He doesn’t answer, just waits expectantly for me to take a sip, I guess.
“I don’t really drink coffee,” I say. “Unless I’m super tired, it makes me too jittery.”
His brow furrows, his lips knitting together. “You had one of their cups on your desk yesterday, so I assumed . . .”
“Chai,” I say.
He taps his temple, like he’s nailing the information to his head.
“Should we go?” I ask.
Outside our building, the sudden daylight briefly scalds my retinas. I lose all sense of direction, somehow running directly into Miles when he was just beside me.
He catches my upper arms and turns me toward his truck, half a block up the street.
“So where are we going,” I ask.
“Shopping.”
“Really?” I turn toward him, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I catch a fistful and push it out of my eyes, pinning it to my forehead. “Are we doing a makeover montage?”
He looks down at himself. “Are you trying to tell me something here?”
“I mean, when you showed up at Story Hour yesterday, I caught Mrs. Dekuyper looking between you and a Big Bad Wolf picture book, like she was trying to spot the difference.”
“Yeah, right,” he says, “she thought I was hot.”
“You don’t even know which one Mrs. Dekuyper was,” I point out.
“They all thought I was hot,” he says. “Women of a certain age love me.”
“You must remind them of when they were young,” I say, “and Abraham Lincoln was People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”
He unlocks the passenger door of his truck and hauls it open with one hand, while he scratches his bearded jaw with the other. “You think I should shave it?”
“I think you should do whatever you want.” I climb onto the ripped seat.
“But you think the beard is bad.” He closes the door, the window rolled down between us.
“I think the beard is sheer chaos,” I say. “But not inherently bad. It’s your face, Miles. All that matters is how you feel about it.”
He sets his forearms atop the door. “Well, Daphne, I’m less sure how I feel about it since that snarky Big Bad Wolf comment.”
“Don’t take my opinion too seriously,” I say. “You already know I have terrible taste in men.” And honestly, the beard’s growing on me. Chaos suits him. “Where are we going shopping? Family Fare?”
“Better.” He pushes the lock down, then rounds the truck and gets in.
“Tom’s Food Market?” I say.
“Better,” he repeats.
“Oh, I know!” I cry. “Meijer.”
He looks over, the engine starting with a sputtering cough. “Do me a favor,” he says lightly, “and unlock your door.”
“Why?”
“So I can push you out as I peel out of this parking lot,” he says.
“You would never,” I say.
“I would never,” he admits, and pulls onto the road. He turns us away from town and the water, toward the countryside.
His heartbreak playlist is still in full effect.
Or maybe he’s just put it back on to amuse me, because he does seem a little more smirky than usual.
The traffic thins as we drive inland, away from the quaint downtown and the cotton-candy-colored Victorian- and Colonial Revival–style resorts that line the beach.
It’s easy to forget how secluded Waning Bay really is, when you’re inside of it, but within minutes, we’re winding into gloriously sunlit farmland.
Then, out of nowhere, we’re pulling to the side of the road. Through the dusty windshield, I spot a green-painted farm stand on the shoulder, behind which two older ladies in work pants, floral tank tops, and matching visors are hawking asparagus.
“So to be clear,” I say, “when you said shopping, you meant for asparagus.”
Miles gives me a mildly offended look. “This,” he says, “is just phase one.”
I hop out, dirt kicking up under my sandals, and follow him to the stand.
