Page 78 of The False Flat

“The sexiest place on earth, apparently.” Then I reddened. I didn’t know my neighbor well enough for such sarcasm.

“The farmers market,” Grant explained, his lips curling the way they did when I amused him.

Devina clasped her hands together. “Oh, I love the farmers market. Haven’t been in years, though.”

“Would you like to come?” Grant asked, and I instantly deflated. I liked Devina. We’d talked about her antiques collection when I’d returned her pitcher, and it was a pleasant conversation, but I could only imagine the farmers market becoming less sexy if she joined us. And I already didn’t have high hopes.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But take some pictures of those heirloom pumpkins for me. Always wanted to decorate my porch with them. Nothing prettier than those and chrysanthemums for fall decor.”

“Definitely,” Grant said as he hopped into the driver’s seat of his Jeep and immediately started the engine. He was serious about getting there early.

“You two have fun,” Devina called as I hustled to the passenger seat before he left me.

“So what makes the farmers market so sexy?” I asked, pulling my seat belt on and feeling like we’d said the word “sexy” far too many times. “Shirtless farmers on tractors?”

“Let’s hope not. And you’ll see.”

We pulled into the Franklin Farmers Market at 7:58 a.m., two minutes before it opened. It was a massive congregation of food trucks, tents, and tables behind a series of large buildings that apparently housed more goods. People were already swarming around like bees.

I reached over the car’s console and grabbed Grant’s arm as he was trying to exit. “You didn’t tell me there would be this many people.”

“What are you talking about?” He looked into the rearview mirror at the market, illuminated by the morning sun behind us. “This is a light crowd.”

“Maybe we were hasty in starting a relationship,” I said, meeting him at the back of his vehicle. “We are definitely not on the same page. Have you even met me?”

“Too late. You should’ve thought of that before you kissed me.” He slid his arm around my waist, gave me a quick kiss that made my stomach fizz with delight, and led me forward. “It’ll be crowded, but I picked this place because one, I love it here, and two, I do know you, and no one will be paying attention to you or asking you personal information. We’ll blend in and have fun. Plus, I think you’ll change your mind when I show you where we’re eating breakfast.”

The fizz from the kiss turned into full-blown carbonation. He did understand me. I hadn’t told him about my numbers thing. But he knew it wasn’t people in general that made me uncomfortable, but rather nonbusiness interactions.

“Please don’t tell me it’s one of those health smoothie trucks,” I said as we approached a truck with colorful drawings of leafy greens and beets on the side of it. Grant drank kale smoothies with alarming regularity.

“It is a truck, but no smoothies.” He pulled me by the hand through the thick crowd, stopping in a line so long that I wasn’t sure where it led.

I narrowed my eyes. “Well, you’re in charge. I have no idea how to navigate this circus.”

He squeezed my side and pointed toward a white-and-red sign that read ELLIE’S OLD FASHIONED DOUGHNUTS.

“I take it all back,” I announced, licking my fingers at one of the gray picnic tables on a raised platform in the center of the market. “This doughnut is worth being trampled for.”

He laughed and bit into cinnamon sugar–covered dough. “I knew you’d like it. Okay, here’s the plan. We’re only eating what we buy here today. You’ll get everything for lunch. I’ll get everything for dinner.”

I froze, the last bite of my strawberry doughnut halfway to my mouth. “You want me to cook?”

“Absolutely not. I said you pick out what looks good. We’ll cook together.”

“Smart man.” I shoved the last bit of doughnut into my mouth—way larger than a bite—and dusted my hands off. “Okay, I’m in. Where do we start?”

“That stand right over there.” He pointed. “Do you see the glass drink containers? We’re going to share a lavender hibiscus basil tea.”

As we maneuvered through the crowd, I tucked into him. “Do you buy your cologne here? Because this place smells like you.”

“I don’t wear cologne. Oh, the pumpkins Devina was talking about.” He pointed to a large tent that had stacks of multicolored pumpkins—a mix of greens, whites, and oranges—arranged in front of flowers. A flatbed truck parked nearby had hundreds of similar pumpkins in the back.

“We need to remember to get Devina a picture.”

“Absolutely. We’ll pass right by there on the way out.”

We’d inched to the front of the line at the tea place, and Grant paused our conversation to order. “One lavender tea, and I haven’t seen this one before.” He pointed to the middle container.