Page 62 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

I chuckle. “I’m fine.”

“I’m serious. Right here, right now. Pretty sure no one would stop me.”

“Really, I’m good.”

He nods, then presses a chaste kiss to my forehead. My insides light up like a pinball machine, that brief touch sending me soaring.

“If you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know.”

“We’re keeping this,” Milo says, holding up the peach, flicking his wrist like he’s going to chuck it right back at his brother.

“That’ll be $3.50.”

Arching an eyebrow, Milo lands Anton with the definition of if looks could kill. Holy shit, I thought that was a Willa Hayes special. Apparently she learned it from Milo.

“Shoulda thought about that before you threw it at us.”

Sliding his arm around my waist, Milo tugs me into him, squeezing my side. Butterflies flutter across my chest, the pinball machine resetting for the next round, and I fight back the giggle rising in me like champagne. Instead, I opt to mimic his move, wrapping my arm around him, snuggling into him. The summer sun is already high in the sky, the heat and humidity taking no prisoners, but the pull I feel into Milo is too strong to let go.

Anton shrugs. “I tried.”

I take the peach from Milo, examining it. The soft pink flesh is the perfect shade, and already fragrant. We must be having a good season.

“This is a good-looking peach,” I say, slipping it into the cloth shopping bag I brought along.

Not skipping a beat, Anton winks, clicking his tongue and slapping his ass. “That’s what all the girls say.”

Walked right into that one…

“Pretty sure what they say is that you have a big peach,” Milo counters.

“No, that’s what they say about my cucumber.”

“I dunno,” I reply, stepping away from Milo and reaching for one of the veggies in the basket on the table. “This looks pretty stubby to me.”

I hold it up by the tip, rotating it, pursing my lips to the side, trying to show off how unimpressed I am. Anton scoffs, like he can’t believe I went there. Milo throws his head back laughing, and all of a sudden, I realize what shirt he’s wearing.

How I missed it earlier, I have no idea. The simple black tee looks like many of his others, with a colorful graphic printed on the front. This one is complete with a wooden crate full of veggies, a large eggplant and tomato prominently displayed, the words “Thirst Trap Farms Farmers’ Market—Large and Local” framing the image.

Only Milo.

“Dude, you gonna let your girl talk to me like that?” Anton asks.

“Absolutely,” Milo says in between laughter, pulling me into him again, stealing a quick kiss.

His girl…

I like that. Almost as much as I like the kiss. It might only have lasted three seconds, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he didn’t stop to think about it. He just did it. Like it was part of his everyday routine to kiss me like that in front of his brother. In public.

That’s something else I could get used to.

“Girth, not length, darlin’,” Anton defends, snatching the cucumber from me, highlighting the thickness of the phallic-looking vegetable, and no doubt drawing some looks from those around us.

“Your girth is ninety-six percent water. I’m not sure that’s helping your argument,” Milo snarks, and it takes everything in me not to lose it.

Standing here, listening to the two of them going back and forth, gives me the kind of warm fuzzies that Saturday mornings are supposed to have. The easygoing, lackadaisical, almost whimsical feeling that you daydream about.