11. Quinn
Quinn
Grocery shopping in the morning is one of my all-time favorite things.
Especially at the farmer’s market. While the rest of the city is chaotic, the market is merely breathing.
People don’t rush around farmer’s markets.
They meander with content smiles at all the colors and options, slowly, thoughtfully stuffing reusable bags with bright peppers and luscious greens and ripe fruits and maybe the occasional pastry or goats milk candle.
Farmer’s markets slow you down and feed the soul.
Until your phone buzzes with a call from your new nemesis.
“Good morning,” I chime.
“Is it?”
“It was…” I say, and he snorts.
“You’re cute,” he says with a grin.
“I know.”
“Do you just wake up sassy, or does it build up throughout the day?” he asks.
“Both,” I answer as I pick through a crate of strawberries. Fruit crumble bars sound good. And for that, I’m going to need all the berries. “Either way, I save it all up for you.”
Reid chuckles grittily at that, and I smile. “Where are you?” he asks.
“Is it noisy?” I ask.
“No. I don’t hear a lot of horns and cussing. Did you skip town?”
This time I laugh. “I’m at the farmer’s market,” I tell him.
“Finding anything good?” he asks, and I smile down at my nearly full bag.
“Only if you like berry crumble bars,” I say.
“Sounds fattening,” he says.
“Deliciously so,” I say back. This isn’t our usual back and forth. There’s less tone. But it’s invigorating as usual.
“Sounds like a good after dinner dessert,” he says. “And speaking of that. How about dinner tonight?”
“You want to go to dinner?” I ask skeptically.
“I was thinking Italian. Alessi’s. It’s got the best bruschetta in all of NYC if you haven’t been.”
“I have been. And the bruschetta is pretty amazing.”
“So that’s a yes, then?” he asks.
“That’s a maybe,” I say, and twenty bucks says his smirk just faltered a notch. “Why?”
“Why what?” he asks.
“Why do you want to go on a date?” I ask.
“I never asked you on a date. I asked if you wanted to have dinner,” he states.
“Are you picking me up?”
“Probably. Parking down there is a bitch. You know that,”
“Are you paying?” I ask.
“What part of your life am I not financially supporting right now?” he asks, and I scoff.
“I can say no, you know,”
“I know, I know. I’m kidding. Yes, I’m paying. I asked you out. It’s only custom that I pay,” he says.
“But not on a date,” I reiterate.
“Not on a date,” he states. “It’s a business dinner. We need to talk through the wedding details. Nothing more.”
I pause for a moment. For dramatic flair.
“I guess I could let you take me out,” I say. “If it’s what you really want.”
“You’re so considerate,” he says.
“I know,” I smile and hung up. And for some reason, I keep smiling.
* * *
“I forgot how good this is,” I say, covering my mouth while I chew. “Bruschetta is probably my favorite thing on an Italian menu. Well second favorite,” I admit.
“What’s your first?” he asks.
“Not telling,” I shake my head.
“Why not?” he asks, taking a bite. “It’s not like I’m not going to find out as soon as you order it.”
“It’s not on the menu,” I say, and his brow furrows.
“One of the ritziest Italian restaurants in NYC, and you’re telling me that your favorite thing isn’t on the menu. Have you even looked?” Reid asks.
“Nope,” I answer, taking another bite. “I don’t need to. It’s a given.”
“You are insufferable,” he says, and I just smile.
“I said I like the bruschetta,” I offer.
“Second best,” he mutters, and I laugh. “So, are you going to tell me what this mystery Italian dish is that somehow tops a Michelin-star restaurant?” he asks.
“Nah,” I shake my head, reaching for my wine. “But maybe I’ll show you sometime. If you’re lucky…”
Reid smiles, shaking his head. And after we order our entrees (chicken carbonara for him and lemon-grilled shrimp with angel hair pasta for me), Ried leans in. “Alright. Pop quiz time,” he says.
“Let’s do it,” I say. Even though I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“How many weddings are we going to? Total?” he asks.
“Four. Including the one we already went to, which technically doesn’t count because I would have been at that one either way.”
“Who’s wedding is next?” he asks. And I do know this. He actually texted me a screenshot of each wedding invite shortly after we made our agreement.
“AJ,” I answer promptly. “AKA Andrew John and his lovely bride Andrea, which is kind of funny. It’s why they go by Andie and AJ.”
“How did you know that?” he asks.
“Social media. There was an Insta handle on the invite that links to the registry. Obviously,” I sass.
“Touche,” he nods. But he’s not smirking. He’s got his courtroom face on, which honestly, isn’t a bad look. Cocky Reid is attractive. Professional, prosecuting Reid is…kinda hot.
“The wedding is this coming weekend at Kingsley Hall. Modern minimalist. Black and white. And they expect everyone to know the Cupid Shuffle. It will be on her Instagram account and she has blue checkmark status, so we are to make sure we don’t fuck it up. Respectfully, of course.”
“Jesus,” Reid mutters, scrolling through his phone.
“What’s the matter? Did the romantic out-research the divorce attorney?” I ask with a raised brow.
“These things are such a headache for me; I usually black out the Bridezilla details,” he says.
“Well, you better not black out the steps to the Cupid Shuffle or there’s going to be hell to pay,” I kid, but honestly, this Andrea chick fits the mold of demanding bride.
“Second wedding is Nick and Ophelia. Great name, by the way. It’s outdoors at Willowcrest Manor. Boho theme, which I adore,”
“I’m sure you do,” he jabs, and I dodge it.
He can’t ruin this for me. “The couple has asked two very specific requests of their guests: no shoes at any time during the ceremony or the reception. And no gifts. They simply want everyone to write on a piece of provided parchment paper their advice for lasting love,” I swoon and Reid swallows hard (bile no doubt). He washed it down with wine.
“Next,” he sighs.
“Why does it feel like you’re just hearing all of these details for the first time?” I muse.
“Look, I speed-read wedding invites. Couple. Time. Date. Venue. Done.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you have me as your date,” I say, slowly turning my wine glass in circles on the table. “Or you might embarrass yourself.”
Reid sneers, and I smile.
“Oh, and their menu is strictly vegan so we have to RSVP with whether we want the butternut squash ravioli or the artichoke and white bean galette,” I add on just to make him cringe again.
“I forgot Nick is marrying a forest sprite,” he mutters, and I laugh. “He’s grown his hair out since meeting her, too. He has a man bun.”
“I think it sounds fun.”
“Question,” he says. “How do you remember all of this? You’re not even looking at your phone,” he says.
“I don’t know,” I smile whimsically. “It’s like, I read the invites and I can see it all come to life in elaborate detail, and my brain just takes a photograph of it and adds it to a gallery of weddings in the catacombs of my mind.”
Reid frowns. “I think you should get that checked.”
I move on. “And last but certainly not least is Drew. Short for Andrew as well.”
“That’s why we have the nicknames,” he points out.
“Drew is marrying Cassidy. It will be at the White Rose Ballroom. Colors are lavender and salmon, which should be interesting, though better than watermelon pink.”
“I don’t know about that.” Reid snorts.
“Theme is very Victorian Romantic, so think Bridgerton.”
“Think who?” he asks, and I blink.
“Bridgerton?” I echo, and his only response is a short head shake. “Oh my god. No wonder you’re so cynical. It’s only the most gorgeous TV series since Outlander.”
“That’s the one with the Scottish dude, right?” he asks.
I groan. “Okay, you need to watch at least one episode of Bridgerton if this is going to work,” I tell him. “Anyways. The colors make sense considering the theme. They already live together, so they don’t want gifts; they’re asking for honeymoon money instead.”
“Drew makes decent money,” I say.
“And a wedding at the White Rose is going to run them about fifty-k,” I point out.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes out, wiping his face with his hands before amping up again. “You know, this is a perfect example of why–”
But I cut him off. “No, no. We aren’t talking about that right now.
We’re talking about weddings. Weddings you are obligated to go to.
If you’re going to follow through with our agreement, of course,” I say as I reach for my glass.
But before I can take a sip, he leans in over our small round table and kisses me.
“What was that?” I ask, clearly flustered.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just following the rules.”
“I’m pretty sure I said we can kiss at weddings,” I say, reaching for my glass of wine and wondering if my cheeks are the same color as the merlot.
“Another detail that must have slipped my mind,” he says and I can’t figure out if he’s just fucking with me or trying to keep me on my toes. Either way, unfortunately, it seems to be working.
Asshole.