“Good morning, Damien,” I say.
“Good morning, Serena,” he says.
My name in his mouth is a problem.
Not a large problem. Not yet. Just a small one, sharp enough to be felt, easy enough to pretend I have not noticed.
I glance toward the stall of tomatoes across the aisle.
“I have to keep moving.”
“I assumed,” Damien says.
“Did you?” I ask.
“You have the look of someone with a list,” Damien says.
“I always have a list,” I say.
“Of course you do,” Damien says.
I narrow my eyes. “You say that like you know me.”
“I say it like I understand lists,” Damien says.
“That is not the same thing,” I say.
“No,” Damien says. “It isn’t.”
The way he says it makes the space between us shift again, subtle and warm under the cool morning air. I hold his gaze for one second too long, then look away first because someone should show restraint and apparently it is going to have to be me. I step back from the herb stall.
“Enjoy your sorrel,” I say.
“Enjoy my tarragon,” Damien says.
I stop. He looks entirely pleased with himself.
“Your tarragon?” I ask.
“You took the best bunch,” Damien says.
“I selected the best bunch,” I say.
“From my reach,” Damien says.
“Your reach was late,” I say.
“My reach was restrained,” Damien says.
“Your reach lost,” I say.
His eyes flicker with amusement.
“Then enjoy your victory.”
“I will,” I say.
“I believe you,” Damien says.
