My eyes fly back to the front window, which is painted with cartoon fruit and blenders wearing sunglasses. And a sign overhead says “Fruitful Union Smoothies.”
“I love smoothies,” I say quietly, almost like a confession. “How did you know?”
He shrugs and gives my hand one last squeeze. “It felt right,” he says, but I see a tinge of pink on his cheek, just above his beard.
I kiss it.
“How many cheek kisses are we allotted a day again?” he asks right after I back up. He doesn’t sound as teasing as I think he wants to.
I grab my crossbody and beam at him. “Unlimited.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SEAN
Ihold open the door for Kayla, and a bell overhead jingles, sharp and cheery. Inside, the smoothie shop is a burst of summer—light wood floors, pastel walls, barstools painted like watermelons, a blender whirring behind the counter. A mom and her two kids are drinking smoothies across from a guy in joggers reading on his phone.
Kayla walks in like she’s discovered her happy place. I’d say she bounces to the counter, but her movements are far too graceful for bouncing. She doesn’t glide, either.
It’s almost like she dances.
As Kayla studies the menu, I let myself study her. It’s not weird. We’re married, after all. People will expect this.
Although, surprisingly, I don’t recognize anyone here. I don’t get smoothies often, but I usually run into someone—a teammate, a high school acquaintance, someone’s grandmother.
It’s the best of both worlds. I’ll get to talk to her without a constant flow of interruption, yet, we still have to keep up appearances, which will mean flirting. Touching.
Maybe a kiss.
Just remembering the feel of her lips fills me with heat. I put my hand on her lower back, resting it on the high waistband of her leggings beneath her crop top. I run my thumb back and forth over the waistband, almost like it’s some guide—“touch here”—to help me know how to stay appropriate.
Which is helpful.
Because if this were real, “appropriate” would lose all meaning.
I don’t know how I’d be able to keep my hands off her.
If this were real.
But it’s not, and we have rules, and this is well within those.
And I still have that kiss …
“What do you normally get?” she asks, her eyes on the letter board menu behind the register, its slats filled with names that think they’re clever but aren’t.
“Peanut Butter Banana.”
“Which Peanut Butter Banana?”
“The bottom one.”
She pauses, scanning. “Oh, you mean ‘Hunk O’ Chunky Monkey Love’?” she teases, brushing her fingers along the collar of my T-shirt like she’s idly straightening it.
“No, that’s what they mean. I mean peanut butter banana,” I say.
She laughs and scrunches her nose. “What should I get? What should I get?” she repeats, like she’s talking to herself. “Everything looks so good!”
“You seem like a Green Goals kind of girl. Pineapple, spinach, kale, lime, mint, coconut water, and vanilla protein powder.”
