Page 67 of Unforgettable

“I was hoping I could share my plans with you. You’re really the only person I want to share my plans with,” I admit.

His face softens. “I want to hear everything.”

“The reason I brought you here today, even though I knew it wasn’t like usual food festivals, is because I want to buy and cook meals with local produce and then take photos of what I make,” I explain. “Then I would post the photo with a song, like I usually do, and then it’s kind of like the do-it-yourself version while still promoting something.”

“So, while the photos from the festivals promote places where locals and tourists can find great food and music, the photos of meals you’ve cooked yourself will sell the ingredients you’ve used as well as provide an easy to put together meal for the homebodies?”

“Exactly,” I agree. “And it also allows me to have content without going anywhere.”

Reeve clicks his tongue. “You do know people are going to want recipes for the things you cook? Is that something you want?”

“But what if it turns out like the gym thing where people are messaging me about ingredients and if it’s okay to use the full cream version instead of almond milk because they’re not exactly vegetarian,” I argue

He chuckles at my hypotheticals, but I’m mostly grateful that he’s sorting through the pros and cons with me. That he’s challenging me whilst still being supportive. And that he knows what questions to ask.

It’s proof he listens when I talk. It’s proof what I say and do matters, and it’s exactly what someone who cares deeply for you would do.

It’s what a boyfriend would do.

I drop my hands to his waist, and his slide down to rest on my shoulders. “I was thinking we would go back to my place after this and I could cook for you and create a few posts and show you the things I’ve come up with.”

He smirks at me. “Go back to your place, huh? Still trying to get into my pants.”

I raise my hands up in surrender. “It’s only dinner. Nothing more. I promise.”

He squeezes my shoulders, and I don’t miss both the disappointment and the gratitude in his touch.

“Sooo,” he drawls. “What’s for dinner?”

“Well, while you were stocking up in the non-perishable department”—I glance over to his stash of purchases—“I stumbled on a few things that would be perfect. I’m thinking maybe a cheeseboard to start, stuffed mushrooms as the main course, and I’m still deciding on dessert. I just didn’t want to be carrying them around in the sun and figured I’d grab the ingredients right before we left.”

As if he’s just noticed he’s been sitting on me for the last ten minutes, he awkwardly drags himself off my lap and gets to his feet. “Do you want to go get those things now?”

I look down at where he was sitting and back up. “I wasn’t in any particular hurry to leave.”

Smiling softly, he nudges my leg with his foot and holds out his hand. “Come on. I want you to cook for me.”

It takes us another hour to grab everything I need, and I thank the universe that some of the stuff was even still available. Most of the food goes first thing in the morning, because stock is always so limited and hardcore market goers don’t like making the trip and leaving empty handed.

After safely piling up my car with everything we’ve purchased, Reeve closes the trunk and slides into the passenger seat. “Do you think we can stop by my place so I’m not lugging all this stuff to your place and back?”

“Of course. We can cook at your place if that works better for you,” I offer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t risk it. Our kitchen is basic and our pantry is low on any cooking staples. I don’t want that to get in the way of this masterpiece.”

I chuckle. “Lower your standards,” I say modestly, not really wanting to brag. “It will be good enough to eat and take photos of, but I’m not sure about it being a masterpiece.”

Reeve rolls his eyes. “You are the king of underselling yourself, so I refuse to believe a word you say until I’ve tasted it for myself.”

Choosing not to argue, I turn the car and head in the direction of Reeve’s place. “Is Murph home?” I ask.

He checks his phone. “His last text says he is.”

“Do you think he’ll want to join us for dinner? I bought enough.”

I notice in my periphery, Reeve’s eyebrows narrow in confusion, but in the name of platonic friends, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he dutifully taps at his screen a few times, and when the phone chimes he looks over at me. “He said thank you for the invite, but he has to decline. He’s working.”

“At V and V?” I query.

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