Page 47 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

“Pickles sound more like a hookup than a husband.”

“I’ll admit the word and the object are hookup adjacent, but still, it sounds like fun. And doesn’t it make a great how-we-met story?”

He pauses in zipping up his suitcase. “To the grandkids? ‘I met your father at a celebration of phallic food’?”

I reach for a pillow to throw at him, but then remember our earlier incident and think better of it. “Pickles don’t have to be dirty.”

“Keep saying it. It gets dirtier every time.”

There’s no stopping me at that one. The pillow sails over the bed and smacks him in the head.

He catches it neatly, and before I can make any kind of move, he’s got me pinned back on the bed, the pillow between our chests. “I’ve warned you about my pillow game.”

He’s close, and this time, on top of me. I can barely breathe, but it has nothing to do with the pressure of his body.

It’s just him.

My heart hammers, and I can’t think of anything clever to say to play off how intense this feels.

But he has no such problem. He leaps up. “Got you again. And here you are, practically half my age.”

I stand as well, sputtering at the very suggestion. “Eleven years, Zachery Montgomery Carter! That’s all! Or are you saying I act eighteen?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I’m saying I act fifty.”

Right. But this argument isn’t new. He likes to act all big brother on me.

Even if that moment on the bed wasn’t brotherly in the least.

He finishes zipping his bag. He’s all packed. I haven’t showered.

“We have the rest of the day to kill,” I say. “I do not want to do it here in Pitchfork.”

“Is there anything in this area you want to see?”

“How far is the Grand Canyon?”

He unlocks his phone. “Let me look.” After a moment, he says, “A couple of hours.”

“I’ve always wanted to see it. I’m not ready to leave yet, though. Did you want to drive on ahead?” I ask.

“And stand on the precipice alone? No, thanks.” He plunks down in the chair. “I have some calls to make. And I should probably be with you when you go downstairs.”

He’s right. The Pitchfork club could be assembled below.

“All right. I’ll be quick.”

He waves his hand. “Don’t rush. I have a lot of calls.”

As I lock myself in the bathroom, I wonder if any or all of those conversations are with women Desdemona sent him after. How much of it does he want to do?

Is he a scoundrel?

I can’t imagine. Not Zach. He’s so flirty and sexy. He’s impossible to resist.

I’m sure most of them are eager to fall into his bed. Zachery Carter never misses the mark. That’s why he’s Desdemona’s leading man.

It even works on me. Boy, does it.

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