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The day rolls on. And yes, a film crew arrives. It’s obvious Marcus didn’t expect them. But that doesn’t stop him from posing for the camera and putting on the charm thick as jam on a biscuit.

“Can we get a few photos of the two of you together?” the photographer asks.

She’s an attractive woman around our age and she hasn’t taken her eyes off Marcus since she got here. Not that I care. Everyone has their eyes on him, more than any of the other players who came out to help today.

“Of course,” Marcus says to the photographer, speaking for the both of us. “Tell us what you need. We’re all yours.”

“Sure,” I agree.

This is the deal. We show well as a couple and that helps the Thunder and Marcus … and me because it helps Porch Light.

Marcus stands next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and tugging me close. He smells warm and spicy, like a cologne that costs more than a month’s mortgage on Seventeen Cherry Hill Lane.

“Okay, great,” the photographer says.

Marcus leans close to my head and says, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

I laugh softly.

“You have a sense of humor?” I tease.

“When I feel like cracking it open, I do. Otherwise, I keep a lid on it.”

“Hmmm.” I hum thoughtfully.

He’s not helping my immunity right now. I need to remember his bossy nature. The way he’s certain the world revolves around him.

The photographer says, “Look at one another.”

Marcus turns and looks down into my eyes. I stare up at him. The sun is that kind of muted light that starts to come in the early fall. It’s not low, but summer’s had its say. Marcus looks good in this light, objectively speaking.

“I like your eyes,” Marcus says.

His compliment catches me off guard, so I just say, “Yeah?”

“They make you look a lot kinder than you are,” he says with a mischievous smile.

“Your eyes look as devious and maniacal as their owner,” I say.

“Big words, Carter.”

“Ah. Ah. Ah. That’s Cass to you, QB.”

“Alright, then. Cass,” he says, smiling at me as if he’s feeling some sort of affection.

“That’s great!” the photographer says.

Marcus’s arm is still around my shoulder. The photographer drops her camera to her side and turns to capture other aspects of the event. I glance at Marcus. He lifts his arm away from me and runs his hand through his hair.

“What’s next?” he asks.

“Next?”

“Yeah. You’ve got everyone checking out items. When the crowd starts to dwindle, then what?”

“I stay to clean up and organize the remaining supplies. We’re going to donate any leftovers to some after-school programs and a rural school about thirty minutes from here.”

“I’ll stay,” he offers.