Simon picks up the blanket and cooler. Linking my hand in his, I fall into step with him. “Where are we going?”
“A local band is playing at the town square tonight. Perfect for a few drinks.”
“A picnic in the park?” We cross the street.
“Why not make it real?” Simon grins down at me. “And look at that? We’re already here.”
“I hope that travel time doesn’t cut into our date.”
Simon spreads the blanket out near the back of the square. A small stage is set up across from us. Families and couples are clustered near the band. Food trucks line one side with tables on the other.
“It only means that we get more time after the date.”
Simon drops down onto the blanket, pulling me between his legs. Back in this corner by the trees, it’s like we’re in our own little world.
I grab the six-pack out of the cooler and hand a drink to Simon before cracking mine open.
“To us.”
“To us,” he echoes.
I take an ice-cold sip of The Clara. A light breeze blows through the square as the band starts tinkering with their instruments.
“Is this your perfect date night then?”
“Being with you? Yes.”
“Not what I meant, but a very good answer.”
I snuggle into his hold. It’s so easy being with Simon. I don’t know if it was ever this easy with Brad. Simon has slotted himself so perfectly into my life, it’s hard to remember a time when he wasn’t here.
“Layla. How nice to see you out.” Mrs. Bush is standing in front of us, a clipboard in hand.
“Just enjoying a nice evening in town.”
“I’m sure.” She gives us both a stern eye, jotting something on her board before moving on. She yells at two kids climbing a tree.
“She’s terrible,” Simon whispers to me.
“She really is.”
I hate that she’s the one who holds my fate in her hands. If it were anyone else, this would be a nonissue.
Except I can’t say I’m upset at the results. I’m enjoying every second of this time I get to spend with my hot British fiancé.
An electric guitar cuts through the noise of the square like a tornado siren.
“Fucking hell. What is that noise?” Simon covers both of his ears.
The band starts playing an alt-rock song that has everyone in the crowd struggling with the sudden noise.
“So this is the kind of music you like?” I wince as a screech from one of the instruments blasts through the speakers.
“I like good music.”
The instruments quiet as the lead singer starts in on a song I don’t recognize.
“Pierce and I used to go see local bands play at the pub after our football matches.”
