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Page 51
“Ice cream? It’s noon, we haven’t even had lunch.”
I stop dead and look at him in disbelief. “You buzzkill.”
“We can get a pint to go later,” he suggests and I take a step back.
“Whoa, buddy. I’m not sure this”—I point between us—“is going to work out.”
He rolls his eyes and lets me drag him to the Bassett’s line. We’re jostled by the crowd as we shuffle our way forward and I examine the menu. I bounce on my toes again, peering over people’s heads at my choices. Cherry vanilla, maybe. Mango, no. Not in the mood for mint chocolate chip. “Raspberry truffle,” I tell the kid behind the counter with confidence when we get to the head of the line. “Sawyer?” I look over my shoulder. “What do you want?”
“I want coffee,” he replies. I just shake my head and after grabbing my cone we backtrack to Old City Coffee and get Sawyer a coffee.
“Happy now?” I ask as he takes a sip and I swipe my tongue around the ice cream where it meets the cone. “Got your boring coffee.”
His eyes follow the path of my tongue before he answers. “Not boring. This is quality small-batch coffee. You’re the one missing out.”
“Am I?” I ask, and now that I know he’s so fascinated with the path of my tongue I make a dramatic sweep across the top of the cone while tilting my head back to look him straight in the eye.
“Cute, Boots. Real cute.” He taps the tip of my nose with a fingertip and then grabs the hand not holding the cone and we set off into the crowded market.
We wind our way up and down the aisles, starting on the Filbert Street side and working our way towards Arch. I find a cookbook and a kitchen timer my mom will love for Christmas while Sawyer picks up a piece of pottery for his mom. We stop for cheesesteaks at Sparto’s: Provolone for him, Whiz for me. Table space is limited so we find a corner and eat them standing up, Sawyer wiping a dab of Whiz from my cheek with his thumb.
After we’ve eaten, we continue shopping. Sawyer picks up steaks for dinner, with a final stop at Beiler’s Bakery to pick up fresh-baked pastries and bread. The line at Beiler’s is long, but I’m content waiting, leaning against Sawyer’s chest and watching the bakery staff hand-roll donuts as the line shuffles forward. Through my contented haze I catch a couple of different women checking out Sawyer, and it’s not the first time. Not even the first time today. I can’t blame them, but it does give me pause.
I recall Finn commenting on me taming Sawyer or something like it. I think of Eric’s reaction to Sawyer and I dating, before we were actually dating. He’s calmed down a bit, but still.
The blonde ahead of us in line takes another look at Sawyer and I stop leaning on him so I can turn around and face him, sliding my arms around his waist and pulling him closer.
“What?” he asks, palming the back of my neck and massaging his fingers across my skin.
I drop my head back enough to look at him and release one arm so I can point a finger in his face. “Just so we’re clear, you’re mine.”
He smiles in response. “You’re such a little cavewoman.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re bewitching.”
We stare at each other in a silent standoff until he leans down and kisses me. “Yours,” he agrees when he’s done. “But I thought I made that clear when I hacked your Facebook.”
“Cute, Camden.”
Thirty-Four
“Everly, honey, what time is Sawyer coming over?”
It’s Christmas Day and my mom is bouncing around the kitchen, seemingly stirring a pot on the stove, mixing a bowl on the counter and popping a tray into the oven all at the same time.
I stop dead and look at him in disbelief. “You buzzkill.”
“We can get a pint to go later,” he suggests and I take a step back.
“Whoa, buddy. I’m not sure this”—I point between us—“is going to work out.”
He rolls his eyes and lets me drag him to the Bassett’s line. We’re jostled by the crowd as we shuffle our way forward and I examine the menu. I bounce on my toes again, peering over people’s heads at my choices. Cherry vanilla, maybe. Mango, no. Not in the mood for mint chocolate chip. “Raspberry truffle,” I tell the kid behind the counter with confidence when we get to the head of the line. “Sawyer?” I look over my shoulder. “What do you want?”
“I want coffee,” he replies. I just shake my head and after grabbing my cone we backtrack to Old City Coffee and get Sawyer a coffee.
“Happy now?” I ask as he takes a sip and I swipe my tongue around the ice cream where it meets the cone. “Got your boring coffee.”
His eyes follow the path of my tongue before he answers. “Not boring. This is quality small-batch coffee. You’re the one missing out.”
“Am I?” I ask, and now that I know he’s so fascinated with the path of my tongue I make a dramatic sweep across the top of the cone while tilting my head back to look him straight in the eye.
“Cute, Boots. Real cute.” He taps the tip of my nose with a fingertip and then grabs the hand not holding the cone and we set off into the crowded market.
We wind our way up and down the aisles, starting on the Filbert Street side and working our way towards Arch. I find a cookbook and a kitchen timer my mom will love for Christmas while Sawyer picks up a piece of pottery for his mom. We stop for cheesesteaks at Sparto’s: Provolone for him, Whiz for me. Table space is limited so we find a corner and eat them standing up, Sawyer wiping a dab of Whiz from my cheek with his thumb.
After we’ve eaten, we continue shopping. Sawyer picks up steaks for dinner, with a final stop at Beiler’s Bakery to pick up fresh-baked pastries and bread. The line at Beiler’s is long, but I’m content waiting, leaning against Sawyer’s chest and watching the bakery staff hand-roll donuts as the line shuffles forward. Through my contented haze I catch a couple of different women checking out Sawyer, and it’s not the first time. Not even the first time today. I can’t blame them, but it does give me pause.
I recall Finn commenting on me taming Sawyer or something like it. I think of Eric’s reaction to Sawyer and I dating, before we were actually dating. He’s calmed down a bit, but still.
The blonde ahead of us in line takes another look at Sawyer and I stop leaning on him so I can turn around and face him, sliding my arms around his waist and pulling him closer.
“What?” he asks, palming the back of my neck and massaging his fingers across my skin.
I drop my head back enough to look at him and release one arm so I can point a finger in his face. “Just so we’re clear, you’re mine.”
He smiles in response. “You’re such a little cavewoman.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re bewitching.”
We stare at each other in a silent standoff until he leans down and kisses me. “Yours,” he agrees when he’s done. “But I thought I made that clear when I hacked your Facebook.”
“Cute, Camden.”
Thirty-Four
“Everly, honey, what time is Sawyer coming over?”
It’s Christmas Day and my mom is bouncing around the kitchen, seemingly stirring a pot on the stove, mixing a bowl on the counter and popping a tray into the oven all at the same time.
