Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Good Hope Market was cool and bright, the aisles not as busy as late afternoon settled in.
Mac grabbed a basket from the stack by the door and headed straight for the produce, easing into the familiar rhythm of a quick shop.
She started with spinach, then weighed a handful of cherry tomatoes and added them to the basket.
She was reaching for scallions when a cart rolled to a stop beside her.
“Hey.”
She looked up and felt the small, lift.
Connor stood there with one hand on the handle of a cart, sleeves pushed up, hair damp like he’d showered recently. His cart held frozen meals alongside eggs, apples, bread, coffee and a box of something chocolate-covered.
“Hi,” she said, surprised—and not. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Same.” His gaze flicked to her basket. “You shop light.”
“I came in for only a few things,” she said. “I try not to wander.”
He smiled and shifted his grip on the cart. “I’m still figuring out what qualifies as enough food.”
She glanced at his selections. “Looks like you’re getting there.”
“Working on it.”
They moved down the aisle together, unhurried now. She added yogurt to her basket. He debated between two pasta sauces, then shrugged and chose both.
At the end of an aisle, she reached for a small box of Ho Hos, hesitated, then dropped it into her basket.
Connor noticed and lifted a hand. “No judgment here. I love those.”
That made her smile. “Recovery food.”
“Exactly.”
At checkout, he angled his cart back. “You go first.”
She shook her head. “I’m not in any hurry. That’s why I walked.”
They waited in line together, conversation easy but light. When it paused, Mac found herself wishing he’d fill the silence again.
The scanner beeped steadily. Bags rustled. Someone laughed two lanes over.
Outside, Connor loaded his groceries into the back of his SUV.
Mac held her grocery bag against her hip. “Well. I’m glad we ran into each other.”
“I can give you a ride,” he said. “If you want.”
She paused, then nodded. “Okay.”
She set the bag in the floorboard and buckled in. The drive was quiet in a comfortable way, but Mac noticed how quickly the trip was passing.
As he turned onto her street, Connor glanced over. “I was thinking of going to the farmers’ market tomorrow morning.”
She looked at him. “Yeah?”
“Would you want to go with me?”
“I would.” The answer came faster than she’d meant it to, but she didn’t take it back.
He nodded. “I’ll stop by around nine, if that works.”
“It does.”
When he pulled into his driveway, neither of them hurried.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, stepping out.
Connor smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
She walked up the path to her door, grocery bag in hand, already anticipating the morning.
The Saturday-morning market spilled across Good Hope’s town square in color and motion.
Canvas tents snapped lightly in the breeze.
Tables overflowed with wildflower bouquets, jars of honey catching the sun, baskets of peaches stacked so high they looked ready to tumble.
Voices layered together—neighbors calling greetings, vendors explaining prices, someone laughing nearby—until the whole thing hummed.
Mac adjusted the strap of her canvas bag as she and Connor moved with the slow current of the crowd.
His hand brushed hers as they passed a stall of sunflowers. Not deliberate. Not accidental either. Just there long enough for her to notice before it was gone.
“Hungry?” he asked, nodding toward a food truck where steam curled up from a flat-top griddle. “I hear the breakfast burritos are legendary.”
They split one at his insistence, his argument being that they could sample the food from more stalls that way. She rolled her eyes, took her first bite and agreed with him. Eggs, potatoes and just enough heat to wake her up.
At a pottery booth, Mac slowed. Her gaze landed on a squat green planter with bulging eyes and a mouth permanently caught in midgasp.
Connor leaned in, his voice low with amusement. “It appears your frog has family here.”
“Looks like his cousin,” she said. “Twice removed.” She shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Don’t tempt me.”
They wandered toward the edge of the square, where the bluff path curved down toward the harbor.
The crowd thinned. The air shifted—cooler, cleaner—carrying the faint tang of the water.
A breeze lifted strands of her hair, and she tucked them back, aware of Connor’s attention without looking at him.
“It’s different,” he said.
She glanced over. “What is?”
“This.” He gestured loosely at the market behind them, the path ahead. “Being here with you makes everything feel different.”
Her steps slowed, not enough to stop, but enough to register. She looked out toward the harbor instead of at him, where sunlight broke across the water in sharp flashes.
Mac tilted her head, forcing a lighter note. “Careful. Next thing I know, you’ll be buying every frog planter in town just to keep up.”
He smiled, leaning another fraction closer. “Depends on how many it takes to stay on your good side.”
She laughed, then turned them back toward the square, the warmth of the moment trailing after her like something she didn’t quite want to outrun.
They’d barely cleared the edge of the square when Connor slowed and glanced toward the far side of the park.
“Hey,” he said. “Come here a second.”
Mac followed his gaze.
A pickup baseball game had formed near the old bandstand—half a dozen kids, a few adults, mismatched gloves, someone pitching underhand. No uniforms. No chalked lines. Just laughter and the hollow thunk of a bat hitting a ball.
She smiled automatically. Connor noticed.
“You play?” he asked, already knowing the answer and asking anyway.
“I did,” she said. “Back in grade school. Before everything got serious.”
She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder.
He watched the game for another beat. “They look like they’re missing a shortstop.”
Mac huffed a quiet laugh. “They look like they’re missing rules.”
“That’s the appeal.”
She turned to him, eyebrow lifted. “You’re not serious.”
He shrugged, easy. “Five minutes. No stakes. I’ll even embarrass myself first.”
One of the kids chased down a foul ball and nearly collided with Connor as he jogged past.
“Hey!” Connor called, scooping the ball up. He tossed it back. “Mind if we jump in for a bit?”
The kid grinned. “Sure! We need more players.”
Mac opened her mouth to say no, to say, This isn’t my thing…
And then she stopped.
Connor was already rolling his shoulders, loosening up like he hadn’t spent a decade behind a desk. He caught her eye.
“Just stand out there,” he said. “If you hate it, we’ll leave.”
She hesitated, then exhaled. “Fine. Five minutes.”
He grinned like he’d just won a prize.
She set her bag on the bench, stepping onto the grass. She rolled her ankles once out of habit.
Someone handed her a glove that was too big but well broken in.
“We need a shortstop!” someone called.
Connor jogged to the outfield, shooting her a look. “No pressure, Mac.”
She snorted. “You’re about to regret this.”
The pitch was soft and looping.
The bat cracked.
The ball skipped toward her.
Her body reacted before her mind could. Two quick steps, glove down, scoop, throw.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t pretty.
A cheer went up.
Connor clapped from the outfield. “Clean play.”
Heat rose in her chest. Not adrenaline, not competition. Something lighter.
They played two innings. Maybe three. Time bent in that way it did when no one was keeping score.
When they finally stepped off the grass, Mac was laughing and breathless.
“That,” she said, hands on her hips, “was not in my plans for today.”