by Ellis, Aven
“Mmm, crumpets,” I say, visualizing one with butter and honey.
“Not as good as biscuits,” Brooks declares.
“Biscuits UK way, as in cookies, or American way?”
“I do have American blood in me, thank you, and I mean American ones,” Brooks says, grinning. “Have you ever eaten at Honest Biscuits? I’m sure you have, you’re a native.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t eat a lot of bread. It goes to my hips.”
Oh, great, Payton, I think. I’ve mentioned my large pores last night, now I’m talking about the impact of carbs on my hips?
Brooks lifts an eyebrow. “Your hips felt more than fine last night.”
Ohhhhhhhhh!
My face immediately grows hot. All right. No worries on my hips then.
“Come on, let’s shop, then we’ll grab a biscuit lunch,” Brooks says, his eyes dancing excitedly.
My heart warms from his expression. I see that the simple things, like getting his favorite biscuits, make Brooks happy. Which makes me happy, too.
We head back to one of my favorite produce stalls, which we earmarked on our first walk through the market.
“I love this,” I say, studying all the glorious farm produce surrounding us. “I can’t wait to cook tonight.”
Brooks grins at me. “So what are you making me?”
“Not beans.”
Brooks laughs loudly, and I join him.
“But what should we make tonight?” I ask, pausing to study a gorgeous display of local mushrooms.
“We? I thought you were making me dinner after that last comment,” Brooks says.
“I can if you want me to,” I say happily.
“We’ll cook together. But in the meantime, I’m going to pick up some veggies for Angus.”
“Why do I think Angus has a diet better than most humans?” I say, reaching into my bag and handing Brooks a folded up tote I threw in.
“Ah, a lady who is prepared,” he says, his eyes sparkling as he takes the canvas bag from me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And yes, I prepare for everything,” I declare.
Except for the way I’m falling for you.
Brooks reaches for spinach, rainbow carrots, and fennel, and tosses them all in the bag. I continue to take stock of all the produce available and try to think of something to cook.
“Does salmon sound good?” I ask.
“When does it not?” Brooks replies, smiling.
“Okay. We’ll get that last at the fish market, before we leave,” I say, nodding. “But what to have with it?”
“Wait, we could grill it,” he says, and I can see he’s thinking aloud. “And make fish tacos. Get some avocados, some cabbage, and cilantro. Hit it with some spices and lime. Serve in corn tortillas. Maybe make some margaritas. ”
Brooks shifts his gaze to me, and I grin at him.
“I love it, but you have to grill because I’m crap at grilling.”
“Crap or not perfect?” he counters.
“No, crap.”
“Does it rival your pancake making skill set?”
“You can shut up now,” I say, but I can’t repress the smile on my face. Oh, he’s so quick.
And so sexy.
“Can you mix a margarita?”
“Yes. And we’ll do a gourmet one, and I’ll shoot it for my blog. Since somehow, we still haven’t discussed rabbits. Apparently, you prefer kissing me to sharing your animal expertise.”
I shoot a side glance at Brooks as I retrieve my iPhone. He appears embarrassed and rubs his hand across the back of his neck.
“That’s a valid—and entirely true—point.”
I smile in response to knowing I distract him like this.
I turn my attention back to margaritas. I bring up Pinterest on my phone and type in a few key words, searching for a recipe to try.
“Oooh, how about blood orange margaritas? Citrus would be great with the fish,” I say, reading the ingredients. I turn my phone around and show it to Brooks. “What do you think?”
“That does sound good, let’s do it.”
So we go about getting everything we need for tonight, along with produce for Angus. Then we head over to Honest Biscuits, and as soon as Brooks opens the door for me, I smell warm biscuits inside the shop. It’s small, and I can see the kitchen from the counter. We go up to order, and I scan the menu. As I do, I feel Brooks’ hand affectionately go to the small of my back. My body tingles with happiness from that simple touch.
“I love the egg and cheese one,” he says, his hand gently skimming up and down my back.
And while I’m standing at this biscuit shop, I’m struck by how sweet and gentle this gesture is. Brooks wants to touch me, to show affection for me, even when doing something as simple as standing in line. I find myself touched by it.
And by Brooks.
“That sounds really good,” I manage to say. “With orange juice.”
Brooks goes ahead and places the order, and the counter person asks if we want our biscuits heated, which we do. Then we get our sandwiches and snag two seats at the counter in front of the window.
“I can’t wait to tuck into this,” Brooks says as he picks up his biscuit sandwich. “I’m starving.”
I nod. It’s lunchtime, and all of this walking has made me hungry, too. I reach for my biscuit, one filled with egg and cheese, and take a bite. Oh, wow. It’s crispy on the top, light and fluffy inside, the cheese is melty on the egg, and it’s delicious.
Brooks takes a sip of his coffee and studies me.
“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”
“It’s so good,” I declare happily.
“After this we can get our salmon and head back to my place,” he says, pausing to take another bite. “We can take a nap before dinner.”
Oh, nothing sounds better than cuddling up in his strong, muscular arms for a cozy afternoon nap. My thoughts drift off to that for a moment, and my heart leaps at the mere idea of it. Of feeling his body against mine. Inhaling the scent of his skin as he holds me close—
“I mean, unless you aren’t tired,” Brooks continues, snapping me from my daydream. “I figured you would be since we didn’t sleep much, but I don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know that’s not very interesting, and we’re supposed to be having an afternoon together, so I understand.”
I furrow my brow. Where is all this coming from?
“Brooks, a nap sounds wonderful,” I say. “And napping with you? Even better.”
A relieved expression passes over his face. “You mean that.”
“Of course I do, why are you worried about this?”
Brooks hesitates for a moment, shifting his gaze to the outside world through the window.
“I told you, Payton, I’m rubbish at women. I find myself second guessing what I’m doing all the time.”
My stomach tightens. I feel as if the ghost of Isla has risen up and taken ahold of Brooks once again.
And I also realize while I’m starting to fall for Brooks, he’s a long way from making this same connection with me.
All kinds of dating advice flashes through my brain. I shouldn’t be falling right now for him. It’s too soon. And what if he is incapable of developing feelings for me after what happened in his past? So I shouldn’t tell him what’s in my heart. I don’t want to come on too strong. I don’t want to scare him.
Stop!
I blink. For once I hear a different voice in my head, one that doesn’t warn me to stay inside the lines and strive for the perfect solution, the perfect response, the perfect answer.
But this voice, this new voice that has only appeared since the day Brooks entered my life, tells me something different.
Tell Brooks what you are feeling. Now.
This voice is terrifying. Absolutely, utterly terrifying to me. And surprising, as this isn’t how my brain normally works.
I gaze at Brooks as he stares out into the street, this gorgeous, sensitive,
wonderful man unlike any I have ever met, and I know this voice is right.
And it’s time to follow it.
CHAPTER 17
*Mental Note* Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.): In continued efforts to improve myself, I must learn to let go of some of my long-held ideals that might not be mentally or spiritually healthy for me.
***
I’m about to tell Brooks how I feel about him when he suddenly clears his throat.
“Enough about that,” he says firmly, and I know the door has been closed to my continuing the conversation. “There are two things we have to do before heading back.”
I hesitate for a moment, wishing I could continue that conversation, but decide if he’s shutting down on it, it’s probably best not to try and go back to it.
“All right,” I say, taking a sip of orange juice. “One is get salmon at the fish market.”
“Yes. Do you want to catch one?”
I laugh. “What? No! Ew! I don’t want a fish thrown at me!”
“Why? Are you afraid you won’t catch it?” Brooks asks, his eyes shining at me.
“Um, no, I don’t want to smell like salmon for the rest of the day!” I declare, laughing. “Gross.”
A huge smile lights up his face. “That’s a valid point. I don’t want to nap with a salmon.”
I grin and take another bite of my sandwich, and Brooks goes on.
“Of course, we could recreate it at my place. I could toss you one across the kitchen.”
“I’d still smell,” I say after swallowing. “Still a bad idea.”
“Damn, you aren’t letting me off on this one, are you? You know I’m not a native. I should experience this.”
“Then you catch it.”
“I’d rather watch you try and catch a fish. I want to see the expression on your face.”
“No. Now what is number two on the list?”
“You won’t give an inch, will you?”
“Nope.”
Brooks grins. “I do like that about you, as annoying as it is right now.”
I laugh, loving that I’m pushing his buttons like this.
“Two?” I prompt again.
“We have to stop at Rachel and put some money in the piggy bank.”
“Oh, my gosh, yes!” I cry in delight.
Rachel the Piggy Bank is the mascot of the market. She’s a bronze cast piggy bank, and is located under the famous Public Market clock and sign. People donate money into the bank, which supports social services in the market.
“As soon as I saw it on my first visit here, I knew I had found the right city to call home,” Brooks declares.
“Do you know the legend of rubbing her nose?”
Brooks furrows his brow. “No.”
“If you make a donation and rub the nose, you’ll have good luck,” I declare.
“Then we have to do it,” Brooks says, flashing me a smile.
I pause for a moment as another idea comes to my mind. Again, normally I wouldn’t do this. I’ve never done this. But my heart is tugging me down a path I’ve never followed before.
“I have a third item,” I say softly.
“Oh? Of course, what is it?” Brooks asks.
“I’d like to stop back at my apartment and grab an overnight bag,” I say, nerves filling me. “I’d like to sleepover tonight, too, if I can.”
Brooks stares at me. I feel nervous and queasy while I wait for his answer.
“You . . . want to sleep over again?”
Oh, shit. Shit! Maybe this is too much together time. Brooks might want his space. Am I being too forward to ask? Should I have let him ask? Did I blow everything by being too aggressive?
“I understand if you don’t want me to, I can leave after dinner,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth in an anxiety-driven rush.
“Well . . .” his voice trails off, and I think I’m going to be sick.
“Never mind. I’ve totally put you in an awkward position,” I say, rolling my napkin into a ball and shifting my attention to it instead of this painful conversation I’ve created.
“No, I was merely wondering if you would still wear one of my shirts to sleep in. I like that.”
I jerk my head up. “You want me to stay over?”
“Yes, I do,” he says softly, taking my hand in his. “But only if you wear one of my Seahawks T-shirts.”
Joy fills every bit of my heart. “I think that can be arranged.”
We finish up our sandwiches, and Brooks goes back to the counter to pick up two giant biscuit cinnamon rolls for breakfast tomorrow. Then we head back out to the market, and go to the Pike Place Fish Market, where tourists and natives alike are gathered around to watch the fishmongers work.
I smile as the fishmongers yell out orders, which are repeated back, and then watch as the fish goes flying into the air, straight into the arms of the employee waiting behind the counter to catch it and wrap it.
“I love this bit,” Brooks says as he watches a salmon go flying through the air.
“It never gets old,” I say, smiling. “I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl, and this was my favorite part of the market. It’s such a Seattle tradition.”
“It’s a brilliant one,” he agrees. “And so is the selection of fish.”
I take in the fresh fish on top of the mounds of ice. There are so many kinds! I see crabs. Clams. Huge lobster tails. There’s trout. Prawns. Black cod. Red snapper. Halibut cheeks. The types of fish and shellfish go on and on. The variety here is incredible.
Brooks leads me to the salmon, the huge fish piled on top of the ice.
“Yes,” Brooks says excitedly. “It’s Copper River Salmon season.”
“You aren’t going to buy a whole salmon, are you?” I ask, staring at the huge fish and knowing how much it will cost.
“Oh, come on, don’t you want to see them throw it?” Brooks asks.
I laugh. “I think you want to see them throw it!”
“Obviously. I have to watch them do it so I can throw this at you later.”
“You are not!”
“Oh, I am.”
“What if I refuse to catch it?”
“Then it will land on the floor.”
“Arrgh! You talk about me being impossible.”
Brooks laughs and draws me into him. “Perhaps you’ve met your impossible match.”
A tingle shoots down my spine as my cheek presses against his flannel shirt.
Perhaps I have met my match, I think happily.
Brooks orders the fish, and to the delight of everyone watching, the flying fish show goes to work. Our fish is selected, the order yelled to the counter, the order yelled back, and both Brooks and I record the whole scene with our iPhones, capturing our fish flying through the air.
“Ah, it’s our fish!” I say as it sails through the air and lands in the arms of the fishmonger behind the counter. Everyone cheers, and I turn to record Brooks, who is smiling in amusement from watching the experience.
My heart holds still. Brooks is finding joy in this Seattle tradition, just as I am. While I know he’s British, his soul belongs to Seattle, just as much as mine does.
He turns to me, interrupting my thoughts. “We need to get a selfie here.”
We turn around so we’re in front of the mound of fresh salmon, and Brooks easily gets the camera at the right angle to take a picture because his arms are so long.
“On three,” Brooks says. “One, two, three.”
He takes the picture, and we’re both smiling happily in the shot.
“Beautiful,” Brooks says, studying the picture.
I nod as I look down at the shot. I see how happy I am here, and how happy Brooks appears to be, too.
We look right together, I think happily.
No, my heart counters. We are right together.
After Brooks pays for our salmon, we head off to stop number two, which is Rachel the Piggy Bank. I fish out a couple of bills from my wal
let, but Brooks waves them away.
“No, your good luck is on me today,” he insists.
“Brooks, I’m a working woman. I can pay for my own luck.”
“You can pay for my good luck next time.”
Next time. I practically want to do a toe-touch jump of joy with those words.
“Okay,” I say, putting my singles back. “And thank you.”
Brooks hands me a five dollar bill. “We donate our money, then rub her nose for good luck.”
I nod. I put my money first, then Brooks follows suit. I rub Rachel’s bronze cast snout, and Brooks does the same.
“Now we’ll see what kind of luck we have,” Brooks says as we head out of the market.
“Yes,” I agree, holding my peony bouquet as we head toward his car.
And I only hope for one kind of luck from Rachel the Piggy Bank today.
To be lucky in love.
With this incredible man named Brooks.
***
Joyful.
That’s exactly how I feel right now.
Brooks is sleeping deeply, his massive arm wrapped around me as we lie on his sofa. He has me drawn in tight to his chest, and I can’t help but think I fit wonderfully right here.
Angus is curled down by our feet, sleeping away. I smile. If someone would have told me a week ago I’d be napping with a gorgeous British vet and ginger pig, I would have thought that person was from another planet.
But here I am.
I lightly trace my fingers over his golden arm. I see lots of scars on it, as there are no tattoos to hide them. I take a moment to study his skin. Hmmm. Some look like scratches, others bite marks. Hazards of the job, I muse.
I pause for a second. At least I hope so.
Because if he’s into kinky sex that involves stuff like that . . . well, I’m a tea drinker but that’s definitely not my cup of tea.
Brooks shifts beside me and groans softly. Then he removes his arm from me and softly strokes my hair.
“Are you up?” he whispers, kissing my cheek.
“Yes,” I say, smiling as I feel his lips against my skin.
“As you can see, I’m a terribly exciting date,” Brooks murmurs, kissing my temple. “Naps are high on my activity list.”