I pour her a cup of coffee—two sugars, splash of milk, exactly how she likes it—and slide it across the counter toward her. “What do you want to do today?” I ask.
She wraps her hands around the mug, raising a brow over the rim as she takes a sip. “As in… we’re leaving the house again? Two days in a row?”
She’s still riding the high from the basketball game last night. I can hear it in her voice—that thread of excitement she’s trying to contain.
“I think so,” I say, bringing her plate over with two slices of French toast, dusted with powdered sugar and topped with fresh strawberries. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” she says, her smile growing. She sits down at the counter, pulling the plate closer. “I mean, Cole is very well trained. I really don’t worry about Preston when he’s nearby.”
“Right?” I agree, leaning against the counter across from her. “He and Jack both seem more than capable. Anna said they’ve dealt with some pretty scary situations and handled them well.”
“Like what?” Tessa asks, cutting into her French toast.
“Stalkers. Pushy paparazzi who cross the line. There have even been some weirdos who sent death threats.” I shrug. “Apparently, keeping you safe from your abusive ex-boyfriend is pretty standard for them.”
She chews thoughtfully, then swallows. “That’s both reassuring and depressing.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, grabbing my own plate and sitting down beside her. “Anyway. I was thinking we could go to the farmers’ market downtown. It’s Saturday, so it’ll be busy, but Cole can blend in pretty easily. And we can just… walk around. Get some fresh air. Maybe pick up some fresh groceries and make something really good for dinner.”
“That sounds nice,” she says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She looks at me, and something warm in her expression makes my chest tighten. “Thank you, Logan.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know,” she says. “But I want to.”
We sit there for a moment, just looking at each other, and I have to physically force myself not to reach across the counter and tuck that damp strand of hair behind her ear.
Instead, I take a bite of my French toast and change the subject before I do something stupid.
“So,” I say. “Farmers’ market. That was a definite yes?”
She grins. “Yes.”
“Good,” I say. “Because I already texted Cole with the plans. He’s excited to pick up some fresh-cut flowers for his girlfriend.”
The farmers’ market is already bustling by the time we arrive, the morning sun bright and warm overhead. Rows of white tents line the blocked-off streets, and vendors call out about their fresh produce, homemade jams, artisan breads, and handcrafted goods.
Cole follows at a discreet distance, blending in surprisingly well in jeans and a plain T-shirt, sunglasses covering his constantly scanning eyes. He looks like any other guy here shopping on a Saturday morning, except for the way his gaze never stops moving.
Tessa stops at the first stand, a table overflowing with colorful heirloom tomatoes.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, picking up a deep purple one. “Look at this. Have you ever seen a tomato this color?”
“Can’t say I have,” I admit, leaning in to look. “What would you even make with that?”
“Same thing you’d make with any tomato,” she says, setting it down carefully. “But it would look way cooler.”
The vendor, an older woman with sun-weathered skin and kind eyes, smiles. “That’s a Cherokee Purple. Sweetest tomato you’ll ever taste.”
