Reed gestures across me. “It’s your friends.”
The booth he indicates is hung with brightly painted prints of raccoons up to ridiculous shenanigans. I laugh at one on a bike, his legs splayed out like he’s coasting. “These are perfect.”
I smell the next booth before I see it and lead him in a wide arc around it. “Ugh. Not today, Satan.”
He looks over at the table covered in jars of pickles. I assume they have a bunch of varieties, too, maybe even different vegetables they’ve tainted with their pickling, but I don’t look closely enough to see what they offer. They’re handing out samples, the stench of vinegar and dill covering the area like a chemical spill.
“Not a fan of pickles?” he asks.
I shake my head, rushing us out of the vicinity. “You know those giant dill pickles they sell individually? I got sick after eating one when I was little. Unrelated—probably. But I haven’t been able to stomach them since.”
“Sounds rough. Maybe you need something sweet to?—”
“What have we here?” a woman’s voice says.
We stop face to face with Nora and Fran as people stream around us between the market stalls. They’re both beaming, even if the gleam in Fran’s eyes holds more excitement than seems appropriate. Their gazes travel from our faces to our hands locked between us and back on a loop.
“How fun to run into you.” Nora’s got a market bag slung over one shoulder, weighed down with goodies. They both have a sheen of sweat on their foreheads, but their chipper attitudes don’t seem to be flagging in the bright sun.
“We’re having fun looking at the crafts,” I tell her. “It’s a gorgeous day. Hotter than we expected, too.”
Fran’s holding a big bouquet of flowers in one hand and fans herself with a folded piece of paper in the other. “Oh, yes. It’s certainlyhotter than expectedout here.”
Good gracious, these women are something else. They wouldhave burst from joy if they’d caught Reed and me at the honey booth.
Nora purses her lips at her friend before shooting smiles our way. “Your mother tells us everything’s progressing well.”
I hate to think what she could possibly mean by that. Mom’s called me every other day this week, but surely she hasn’t informed her friends of her high hopes for Reed and me.
As soon as the thought forms, it pops like a balloon animal twisted too tightly. Of course she’s told them. They wouldn’t be looking at me with quite so much glee if they were just going off of their own imaginations.
“You look so good together,” Fran says. “You should come to our book club. Having another young couple there would set the mood nicely.”
“They can’t join us at the book club.” Nora widens her eyes, telegraphing a warning to Fran.
Fran must catch her drift. “Oh. That’s right. They can’t come to book club. We’ll just have to find something else.”
They nod, seemingly satisfied by their own compromise. Despite their cheerful show, each of them casts tiny, pitiful glances my way. I want to roll my eyes to the heavens. It’s beenyears, ladies.
“We won’t keep you.” Nora hefts her bag strap higher. “We just wanted to say hello.”
“Here.” Fran pulls a stem covered in tiny blue flowers from her bouquet and hands it to Reed. “For your sweetheart.”
They bustle past us with enthusiastic goodbyes, and we start walking again.
Reed slowly twirls the flower stem between his finger and thumb, its petals gently swaying. “What was that about? We can’t join their book club? Do they think I don’t like to read?”
“I’m sure it’s not that.” I nibble my lower lip, not loving where this conversation has to go. “It’s probably because Shepherd and Wren are already in their book club.”
As secret as those women used to keep their romance bookgroup, they sure talk about it openly now. I’m glad they’ve finally learned there’s nothing to be ashamed of in reading romance books. Although I suspect a good share of their pride is how they’ve taken credit for Shepherd and Wren’s relationship. They probably think it’s advertising to lure more single Sunshine residents to their group.
Reed goes gargoyle at my side, his eyebrows tugging down and his hand tightening on mine. “I take it you used to date Shepherd Callahan.”
“They acted like they thought I would combust on the spot if they mentioned him by name.” It’s not the first time my mom’s friends have treated me like broken glass when it comes to Shepherd. The first year afterward was one long parade of pitying looks.
“Did things end badly?” Reed asks low.
“No. Not at all.”
