“I’m sure they won’t be too picky.”
I give him an amused smile. “I think you’ve forgotten who you work for. Even if they aren’t picky, isn’t it your job to find them the best of the best?”
He stares at me, and his eyes are as unreadable as they are when he’s wearing his sunglasses. I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate my telling him what his job is. Oh well.
“Fine,” he grumbles after a moment. “You lead the way.”
My pleasure. I get the driver to take us to the two big grocery stores, as well as the smaller all-organic one (picture Whole Foods, but somehow more expensive and smells like palo santo). After I convinced the driver that Liza would be fine to hang out in the back seat as long as he stayed in the car, I became somewhat of a foodie tour guide for Harrison. As we walked down the aisles, quiet in the early morning, I grabbed a lot of local delicacies—basil and truffle goat cheeses that melt in your mouth, sweet-and-spicy fruit jams like raspberry habanero, delicate smoked salts, and luxurious old-fashioned ice cream. I showed Harrison the best butcher to get our famous Salt Spring Island lamb, and the best organic produce from nearby farms.
Finally, after we loaded up the SUV with the bags, I asked if I could buy him a coffee.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks me as he closes the trunk.
“You drink coffee, don’t you?” I ask. “Oh wait, it’s tea. Can I buy you a tea?”
Since we’ve been outside, his sunglasses are back in place, but judging from that frown, he’s totally perplexed by this idea.
To be honest, I am too. What am I doing?
“I drink coffee,” he says after a minute, as if it took him that long to put it together. I’m about to tell him to forget it, lest the rejection start to sink in, but he nods. “I would love one.”
“Oh.” I mouth the word and then give him a crooked smile. “Right this way.”
We walk through the parking lot and down the street toward Salty Seas Coffee & Goods. The streets are a little busier now, the tourists having woken up in their “charming and rustic” Airbnbs, ready to infiltrate the town to look for food and hot beverages.
“Your mother isn’t going to think you’ve been kidnapped?” Harrison asks as we cross the one-way street. “Took the dog for a walk and never came back.”
I hesitate before giving him a quick smile. “She’ll be asleep for a while. Meeting Monica was a bit much for her.”
“Is she going to be okay for tonight?”
I cross my fingers and hold them up to him. “Hopefully.” I quickly add, “I’m sure she will be.” I don’t want Harrison to think that this dinner is for nothing.
It’s busy this morning at the café, with the line snaking out the door. I’m about to tell Harrison we should go to another one when I spot their sandwich sign announcing they have donuts today.
“Ooh yay, donuts!” I let out a squeal loud enough for the people in the line in front of us to turn around and look at me. Then they look at Harrison. I’ve seen this look from people all morning. It’s the “Who is this tall, handsome, built-like-a-truck man in a suit?” Followed by the “And why is he with this frizzy-haired Oompa-Loompa squealing like a pig about donuts?”
To Harrison’s credit, he doesn’t seem fazed. He’s most likely used to me by now.
“Donuts?” he asks calmly.
“The best donuts,” I tell him, ignoring the people still watching us. Probably tourists, anyway. “Almost as good as their cinnamon buns, but they only make them once every few weeks.”
He nods. “Ah yes, the infamous cinnamon bun.”
My cheeks go hot at the memory of it all stuck in my hair. Really ought to start wearing a ponytail when I’m around sweet and sticky pastries.
“Tell you what,” he says. “You buy me a coffee, I’ll buy you a donut.”
I can’t help but grin up at him. “You have yourself a deal, mister.”
A strange giddiness flashes through me, and I have to check myself. I get giddy about a lot of things in life (I mean, look at me and food), but the fact that Harrison is buying me a donut shouldn’t be one of them. It’s a bad, terrible, no-good sign to feel giddy because of something a man does. Something that Harrison does.
And yet . . .
I temper my smile as the line moves and we find ourselves inside the coffee shop. My mind wants to focus on him next to me. I want to inspect him closely, look for those signs of the hidden tattoos, figure out if the bracing sea scent is from his cologne or body wash, study the faint scar on his cheekbone, half hidden beneath his stubble.