She swallowed her mouthful of pink liquid and dabbed her lips with one of the Rosé Run branded cocktail napkins. “Just checking to make sure it hasn’t gone bad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You owe me this.” She pointed the bottle in my direction. “I got dumped this week and I still showed up at seven a.m. for you.”
Her brave smile did nothing to hide the hurt behind her eyes. I knew June better than anybody, so I knew that she was still reeling from her abrupt breakup this week. Clarke had already talked me out of egging the dickweed’s car, but I was still planning to send him a strongly worded email this weekend.
Or maybe a glitter bomb.
“Just . . . write your name on the bottle, okay?” Her bottom lip quivered. “Why don’t you go help Nero and Jo with the cinnamon buns?”
She nodded weakly and turned back toward the bar. Nero had volunteered—er, been peer pressured by his overachiever sister—to spearhead the after-party for today’s Rosé Run. Along with a participation medal, every race participant received a tasting flight of rosé—including Nero’s award-winning blend—and a caramel, pecan, cinnamon bun from Would Taste as Sweet.
“Hey,” I called after her. “You know you’re the best, right?” Her lips kicked up to one side. “And what did you say about the best?”
“They’re worth waiting for.” Her smile widened. “I’mworth waiting for.”
“You bet your sweet ass you are. Now, get out of here.”
I laughed to myself when she scampered off, open bottle in hand. It was her emotional support rosé; we could let it slide.
A lot had changed in a week.
The festival had been our most successful one to date. Nearly fifty thousand people had turned out for the festivities, and that was only during the first week. We still had another week to go. I had already started scribbling notes to help with next year’s event.
In other news, the Roasters had taken their series three games to two, and in doing so, they’d advanced to the next stage of the playoffs.
The Championship Series.
I gave myself a mental pat on the back for finally learning the proper baseball lingo, or at least the parts that mattered. It helped that I had a great teacher, one who rode me hard when I mixed up things like “Division Series” and “Championship Series” and spanked me harder when I got them right.
Those hands of his should come with a warning.
And they were all mine.
It wasn’t a secret; I was deliriously in lust. In between Jared’s rigorous game schedule and workout routine, we had done some working out of our own. In his bathtub, on a bed of couch cushions by the fire, out back by the vegetables—we were insatiable.
But our relationship—and yes, we had graduated to using that term—was more than just sex. Jared and I had spent the past week getting to know each other. No rules, no walls, no games—just as he’d requested. We’d spent hours talking, sometimes on the phone, sometimes side by side while wearing exfoliating masks. The man’s skin care routine put mine to shame.
We’d covered a lot of ground during our talks—his strained relationship with his father, my deep-rooted fear of being the last single girl standing, our unique experiences with bisexuality—because queerness looked different for everybody and it didn’tpoofdisappear the second you started dating someone of the opposite sex.
I had learned more about Jared in the last month than I had in a year with past partners. And that wasn’t the only thing that set him apart from the rest.
Jared listened.
He gave me his full, undivided attention when I spoke and waited patiently if I fumbled my words—which happened all too frequently, especially when faced with his bare torso. He anticipated my every need better than I ever had. Just the other night, a very large and imposing security guard named Bruno had dropped by the bookstore with enough takeout to feed a family of five. All because Jared knew that I was staying late to do inventory.
He taught me new things and allowed me to do the same. We had traded our “to be read” lists over breakfast every morning this week, which might as well have been the bibliophile equivalent of giving somebody your Netflix password. I had also downloaded the first three episodes of his favorite podcast series on gardening tips.
The things I was willing to do for my plant daddy.
“Shouldn’t we have seen some runners by now?” Xan asked, rounding the table with another handful of bottles.
“Any minute now. They’re going on twenty-three minutes.”
“Come on.” They reached into their coat pocket, drawing out a pair of binoculars. Not the kind for birdwatching either. The brassy ones you might expect to see at the opera. “I didn’t pull my ass out of bed this early on a Saturday for nothing. I want to see some baseball boys.”
“Well,” Kaylani said. “You may be in luck. According to my tracking app, Ryan is about four minutes out.”
