Page 57 of The Backup Plan

“I am.”

“You’re serious,” I state when he reaches for his wallet.

He nods and grins. “So damn serious.”

He begins to barter with the vendor. Of course, he’s absurdly charming about it—smiling, shrugging, feigning heartbreak when the price doesn’t budge all the while telling them how incredible their wares are. And then pumping his fist when he gets a paper flower thrown in.

“Here,” he says, tucking the flower behind my ear, his fingertips skimming the shell of it, sending unexpected chills down my spine.

“You enjoy this,” I say, needing a distraction from those bright blue eyes of his.

“I enjoy winning.”

“Technically you’re losing because she didn’t bring down the price.”

“Strategically.” He quirks a brow and thanks the vendor as she hands him the cactus piñata that he now holds up like a trophy. “But still winning.” He holds it out to me. “For you.”

“No. I’m good.” I laugh the words out.

“Proof you left your apartment and allowed yourself to be Emery Porter and not Doc Porter today.”

I take it and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yet, here you are.”

We keep moving through stalls and out of the swap meet to the streets and into pockets of the city that feel alive in a way the office and the apartment don’t. When the crowd grows thick in some places, his hand drifts to the small of my back. Not possessive. Just deliberate.

Just . . . there. And it makes my skin hum in a way I haven’t felt in quite a while too. Nor did I realize I missed.

In our wandering, a few people recognize him. It’s subtle double takes, whispers and phones hovering but not raised. A teenager asks for a picture, and Lucas agrees easily, arm slung around the kid’s shoulders, polite and gracious.

Others notice but deliberately look away and respect his personal time.

I wonder briefly if I should worry about being seen like this. A team doctor out with a player.

But we aren’t doing anything wrong. We’re just walking. Just laughing. Simply existing as two new people in a new town.

Right or wrong, that makes this feel more okay than not.

“That has you written all over it.” Lucas points to whatever he’s talking about, but all I can seem to focus on is the warmth of his breath tickling my ear.

“The lamp?” I bark out a laugh at the ceramic burst of . . . color? I guess that’s what you can call the swirls of iridescent colors and the bright yellow lamp shade.

“Buy it.”

“I don’t need another lamp.”

“Need and want are two different things, Em. And you want that lamp.”

“You’re a terrible influence.”

“I’m an excellent influence,” he corrects. “And I got you out of your apartment.”

Touché.

“You did. You’re right. And I guess I do need that lamp.”

“Yes.” He pumps his fist before raising both hands in victory.