Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
We hunt through the stands, stopping first at the eggplants—because how can you not make an eggplant joke at a farmers’ market, and these purple veggies are big. But at the next stand, she finds a kohlrabi, a pale green bulb thing with leaves that look like they could commit murder. “Those leaves want to kill me,” I say to the camera.
“Don’t cross them, Carter,” she says.
Next, we find a neon green vegetable that looks like cauliflower. But also broccoli. I hold it up while she shoots. “Now, let’s be honest—is this broccoli’s cousin or cauliflower’s?”
“Or maybe it’s related to a sea urchin,” she says, then tells me it’s Romanesco broccoli. “And it tastes good.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say.
“Or you could let me cook it for you. Since that’s another great thing about farmers’ markets. They can be the starting point of a two-part date. Shop and eat,” she says, on a hopeful note.
But with a hint of innuendo too.
Which means it’s time to turn off the camera. “I do want to eat,” I say in a low voice, letting her connect the dots. That shouldn’t be hard to do.
Her lips part, and a greedy breath seems to ghost across them. Ah hell, I’m desperate to kiss her in public, too, but Date Night would have a field day if I did that. They’d say we’re a thing, and then people would get excited, like they did about Quinn and me, and then I’d have to say we’re not together.
Not for real.
Just for lessons.
And fuck that.
I don’t want to explain what we’re doing to anyone. It’s private, and I want the rest of this night to be private too.
Starting now.
“Want to get out of here?” I ask quietly, but a voice interrupts my thoughts.
A booming voice from a few feet away. “Dude. That loss sucked last night.”
I groan, but then slap on a smile. It was inevitable that we’d run into a fan.
I turn around. “Hey, man,” I say to a guy wearing a Renegades sweatshirt. Don’t know him but the sympathetic look on his face tells me he’s a hardcore fan.
“Good game, Hendrix. But that was a tough loss. Why did Cafferty overthrow?”
Immediately, I shake my head. I won’t let my QB take the blame. “My fault, not his. I should have been farther downfield.”
We talk about the game for another minute, but when the guy leaves with a next time you’ll win, my mood is right back on the game where I don’t want it at all. Since that also means it’s back on what I’m not telling Rachel.
Like I was with Cafferty, I’m quiet as we stop at a few more stalls. Rachel tries to make small talk, but I mostly grunt till she pulls me to a quiet corner, away from the market, out by the dock. “Hey, it’s girlfriend lessons time,” she says.
I blink, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I think you’re the one covering something up,” she says, gently. “And maybe as part of these girlfriend lessons, you could tell me what it is and see if I can help. Because I think I know what it is.”
I gulp, this close to busted. “Yeah?”
“You’re still bummed about the game,” she says, reading me perfectly, just like Cafferty did. Maybe I don’t have a good poker face.
I wince, feeling stupid. Feeling like a fucking rookie. “It’s nothing,” I mutter.
She sets a hand on my arm in a reassuring touch. “It’s your job. It’s your passion. It’s your love. It’s okay if you’re frustrated about the loss. It was a tough one.”
My jaw tics. It was. And I should not be worked up about it a day later. “It’s fine.”
“Carter,” she says, in a tone that makes it clear she doesn’t buy my denial. “I get it if you don’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want to make you talk. I’m just saying I understand bad days. Mine are different than yours. I don’t have people watching me on TV, but I’ve had them at work and you’ve helped me through mine.”
Ah, hell. She’s right. She opened up to me. I’m shutting her down, and I know why.
I sigh then serve up a slice of vulnerability. “I want you to see what it’s like to have an awesome boyfriend, not someone who’s in a funk over a loss,” I admit.
She presses her lips together and her eyes shine. Shit. I’m making her cry again.
“Rachel, I didn’t want to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” she says, a little wobbly, but she’s also smiling? What the hell is going on?
“You’re not upset?”
She shakes her head, adamant. “I’m happy you’re telling me the truth. I want to know. I like it when you’re open with me.”
I should have let her in. I shouldn’t have tried to be Mister Happy all the time. I should have told her the truth, even if it’s boyfriend territory. “Sometimes I get moody when we lose,” I admit, then shrug, a little helplessly, a little vulnerable.