Page 93 of The Promise Of You

“I’m bringing it back,” I whisper. “Talk to me.” My head is tilted to his face, my shallow breath taking in his scent.

He places his hand on my hip and pulls me close to him. My traitorous body almost gives in. I almost mold myself to him.

I almost ruin it.

But I need something more important from him. So I twine my fingers in his wandering hand and bring it up to his heart. “What aren’t you telling me?” I ask. His heart beats hard against the back of my hand. “We were supposed to be our true selves that night. But you left something out, didn’t you? You owe me.”

“Nothing is ever just what it seems.” His fingers clench around mine. “I messed up.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. His brows are furrowed, and there’s pain, so much pain that tears spring into my own eyes. “And as hard as I try, I can’t fix it.”

My mouth is dry, and the words are hard to come. “Then if you can’t fix it, you keep going. You have no choice.” When he doesn’t answer, I take a gamble. “Or else you die, too, in a way,” I say as softly as I can.

He takes a deep breath and straightens himself. His eyes are bright. He looks around the vast field that’s being turned into a fairground as more and more people arrive and finish setting up their stands. His lips curl up and his hand lets go of mine. He takes a step away from me, but his gaze caresses me top to bottom.

“What the fuck is that dress, Sullivan.” Totally changing the subject. Totally throwing me off.

It works. “I… I wanted to look cute for the fair. I don’t have branded T-shirts,” I offer as an excuse.

“Cute for the fair,” he repeats, his body shaking with laughter. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

“We’re not done talking.”

“For now, we are, yeah.” He gives me a playful grin. “Let’s set up.”

We go over the process, set up our stations, and I’m more relaxed than I was at the pub. I think it has to do with the setting. There’s something so down-to-earth about making food in a field. How can you mess it up?

“Containers for the fries, wrappers for the sandwiches. And gloves. Always wear gloves, change them often. Not much running water here.”

A part of my brain registers what he’s saying, while another part is somewhere else.

He takes a break, fists on his hips. “I think we’re in good shape,” he says.

Four hours later, the line snakes all the way to the next stand. My feet are pulp. My dress clings to me from sweat. At some point I twirled my hair on top of my head and secured it with toothpicks.

“A Vermonter, a Crispy Creek, and two Flatlanders,” Justin calls out.

My fingers fly on the register. “Seventeen.” I grab two flavored still waters from the cooler behind me, add them to the bag, and raise my head to smile at the couple in front of me. “Here you go.” I hand them their change, and the guy plops it right back in the to-go mug marked Local Food Bank. “Thanks!”

A group of teenagers huddles to where Justin is. “Um… Three Salamanders. And four Clovers. No. Hold on. Four Salamanders. And four Clovers.” Justin glances at me, and I move from the register to the prep station, slide on a pair of gloves, and start on the Salamanders as they continue with a drink order.

No actual Salamanders are involved. Lol. Cassandra asked that we actually come up with several dishes, and names for all, and Alex advised us to make them catchy for social.

There are clovers involved in the Clover however—our vegan wrap.

“Chloe, you with me?” Justin is sliding the Clovers my way.

I jump. “Yep! Got it.” I finish scooping the pulled pork on the second brioche bun, and wrap it carefully, then move onto the third.

Justin slides behind me to grab the drinks for the group, his hand on my hip lightly moving me to the side as he does, his touch setting me on fire.

He bags the drinks as I wrap the third sandwich, then moves to the register.

I hurry through the last bun but still want it extra yummy with his sauce and the herbs that go on it. “I got it.”

“I know,” he says softly. “Take your time.”

My throat catches at his gentleness. He rings up the big party as I put the last sandwich in their bag.

Then he moves me back in front of the register, his hand falling naturally at my hip again, lingering there for a beat more than is necessary. He keeps me in front of him as he says, “Have a nice day,” to the group, his voice gliding from my ear to my neck and all the way down my spine.

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