Page 47 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
The image from the elevator snapped back into focus. I glanced at him, expecting him to pull it away. He didn’t.
“There’s a stand, up ahead,” he said, eyes forward. "Bit of a detour."
"A detour to what?"
"Guilty pleasure."
I shot him a look. “You?”
He looked over, one corner of his mouth lifting. "Even I can appreciate a great churro."
I laughed. "The man who owns four different olive oils and once gave me a lecture on salt... eats churros from a street cart?"
"Only from this one guy."
The man in question was already pulling a fresh batch from the fryer as we approached. Oil hissed as a new batch went in. Liam handed over a couple of bills without a word. Then he passed me a paper bag, still warm, the cinnamon sugar bleeding through the edges.
"Okay," I said, taking a bite. "I get it now."
He looked entirely too smug for someone with sugar on his lip.
It would be weird to brush the sugar off his lips with my thumb, right?
The market was already alive. Vendors called out specials in overlapping voices “three for five”, “fresh from Maine,” “best tomatoes in town,” while crates thudded softly as they were restocked.
At the market, it turned out Liam had opinions about produce, of course he did. He showed me how to pinch the stems of fresh herbs to check for oil content. Muttered something about basilbeing moody in cold weather. Flat-out refused to let me buy pre-washed salad greens.
I let him have his moment. I liked seeing him like this. Out of his fortress. Engaged. Quietly generous.
He added things to the cart I never would’ve thought of, fresh thyme, real parmesan, some crusty rolls from the bakery counter. Somewhere between the thyme and the rolls, I stopped checking my watch.
Maybe it was the churros. Or the way he walked. Just close enough that our sleeves brushed sometimes.
Maybe I just liked who I was around him, someone less efficient and more... present.
Whatever it was, I wanted just a little more of it.
A couple passed us on the sidewalk, fingers laced, heads tilted close. I wondered what we looked like to them.
Two people walking in sync. Sharing warm churros. Sleeves brushing.
Did they think we looked like a couple or did we look like two strangers who were getting to know each other? Carrying matching reusable grocery bags.
Liam shifted the bags in his hands as we walked back to the apartment.
“Want me to carry one?” I asked, reaching toward the handles.
This trip was partly my culinary lesson, after all.
Although that wasn’t why I offered.
Not entirely.
If one hand was free… maybe he’d touch my back again at the next crosswalk.
“I’ve got them,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.
I tried.
