Chapter 202
EMILIA
The vendor is beaming at him, probably because Liam is arguing over strawberries like it’s a playoff final. I lean against his arm, watching his hand gesture animatedly while he charms the poor woman into throwing in an extra pint “just because the missus looks like she deserves it.”
Missus. I don’t stand a chance.
By the time he’s finished, he’s swinging a paper bag full of strawberries in one hand, mine still trapped in the other.
“Do you flirt with every fruit seller, or just the ones with discounts?” I
mutter.
His grin is shameless. “Only the ones who give me extra because you smiled.”
I groan, dragging my free hand down my face. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm,” he hums, leaning close until his nose brushes my temple, voice dropping low so only I hear it. “And you love me anyway.”
I do. God help me, I do.
“And since when do you even know how to haggle?” I jab his arm. “You don’t look the type.”
“What
–
too polished? Too much of a rich city boy?”
“Yes, exactly that.”
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He smirks, then goes oddly thoughtful. “Well, I’m not that much of a stereotype. Honestly, I owe most of it to Julie. She had enough screws loose to give me a personality. And weird hobbies. Wedding crashing just to bet on what flavour the cake was. Farmer’s market haggling because she’d ‘accidentally‘ come up three dollars short. Even doxxing creeps who said predatory shit online. That was just a Tuesday night for her.”
A breathy laugh escapes me. “She’s so freaking cool.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that. It’ll go straight to her head and never come down,” he says with a careless grin. “She’d dream up the most insane plans, and I’d be too terrified to let her do them alone. So I tagged along. Truthfully? I don’t think I’ve had a single original life experience.”
“Not even fake dating a broke baker?”
His lips twitch. “That one was new.
“1
“You’re not even going to deny it? Not even a, ‘you’re not broke, Emilia, don’t be so dramatic‘?”
He squeezes my hand, eyes glinting. “What’s mine is yours, love.”
“Ass,” I mutter, though my chest feels unbearably warm.
“There’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he says, softer now. “Julie mellowed out eventually, but she passed the chaos on to our younger siblings. Guess who had to clean up every mess.”
“At least you’re good to your siblings.”
His thumb strokes over my knuckles. “I’m even better to you. Completely gone for you, actually. Because if you think I’d give up my one free afternoon this week to trail around a market with anyone other
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than Emilia Janice Carter-” he presses a kiss to my temple, gentle and certain, “you’re out of your mind.”
My cheeks hurt. The Liam effect, probably. Smiling so much around him I forget I’m even smiling. “Stop making yourself sound like some self–sacrificing saint.
”
“Whatever you say, love.”
We drift stall to stall, Liam tugging me into every one that catches his eye. Honey glistening in glass jars, samples of cheese sharp enough to sting my tongue, baskets of warm bread that smell like heaven itself. At each one, Liam insists I taste something, like he’s determined to catalogue every expression I make.
At the nut stall, he feeds me a sugared almond, eyes on my mouth like he’s storing away the exact second sweetness hits me. At the bakery, he breaks off a piece of still–steaming croissant and waits, smug, until I hum in approval.
“I’ll add it to the list,” he says every time.
!
I can finally not ignore it any longer when he says it this time. “What list?”
“The one I’m building in my head.”
Suspicion curls in my chest. “Of what?”
He kisses the corner of my mouth, like he’s answering a completely different question. “Your favourites.” I don’t know how to react to that, he doesn’t even let me.
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By the time we reach the flowers, my arms are full a loaf of bread tucked against my side, a jar of honey clutched in one hand, strawberries dangling off Liam’s arm like trophies.
He steers me towards the stall with ridiculous case, like he’d mapped out this detour hours ago. Buckets brim with colour, petals spilling everywhere, the air so thick with sweetness it clings to my skin. My chest squeezes just looking at them – blooms so bright and alive I almost ache. I wish the bakery had flowers like this. Maybe I should learn to keep a few pots alive; imagine starting the day by watering tulips instead of scrubbing flour off trays.
Liam blocks me from leaning in to scent one, a hand brushing the small of my back. “I know they’re pretty to look at, just don’t get too close.”
I frown at him. How else are you supposed to smell flowers if you don’t lean in? That’s the whole point. Women in movies always do it – head tilted, lips parted, like they’re starring in a perfume ad. I can’t for the life of me figure out why he cares. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s already spent so much I’d probably combust if he bought anything else. Still, his words sting, so I mask it with a joke, half–dejected: “Well, they don’t actually smell that good, anyway.”
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