Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Zander
“We stick out like a sore thumb,” Beau mumbles in my ear.
I’ve never been to a farmers’ market in my life. I never thought I ever would. But I don’t hate it. Booths line the main street, and families are talking with other families. Kids run around.
“Did you pay them or something?” I mutter to Beau.
Not one person has approached us. I told Beau about wanting to go into town, so people know I’m with Romy, and here we are. It’s a coming out of sorts, but also because in order for me to feel secure leaving her when I go to edit the video, I want to experience the town a little more.
“No. You told me you wanted to come without any interference from me.” His voice still holds a small amount of agitation.
The paps hover at the edges, pretending to browse jam jars and homemade soaps while their shutters click slyly. Or so they think. My security detail fans out—four men in dark jackets who stick out more than blend in—but DeSoto’s the only one who stays glued to us, his gaze constantly roving.
And then there’s the entire reason I’m here.
Romy walks slightly ahead of me, hair loose, one hand brushing over a basket of apples, talking to the vendor as if she’s her best friend.
Maybe she is her best friend. This is Romy’s element, where she lives and shops.
I never want to take her out of this town.
I want her to remain in her innocent Willowbrook bubble.
“Stop it,” Beau whispers, picking up a jar of carrots with a bemused expression.
“What?”
“She wants to be with you. And sure, she doesn’t know exactly what it all means, but she’s going to fight for you. So, wrestle those fucking demons and stop staring at her like she’s about to turn around and tell you she’s changed her mind.”
Romy waves, and someone crosses the path to flag her down. Beau and I stand to the side, taking in a scene neither of us ever thought we’d be part of.
“What am I supposed to expect? That she’ll be okay being chased down for a picture? That the shitty keyboard warriors—”
“Yes. Because that’s part of being with you. It might take some time for you guys to figure it out, but you will. Stop feeling guilty about it.”
Romy glances over her shoulder and smiles mid-conversation, then eventually she hugs the person goodbye and nods for us to follow her.
“Go and keep your head out of dark places.” Beau slaps me on the back.
I head up to walk alongside Romy, and the crowd presses close near a stall selling candles.
My hand skims over the small of her back, just a light brush, fingers spread wide enough that I feel the heat of her through her sweater.
She relaxes into my touch, and her back rests against my chest as she picks up and smells a variety of candles.
“Smell this,” she says and holds it up to my nose.
I bend and smell. “Doesn’t smell nearly as good as you,” I whisper in her ear.
Romy doesn’t look at me, but I see pink creep up her neck. She puts the candle down, and we continue to walk down the road, stopping at different booths.
Every chance I get, I touch her. A brush of her fingers here. A graze of my knuckles there. My hand rests against her hip when we step aside for a family with a double stroller.
Nobody stares for too long. A few smile politely, some nod. One older man selling honey gives me a firm handshake and welcomes me to Willowbrook. It’s strange, as if I’m camouflaged or something. Everyone acts as though I’m not who I am while the paps keep taking pictures.
I catch DeSoto’s tight jaw. He hates crowds. They’re too unpredictable. But I’m… weirdly calm. Maybe because the only thing I’m focused on is Romy.
She leans over to smell a bouquet of flowers, and I nearly lose it. The way her hair falls forward, the soft curve of her neck exposed. My hand twitches at my side, itching to cup the back of her head and kiss her in the middle of the market.
Instead, I step closer, my arm brushing hers. She glances up, eyes flicking to mine for half a second, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
Yeah. I could get used to this life.
“Zander?”
I look up and see Zara Sloane walking toward us. Her hair is in two pigtail braids with oversized sunglasses perched on top of her head. She holds three different bags, looking like she’s lived here her entire life and fits right in.
“Wow, small world!” She laughs at her own joke. “How adorable are these little vendors? Did you see the macramé booth? And the vegan donuts! They’re giving samples, you have to try one.” Her attention finally lands on Romy, and she says Romy’s name as if they’re best friends.
“Hi, Zara.” Romy lifts her hand and eyes Zara’s bags. “Man, you’ve really done well today.”
I step closer to Romy, putting my arm around her waist, and Zara’s eyes flick from my hand to me with her eyebrows raised. A small smile tips her lips. “You didn’t find anything?” She frowns.
“Well, I live here, so… but I saw a lot of cute things.” Romy shrugs.
“It’s great here. I was telling my friend we should do a girls’ trip here sometime. I was talking to…” She looks toward the sky. “She’s blonde and has a baby on her hip a lot.”
“Briar,” Romy answers.
“Yes! And she was telling me they can put together a whole thing for us. And we can maybe camp outside.”
“You’re going to camp?” Beau says, joining us.
“Yes, Beau, I’m not one of those high maintenance girls.” She rolls her eyes at him.
“If you say so.” He laughs.
She narrows her eyes at him and turns back to Romy. I have to admit, I love that she’s giving all her attention to Romy, but I’d like us to get out of this conversation so I can have Romy all to myself.
I open my mouth to end it, but Zara claps. “Let’s grab lunch! Someone said The Sprout House has the best chicken sandwich.” She slides her arm through Romy’s and escorts her away from me.
I stare at Beau in disbelief, but he just laughs.
The Sprout House is packed, sunlight streaming through big windows onto reclaimed wood tables. It smells like roasted vegetables and fresh herbs, and the hostess can’t take her eyes off me but composes herself enough to lead us to a booth in the back.
I slide in next to Romy. DeSoto and the four others take seats at a nearby table, scanning the room. Beau sits across from me, next to Zara, who can’t stop gushing about the farm-to-table feel of the restaurant. Beau looks as if it’s taking everything in him to pretend he’s interested.
I tune Zara out, turning my focus to Romy.
Romy’s thigh presses against mine, and I don’t move. Neither does she. My hand drops casually to my lap. Then over a bit. I brush my fingers against the outside of her thigh. She picks up the menu and turns to me, giving me a stop it look.
Beau looks up from his menu. “Everything good over there?”
“Fine,” Romy says quickly, cheeks flushed.
I smirk and slide my hand higher. She remains rigid.
Zara puts her finger on the top of Romy’s menu and pulls it down. “Do they have kombucha?”
“Why don’t you look at your own menu?” Beau says.
My hand slides higher. My palm settles firmly just beneath the juncture of Romy’s thighs. Her breath hitches, and her body tenses.
Beau gives me a look, telling me to stop doing whatever it is I’m doing. I bite back a laugh, leaning closer so my shoulder brushes Romy’s, covering the movement under the table. Her hand drops to her lap, fingers brushing mine, and I wait for her to push me away. She doesn’t.
My pinkie strokes the inside of her thigh, and I slide my fingers to weave between her thighs. She presses her thighs together, trapping my hand, and it’s the hottest damn thing that her pussy is only inches from my fingers.
Zara and Beau talk about the video and wrap up and when we’ll be editing.
She says she’s going back to Nashville too and that we should all get together for dinner while I’m there.
Romy must be too distracted because she doesn’t question me about Nashville.
We haven’t had that conversation yet. The one where I tell her I gotta go away for a little while.
God, she’s beautiful flustered, and I try to stay composed. She lets me push just far enough that she’s squirming, but not as far as I wish we could go.
I lean in, my lips brushing her ear. “Relax. You look guilty.”
“Because I am,” she whispers back, barely moving her lips.
“Good.”
The waitress comes over, and we give her our orders.
I leave my hand on Romy’s leg the rest of the meal, stroking lazy patterns against her thigh, keeping her on edge.
She doesn’t move it. She doesn’t tell me to stop.
And every time Zara goes on another tangent, I swear Romy opens her thighs a little wider.
The reputation of this place is well earned. It is indeed the best chicken sandwich I’ve ever had.
We leave The Sprout House with Zara going on about starting a pop-up goat yoga class in town. DeSoto ushers us through the door, scanning the sidewalk. The paps are still there, cameras clicking, but the townsfolk keep pretending not to notice.
Romy walks beside me, chin high, pretending I didn’t spend lunch making her squirm. I slide my hand in hers, weaving our fingers together.
She turns to me, looking surprised, but then she relaxes and leans her head on my shoulder for a moment. I take the opportunity to kiss the top of her head.
I’m sure the cameras are buzzing, but I don’t care. I want the world to know she’s mine because this is my future. Her and the baby growing inside her.