Page 87 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

“Latte time!” Lo secured a beanie over his ear and zipped up his puffy red jacket, then pointed at my phone. “Was that work?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need to leave early tomorrow?”

“No. I don’t need to be in the studio till Tuesday, but I missed a memo. I’m supposed to be in Toronto in ten days to start filming.”

“Oh.”

We walked down the uneven driveway and into town. By unspoken agreement we steered the conversation to simple topics, commenting on the quaint bungalows with sloping storybook roofs and the gardens, and stopped to check out the adorable pink bed-and-breakfast along the way.

Adorable according to Lorenzo, not me.

“That house looks like a gigantic piece of bubblegum,” I commented.

“It’s so quaint. I love the color pink.” He linked his arm through mine and let go as if realizing it wasn’t safe. I missed the contact immediately. “I painted the ceiling in the living room of my old house that same shade. It was fabulous.”

“I’ll take your word on that.” We walked in silence for a minute or so. “Will you buy another house?”

“Not right away. I’m still toying with the idea of opening my own store. It’s just so easy to work for Bran. I’ve actually considered asking him if he might be interested in selling part of the business to me,” Lo said, casting a sideways glance at me.

“Hey, that’s a good idea.”

“I think so too. He’s busy with his baby now and I know they want more kids, so he might be open to it.”

“You should ask him.” I held the door open at the coffee shop we’d discovered on a late night stroll.

“Yeah, I will. Let me order. Latte, no foam?”

“And a croissant or a blueberry muffin, please.” I pulled my wallet from my pocket. “Let me give you some money.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve got this.”

I captured his hand as Lo swatted mine away. We engaged in a playful tug-of-war that probably would have ended up in a serious lip-lock if we weren’t in public. I let go before I did something stupid, pulled my ball cap farther over my forehead, and studied the black-and-white photos of the beach.

There was one other couple at the register, two baristas, and two uber-friendly golden retrievers. No danger here at all.

I felt more relaxed than I had in weeks. And very…ordinary in the best possible ways.

We took our lattes and treats to the beach and sat on a bench overlooking the ocean.

“I could live here,” I said conversationally.

Lo grinned. “It’s a nice place. Want the pink house?”

“Fuck, no. Something small with a view and a bench like this one.” I squinted at the gray horizon, inching closer to him. “I would like this.”

Shit.I’d said too much.

My heart thundered in my chest and my cheeks heated. I wanted to blame it on the latte, but I knew that wasn’t it.

“Me too,” he whispered.

The thundering sensation peaked into an internal storm. My head pounded as if in a race to keep up with my renegade heart. And suddenly, I wanted to ask tougher questions I’d never cared enough to ask anyone, like…what else do you want?

Do you want a house, a dog? Or are you a cat guy? That could be a problem ’cause I’m mildly allergic, but we’d make it work. Would you want a bungalow like Jasper’s? I could buy one tomorrow. What about kids? I love kids, but my parents sucked and I might too.

Those were safe boyfriend questions. It wouldn’t be weird to unload everything on my mind. Lo would be into it. We could sit here all day and just daydream like any normal couple who wanted a future together.