9
We walk down Main Street toward Kelly’s Bar, and I’m quietly thrilled by Joel’s small, protective gestures.
The way he casually positions himself so he walks on the side nearest to the road.
When we pass a rowdy group of guys gathered on the sidewalk, he puts his body between me and them, shifting so that he stays close to me.
The bar is busy but not overly packed. As we weave our way through the Saturday night crowd, I spot a few people I know.
I give them a small nod of acknowledgment while ignoring the widening of their eyes when they realize who I’m with.
Almost every table is taken, but Joel manages to secure us a high-top in a quieter section.
I keep sneaking glances at his profile. The strong jaw and angular lines of his face compete with the soft, sensual curve of his mouth. The man is gorgeous. There really is no other word to describe him. And as my mom likes to remind me, the beautiful ones tend to carry their own kind of trouble.
When the server stops at our table, I order a glass of wine and Joel orders a nonalcoholic beer.
“You don’t drink?” I ask once she leaves.
“No.”
That’s it. No elaboration or explanation. I envy the kind of confidence it takes to let a simple answer stand on its own. I’d be tripping over myself with explanations, justifying my choice even when no one’s asking me to.
“You know what,” I say quickly, “I think I’ll change my order.”
Joel frowns. “Why?”
“I’m in the mood for a mocktail.”
I make a move to stand, but Joel stops me with a light touch on my arm. “What are you doing?”
I drop my eyes. “If you’re not drinking, then it doesn’t feel right that I do.”
“Don’t change your order because of me,” he tells me in a low voice.
“It’s okay. I love mocktails.”
“Yet you ordered wine.”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “I’m making it more complicated than it needs to be, aren’t I?”
“You don’t have to change what you want for someone else.”
“I get that, but I don’t want to be insensitive.”
“I promise you I’m not going to fall apart just because you’ve ordered a glass of wine.”
I meet his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he says quietly.
“Okay, then.”
I’m burning with curiosity. I want to ask why he doesn’t drink, but asking feels intrusive. The night already feels strange enough without adding rudeness to the mix, so I keep quiet and the silence swells.
“I was a waitress once,” I say to break the quiet. “I lasted three whole days. I was so terrible at it they let me go. I suppose fired would be the correct term.” I stop talking and fiddle with the delicate silver chain around my neck. “I’m sorry, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.”
His body goes rigid. “You’re nervous?”
“I am.” I swallow. “Very nervous, actually.”
“You’re nervous around me ?” Something passes over his face. I can’t be sure, but I swear it’s almost a look of horror.
“No, not you,” I reassure him. And it’s true. Joel Adams is intimidating, but he doesn’t evoke any fear in me. “I’m nervous because it’s a date. A fake one,” I amend hastily, “but it still feels a little real.”
His expression softens. “Why would going on a date make you nervous?”
“I don’t know,” I hedge.
“You might as well tell me since we’re already past first base.”
“Joel!”
“Kenzie,” he mimics.
I sigh in defeat. “I don’t know. I guess when I’m on a date I want to make a good impression.”
Joel’s quiet for a beat, then he waves a dismissive hand. “You’re in luck then.”
“I am?”
“Yup. If that’s all you’re concerned about, you don’t have to worry because you’ve already made a terrible first impression.”
I burst out laughing. “Let me guess. The storeroom?”
“The storeroom,” he confirms.
I tap my finger to my lip. “So I can’t go lower?”
He shakes his head. “You’re rock bottom on first impressions. The only way you can go from here is up.”
I see right through what he’s doing, and a rush of warmth moves through me. I give him a small smile, a silent thank you for trying to put me at ease. He smiles back, and it transforms his face, stealing the breath right out of my lungs.
Our drinks arrive.
“Kate mentioned something about a shoot going completely sideways last week,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “But she had to run before she could elaborate. Something about flying fruit?”
Joel nods. “That would be our Floating Fruit Disaster.”
“Please tell me that’s its official title.”
“Kate probably filed it that way. At least, emotionally.”
“Okay, now I need to know everything.”
He takes a sip of his drink, then leans back in his chair. “We were doing a high-end shoot for a commercial spot. The client wanted fruit suspended mid-air, like it was floating.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Floating as in...?”
“As in not being held. Not dropped. Just hovering.”
“Right. Naturally. As fruit does.”
His lips twitch. “So Kate rigged this whole elaborate system using backdrop poles and transparent threads tensioned from the ceiling, each fruit spaced exactly right for depth and symmetry. It took hours. The lighting had to be controlled to avoid glare on the thread, and I knew I had to shoot at just the right angle.”
I’m leaning toward him, fascinated. “I bet most people have no idea of all the behind-the-scenes work that goes into a shoot.”
He looks pleased that I get it. “Food styling and food photography are more technical than people think, and this shoot was particularly complicated. I was seconds away from getting the shot when the client decided it looked too static. So without warning us, he turned on one of those big industrial fans.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. Strawberries, oranges, and cherries went flying. A banana took out a light. A couple of kiwi slices may or may not have slapped Kate square in the face.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back a horrified giggle. “No!”
“I had to intervene to prevent her from going for the client.”
Laughter spills out of me. The image is too vivid: Kate, eyes blazing, covered in fruit, seconds away from launching herself at a clueless client.
She’s never exactly been a people person, and her tolerance for anyone interfering with her work borders on nonexistent.
She told me once that’s why she likes working with Joel.
He’s focused and calm and doesn’t indulge in gossip.
The one person she trusts to match her intensity without making a mess of it.
Something tugs unexpectedly in my chest. It’s nothing big, just the way Joel talks about Kate, and the way she talks about him.
It’s easy and familiar. A partnership built on connection.
I know how important the relationship is between a photographer and a food stylist, how much trust it takes to create something that looks effortless but isn’t.
And I know there’s nothing between them, but their closeness brushes against something small and unsure inside me. Something I’m a little ashamed to admit even exists.
“You two make a good team,” I say quietly.
He nods. “There are only three food stylists I’ll work with, and Kate’s one of them.”
He continues to talk about his work, and I’m listening, but my gaze keeps straying to his hand holding his glass. I remember that same warm hand curled around the back of my neck, holding me still. My skin warms from the memory, and I shift in my seat.
His brow furrows. “Are you okay? Are you comfortable?”
Not with the direction of my thoughts, no .
I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you. It’s a comfortable chair.”
A corner of his lips twitches. “Were you expecting something uncomfortable?”
After a pause, I say honestly, “I’m not sure what I was expecting.”
He lifts his eyes from his drink, and we stare at each other.
We both know I’m not talking about chairs.
There’s chatter from the people around us and classic rock playing out of the speakers, but it barely registers.
The space between us feels alive with the memory of our kiss.
It’s the oddest feeling. For all intents and purposes, we’re complete strangers, yet we’ve shared an incredibly intimate moment.
His mouth has been on mine. I know the taste of him. The feel of him pressed against me.
It seems casual and fun whenever Joel makes a joke about our encounter in the storeroom, but when we’re wrapped in silence and staring at one another, the kiss takes on an importance neither of us is prepared for.
“So, why a greeting card illustrator?” he asks, pulling us away from the edge of the gulf and back into safer territory.
“I’ve always loved drawing,” I tell him. “I was the child who doodled in the margins of every worksheet. I went to art school thinking I’d end up in editorial illustration or children’s books, but I interned with this small greeting card company one summer, and it just clicked.”
A flicker of curiosity crosses his face. “What was it that clicked for you?”
“I think it’s the variety,” I tell him. “No two cards are the same. One day I’m sketching a cat in a birthday hat, the next it’s a bouquet of flowers or a snowy cabin. It keeps things interesting.”
He’s still looking contemplatively at me, as if he senses there’s more to the story. And there is. But I feel suddenly hesitant to share it with him. Do I really want to peel back a layer of myself on what’s supposed to be a light, easy date?
No, I don’t.
Instead, I say, “I also get to work with my two best friends. We run our own studio. It’s creative and chaotic, but it’s ours.”
The server arrives to ask if we want to order any food. We both shake our heads no.
“How long have you lived in Brown Oaks?” I ask.
“Almost three years. What about you?”
“All my life.”
A myriad of emotions I can’t read passes over his face. “I can’t imagine living in one place for so long.”
“It’s all I know,” I say with a shrug. “Where did you live before coming here?”
“All over the place,” he says vaguely. “A lot of cities.”
I tilt my head. “So this is your first time living in a small town?”
“Yup.”