Page 54 of Your Second Chance
The shopkeeper appeared, and she reached for the blanket Ollie had picked up. It was a beautiful scarlet color, with delicate flowers embroidered along the edges.
“A lovely choice. A color that feels like spring.”
I nodded, blinking through tears. “I like that one. I imagine that’s what spring would look like at your parents’ house.”
Ollie’s grin spread slowly, warm enough to melt away the cold knot of anxiety. He brushed his fingers against my cheek, wiping away a stray tear.
“You’re right.” His voice was deep and calm. “It is a beautiful scarlet color.”
Before I could even think about reaching for my wallet, Ollie handed over cash to the shopkeeper.
“Ollie, I can pay?—”
“Nope.” He grinned as he grabbed the wrapped blanket and pressed it into my hands. “This one’s mine. Don’t fight me on it.”
I stared at him, biting back a smirk. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are. Holding my hand.”
My mouth opened to argue, but before I could get a word out, he laced his fingers through mine, tugging me gently down the street. The warmth of his hand in contrast to the cold air made my heart stutter, but I wasn’t about to let him see that.
“Let’s get something proper to eat.” He led us toward the food stalls.
We stopped at a stall selling Cornish pasties, the buttery smell wafting through the air. He ordered two, and before I knew it, we were sitting at a small table near an outdoor heater. The orange glow lit up his face, making his eyes seem even warmer.
“Alright,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a conspiratorial expression. “This is a serious question, since we are on a date and all.”
I laughed. “Hit me.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
“10 Things I Hate About You,” I deadpanned.
He froze, staring at me like I’d confessed to a crime. “You’re serious?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You pickthat—the most American thing ever—and here I am withFour Weddings and a Funeralas mine.”
I laughed, full and loud, shaking my head. “You’re such a cliché.”
“Says the Scratchy Itch herself,” he shot back, grinning. “Here’s one for you—what’s your favorite guilty pleasure song?”
I paused mid-bite, narrowing my eyes. “Define guilty pleasure.”
“You know,” he said, waving his hand. “Something you wouldn’t admit to anyone, but you secretly love.”
“Fine,” I said, setting down my pastry. “ ‘Call Me Maybe.’ ”
His jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“ ‘Call Me Maybe’?” he repeated, blinking in disbelief. “The one where she throws herself at the pool boy?”
“Yep.”
He groaned, running a hand down his face. “I don’t even know you anymore.”
