The chairs are butcher block…well, blocks.
The tables are steel.
“It’s not terribly inviting decor,” I remark as we walk away from the counter.
“It’s possible this place is too hip for me,” he says, grabbing a table.
I try to get comfortable on the exceptionally uncomfortable chair. “I almost feel like this place is trying too hard.”
He frowns as he sits. “It’s official. This is the worst chair ever.”
“It’s not even a chair,” I second. “It’s a pain-delivery mechanism.”
He chuckles, then his eyes flicker. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Want to get our grub to go and eat there? It haspicnic tables,” he says like he’s dangling gumdrops in front of Hansel and Gretel.
“Yes, please,” I answer before it hits me that a picnic in the park is the very definition of romantic.
That’s what I’m trying to avoid with Harlan.
Dammit.
But then, a picnic is only romantic if I let it be romantic.
And I won’t.
C’mon, chia seeds. Lodge between my teeth.
After we grab our order to go, we head up the street, and I focus on non-romantic, non-flirty topics. “I’ll have to give Emerson a hard time about Harvest Haven’s get-the-hell-out-of-here vibe. She was raving about it on her show the other week, and she told me I had to check it out. I try to support her as much as I can.”
He tilts his head, his gaze curious. “What’s her show?”
I tell him the name of Emerson’s bona fide online hit. “She’s a vegetarian, and several years ago she started reviewing the places where she ate. At first, it was just for fun. She was having a good time, giving reviews like,No, this vegan meat doesn’t taste like chicken, and I don’t want it to taste like chicken. It tastes like yummy grainy goodness dancing on my tongue. Then her videos took off because she’s so accessible and real and people love it.”
“Good for her. Sounds like she loves what she’s doing,” he says as we reach the top of the hill.
“She says that’s the key to a happy life. Doing what you love.” We cross the street into a tiny park ringed by trees and tall hedges. It’s a hideaway here, an escape from the rest of the city. Birds chirp, a light breeze blows, and the sun—rare in November—warms my shoulders.
“That seems like a pretty good gauge of happiness,” he says as we find a picnic table and settle in. “Sounds like you agree?”
Briefly, I let the last few years run through my mind, from the highs of building a business with my sister to the low of being left at the altar and betrayed by my mother. I focus on the joys andthe pain, but ultimately, the triumphs. Olive and I love Sassy Yoga fiercely, and it feels likeours, not only because it is, but because we truly love what we do.
“I do. I worked in fashion before, doing retail buying. And while I love the fashion line we built at Sassy Yoga, I adore sharing something that’s helped me with many others.”
“You do seem pretty intent on helping. I’ve noticed that when you’re with the team. With me, too, but especially the team. You take time to make sure everyone gets it, knows what they’re doing. To add a compliment or a quip. You make it fun,” he says with a smile as he unwraps his sandwich. “You’ve always been a yoga person?”
“No. Not at all. I was very much an eye-roller back in the day.”
Harlan tosses his head back, laughing. “Love that term. That’s perfect.”
“Because so many people are, right? Basically, the world breaks down according to those who love yoga, and those who go full Robert-Downey-Jr.-eye-rolling GIF at the practice.”
He bites into his sandwich, nodding as he chews. When he’s done, he says, “That’s spot on. So, you were a Robert Downey Jr.?”
“Absolutely.” I pop open the lid to the salad, then grab a fork.
“What changed for you?” he asks, eyes intent on mine. Harlan is a fantastic listener, I’m learning. He stays on topic; he asks questions. It’s refreshing.
“My friends and my sister,” I say after I take a bite. “I was resistant to it, but Skyler and Olive—my sister—had started going way back when.” I flap a hand over my shoulder toward the ancient history of my life.
