Once and for All(54)

“William. You know we don’t have lemons. We don’t even have bread right now.”

“What?” He looked aghast. Wiping his hands on his apron—a plain linen one he always brought from home—he went over to the fridge, pulling it open. “Dear God, there is nothing in these produce drawers. Not even a bag of spinach!”

“I’d be less surprised to find a live animal,” I told him.

He shut the door, shaking his head. “I always wonder how you managed to get to eighteen without scurvy.”

“Hey, we order salads from Tossed almost every night,” I said, defending myself. “Just because it’s not here doesn’t mean I don’t eat it.”

“Well, thank God for that.” He sighed, looking at the onion and chicken breasts out on the island. “I need lemons, though. They’re key to the dish.”

“I can run and get you some,” I said. “Farmer Fred’s is, like, two seconds away.”

“Farmer Fred’s?” he repeated. “No. I don’t cook enough to lower myself to that kind of standard. I’m going to Spice and Thyme. While I’m there, I’ll grab some prosciutto and melon, as we do need an appetizer. And maybe some of those Belgian macaroons for dessert.”

“What happened to healthy eating?”

“They’re Belgian and organic, Louna. Are you coming or what?”

Fifteen minutes later, we were at Spice and Thyme, the gourmet market, where the fragrant notes of expensive coffee hit you the second you stepped through the sliding doors. It was practically required that you pause just to inhale. We both did.

“I want heaven to smell just like this,” William said.

“And movie popcorn,” I added.

“Well, of course.”

He grabbed a basket and we started over to the produce, which was so beautiful and arranged so meticulously it felt like a shame to remove any of it. As William took two lemons, I examined a nearby artichoke that was so big and perfect it looked fake.

“I make a great sauce for those with Greek yogurt and dill,” he told me, adding it to the basket. “For another night. Now that we’re eating healthy.”

“Right,” I said, already picturing it rotting in our fridge.

“Excuse me, but can you point me toward the kumquats? They’re on special right now, correct?” a woman pushing a cart asked William. She had a list in her hand, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.

“Um,” he said. “I don’t work here.”

She flushed instantly. “Oh, sorry!”

“But I do know they are over there, by the persimmons,” he said gallantly, pointing. “On sale, I’m not sure.”

“Thank you,” she said quickly, clearly embarrassed, as she turned her cart and headed that way.

“Five minutes,” I said to him once she was out of earshot. “That’s how long it took.”

“Better than three, I guess,” he replied, picking up a melon and knocking it. “And I was even holding a basket. Honestly.”

For as long as I could remember, no matter where we went in the world of retail, it was a given William would be mistaken for an employee and asked for directions, fitting room access, or, in my favorite situations, advice on purchases. Somehow, he just exuded authority and knowledge, even when he was off the clock. He got annoyed, but personally, I found it hilarious.

We moved on to the meat section, stopping at each of the free sample stations along the way. (Another one of our rituals.) We were standing by the case, him studying the prosciutto, when the guy working came up from the other side. He was dark haired, very muscled, and had tattoos up both arms, as well as a thick gauge in one ear.

“William!” he said, his voice friendly. “Where you been? You never came to report back on that Parma.”

I was looking at a piece of tongue—ugh—and so didn’t see, at first, that William was blushing. It was only when he answered with a stammer that I noticed. “I, um, have been busy. But it was good. A little salty for my taste.”

The guy leaned on top of the case, his massive arms flexing. “Agreed. I cut it with a bit of this new blue we got, a cow’s milk, very silky and tart. The Meridien, have you tried it?”

“No,” William said. “I’m not, um, so I need some prosciutto?”

The guy looked at him, then me, and smiled. “Sure. Quarter pound or half?”

“Half.”

“Great. And I’ll throw in a bit of this new Black Forest I want you to try. You have the Wasilla goat at home still, yes? You’ve got to pair them on a baguette. It’s incredible. Just a sec.”

As the guy opened the case and drew out a huge slab of meat, then walked over to the slicer, I looked pointedly at William. He ignored me, focused instead on the ground sausage display. Finally, I poked him.

“What?”

“Who is that guy?” I asked, my voice low. He blushed again. “He’s cute, William.”

“I barely know him,” he replied, going darker red. “We talked meat and cheese at closing once.”

“I think he likes you.”

“Louna. Stop it.”

“William,” the guy called out over the clanging of the slicer. “You want this thin? Are you making that melon dish we had at dinner that time?”