Because I’d already waited longer than I cared to admit. I’d watched Bella from the safe distances oflaterandmaybe someday, telling myself patience was the same thing as caution. That wanting her quietly was better than risking anything at all.
But the truth was, I had never been this careful about someone I didn’t care deeply about. Walking away now just because I was fucking scared of how much I wanted her would be its own kind of regret.
I pushed my chair back and stood, heart thudding harder than before. “You know, the farmers market is happening today.”
Matty grinned. “That’s true.”
“And since we’ve eaten our way through Jo’s pastry case,” I added, gesturing vaguely at our empty plates. “It feels irresponsible not to balance that out with a vegetable or two.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Something green and crunchy. Very health forward.”
Matty stood too, slinging his jacket on. “Or a jar of honey.”
“That’s not a vegetable.”
His teasing grin gave way to warm approval. “That may be true, but itisBella. Let’s go before you talk yourself out of it.”
I nodded, nerves buzzing under my skin as we headed for the door. If I was going to be brave, I might as well start now, with sticky fingers and a full belly. But as we headed for the door, the cold February air waiting on the other side, I knew one thing for sure.
If I was going to be scared anyway, I’d rather be scaredwithBella than without her.
Bella
“Holy shit, I’m freezing my tits off.”
Parker glanced down at her chest and then back up, meeting my eyes with a horrified expression. The massive pom-pom crowning her chunky knit beanie bobbed with every move.
“Seriously, do they look smaller? I know guys have that whole shrinkage problem, but I didn’t think it affected women, too.”
“Honestly,” I told her, biting back a laugh. “I don’t know you well enough to judge your breast size.”
“Oh, c’mon.” She stomped her feet like a child. “They’re like icicles.” Her eyes lit up. “Titsticles.”
I shoved a ten-dollar bill into her hands. “Then go grab us some coffee and defrost.”
She didn’t need me to tell her twice, pom-pom bouncing as she dashed toward the coffee cart.
In our two class sessions, I had quickly come to realize that Parker dressed like she’d stepped out of a different decade every morning, all vintage knits and retro silhouettes, bright colors softened by wear and love.
Today it was a vintage 70s ski sweater in electric turquoise and hot pink zigzags, tucked into high-waisted corduroy pants that emphasized her generous curves. Over it all was a sunshine-yellow puffy vest that should’ve clashed horribly but somehow worked on her. It paired perfectly with her oversized enamel sunflower earrings that swung like pendulums.
Talk about a walking mood board for maximalist winter joy.
I loved her style. Envied the confidence of it, the way she dressed like her body was something to celebrate instead of camouflage. Just as it should be.
It didn’t escape me that somehow, without meaning to, I had surrounded myself with curvy, goddess-level women—friends who treatedfatlike a neutral fact, not a dirty word—and it had quietly rewired something in me.
Parker had a good four inches on my five-foot-six frame, her curves stretching longer, distributed in a way that felt effortless and statuesque. I couldn’t help the flicker of jealousy, but it was the good kind, the kind that made me want to take notes instead of shrinking myself.
By the time she got back from the coffee cart, clutching two to-go cups like lifelines, I had just finished restocking my table display.
It was a rare sunny day at the farmers market, the kind of February light that tricked you into thinking spring had shown up early.
Spoiler alert, it hadn’t. This windchill was no joke.
I had on three layers under my overalls, wool socks inside my boots, and fingerless gloves so that I could still handle the honey jars. Unfortunately, in my haste to get out of the house on time this morning, I had left my favorite beanie at home, which made every gust of wind feel like daggers to the scalp.
