“It has served me well.”
“I’m sure it has served you,” I say.
“I’m less certain about everyone else.”
His mouth curves. “Good morning, Serena.”
There is that problem again, my name in his voice, low and unhurried, as if the syllables are something he has decided to taste before breakfast.
“Good morning, Damien,” I say.
The herb vendor from the first morning looks between us and reaches for paper with the air of a woman preparing for entertainment.
He glances at my basket.
“Figs, cherries, goat cheese, basil.”
“Your powers of observation remain intact,” I say.
“You avoided the tarragon.”
“I already have tarragon.”
“So you came back for basil.”
“I came back for the market.”
He looks at me for one beat too long. “Of course.”
The vendor laughs under her breath.
I look at her. “You’re not helping.”
The vendor says in French, “I am helping myself.”
Damien answers the vendor in French, “That is the only honest kind of help.”
The vendor nods approvingly. “He understands.”
“I’m very happy for both of you,” I say.
He reaches past me, not touching this time, and chooses basil from the back row. His forearm comes close enough that I catch the scent of him beneath the market. Soap. Coffee. Something clean and faintly herbal, as if the morning has decided to cooperate with him. The proximity is brief, polite, and entirely unreasonable.
He hands the basil to the vendor.
“You chose from the back,” I say.
Damien looks at me. “So did you.”
“I was about to.”
“No,” he says. “You were overthinking the front bunch.”
“I was assessing.”
“You were threatening it.”
The vendor wraps his basil while pretending not to enjoy this.
