Page 88 of Set to Love

He places it in my palm. I turn it over carefully, tracing one tiny tooth with my thumb. “I hope it doesn’t stab you every time you reach for your keys.”

“Only occasionally.” He slips it back into his pocket. “But it’s worth the risk.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I’ve carried it every day since. It’s become something of a good luck charm.”

He’s been carrying a little piece of Florida around with him all this time. Something warm unfurls in my chest.

“Let’s see what else we have here,” he starts, examining the other postcard, the slightly blurry image of me holding my tournament credential.

“Sorry in advance for the quality. Turns out printing a phone selfie onto a postcard doesn’t magically improve it.”

“I disagree,” he says. “It’s a Keller original.”

He flips it over and reads the inscription on the back to himself.

I hadn’t known what to write, so I’d settled on something simple:

I’m really glad you came.

He looks at the postcard for a long moment. His thumb brushes lightly over the edge before he slides both postcards back into the plastic sleeve with surprising care. “Katie . . .”

“Too cheesy?”

“Not even close.” He lifts his gaze to mine, his eyes sparkling with that familiar brand of amusement I hadn’t realized I’d missed quite this much. “For the record, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He slips them into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting it once. “These are staying with me.” Then he slings my tennis bag back over his shoulder. “Come on then.”

We walk slowly, leaving the glass and steel of the station behind. Max leads us down a series of winding side streets until we reach a pocket of the city that feels like it hasn’t changed in a century.

“Slight change of plans,” he says, steering me toward a cluster of ornate Victorian buildings and a massive dark-green iron entrance. “We’re taking a detour to Borough Market. I’d feel better if we got you some fuel first.”

“My hero,” I say as we cross the street. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m starving.”

Max chuckles.

Borough Market feels like a farmers’ market that got swept up in a tornado of tourists and incredible food. Giant wheels of cheddar cheese sit beside mountains of fresh fruit, while the sweet, yeasty aroma of fresh sourdough hangs in the air.

It’s crowded, but Max uses his free arm to create a little pocket of space for me, shielding me from the rush of hipsters and tourists. We stop at a bakery stall, where the line is moving at a frantic pace, and a minute later, he’s holding a brown paper bag that smells like caramelized heaven.

“I know this probably isn’t on your meal plan,” he teases, pulling out two pastries dusted in a thick layer of cinnamon sugar. “But if you’ve walked twenty-thousand steps, you’ve earned this.”

He hands me one, and it’s still warm. “You don’t see me complaining,” I say, taking a bite that practically melts on my tongue. I close my eyes for a second, savoring the sugar. “Dessert is my favorite meal. I’ll never say no to something that looks this delicious. A few bites won’t kill me. Did I tell you yesterday I discovered broken biscuits? Seriously, I think I ate the entire tin. Best. Discovery. Ever. Until maybe this.”

“I’ll remember you enjoy broken biscuits.” Max smiles, a soft, genuine one that reaches his eyes. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “You’re a girl after my own heart.”

My hand travels to the spot his lips just touched. There’s an electric tingle coursing through my body that has absolutely nothing to do with the sugar rush. I exhale deeply. Just like that, the two weeks of distance and my own lingering insecurities feel like they’re finally starting to dissolve.

“We aren’t done yet,” he says, his eyes sparkling with that specific brand of Max mischief as he leads me deeper into the labyrinth of stalls. “If we’re going to have a proper picnic, we need some proper food to go with the dessert. Do you want to help me pick out a couple of things? Or do you trust me to choose for us?” He pauses, studying me for a moment. “I can park you on a bench while I go grab everything.”

“I trust you,” I say. I keep my hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, partly for the support and partly because I’m not ready to let go of the physical contact. “But I’m coming with you. Besides, the sugar from these mini donut things is giving me my second wind.”

Max laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through my arm. “In that case, lead on. Pick out anything that catches your fancy. Don’t hold back. Lunch is my treat.”

We spend the next half hour weaving through the bustling market. Max chooses a small wedge of cheddar, two warm baguettes, and a container of lemon-herb roasted chicken breast. I pick a basket of fragrant oversized strawberries and a bag of roasted almonds dusted with sea salt.

But the real find comes when we pass another dessert stall with jewel-toned pastries. We look at one another and agree we need a second dessert to balance out all that fruit.

“Do we want the salted-caramel tart or the crème brûlée?” Max asks, already reaching for his wallet.