Page 79 of The False Flat

“It’s our seasonal special, cinnamon sage,” a gray-headed woman told us.

Grant glanced at me, smiled, then said, “We’ll take one of those too.”

“I thought we were sharing.”

“We’ll share both.”

The tea lady handed us each a cup and wished us a good day.

Grant put two straws in the clear, plastic drink cup filled with the lavender tea. I’d assumed we’d take turns sipping, but Grant shook his head, insisting that we drink at the same time. “But don’t close your eyes. You’ll be tempted to because it’s so good.”

The cool, sweet liquid hit my tongue, and he was right: my initial reaction was to close my eyes, but, as instructed, I kept them open, locking gazes with him as we both took a drink, groaning at the same time. An electric sensation shot through my body as a silent, almost-too-intense conversation passed between our eyes.

When we pulled back from the cup, I took a deep breath. “Grant, I was wrong. The farmers market is sexy.”

His look went from intense to pleased. “Good thing we’ve only just begun.”

From there, we went to a fish place, where Grant purchased wild Alaskan salmon for our dinner, and then to a stand where fresh, colorful vegetables spilled out from wooden baskets that were turned on their sides.

“Ooh, dip.” But then I looked at the label. Kale pesto. “No thanks.”

“Well, I’m trying it.” He popped one of the sample-size, kale-covered bread squares into his mouth. “You’re missing out.” He lifted another to my lips, and I hesitated, looking around to see if anyone was watching, because I didn’t want to draw “cute couple” attention. “It’s just the two of us,” he whispered.

It so wasn’t just the two of us. But everyone else seemed preoccupied. I reluctantly opened my mouth and snapped the bread from his fingertips, like a wild dog who hadn’t eaten in a few days.

“Ow, I think you bit me,” Grant said.

“Well . . . we’re in public!”

“Okay, let’s back it up a notch. It’s clear you’re not ready for that level of intimacy.”

I squinted at him. “I just . . . I don’t want to be one of those couples.”

“That like each other?”

“Grant!”

“I’m kidding. I knew it was a stretch. I was just thinking it could be hot, if you licked something off my finger.” He winked at me.

I stared back, my eyes dropping to his lips, partially hidden by his mustache. “Maybe later, in the car,” I said and then started walking toward a table piled with homemade sourdough.

His low chuckle caressed the side of my face as we walked to the bread, where the scent was intoxicating. We bought two loaves and a pan of sourdough cinnamon rolls from a woman who knew Grant by name.

Next we visited a candle booth, FLORA + MOON, which sold handcrafted, small-batch candles in little glass jars. I was planning to pass it by, but Grant suggested we pick one and have dinner by candlelight.

“Close your eyes,” he said, lifting one of the jars and covering its label.

I studied him through my eyelashes, my skepticism making him and the woman behind the stand laugh. “This isn’t going to be like the kale dip incident, is it?”

“Oh, this sounds like a good story,” the woman said.

I shook my head. “Trust me, it isn’t.”

He smirked. “Just close your eyes and guess what scent this is.”

I obeyed because this sounded much more fun than him feeding me in public.

I inhaled when he told me he was ready, and my nostrils delighted in a tantalizing mix of warm vanilla, pumpkin, and spices. “Are you sure this is a candle? Is it pumpkin pie?”