Page 26 of Trusting Mr. Sterling
She had ambushed him after the morning briefing. Saturday dinner party. Heirloom tomatoes, fresh basil, good mozzarella if he could find it, andwhatever else looks inspiring.The last part had been deliberate. Gabriel didn’t do vague well. Vague was the enemy of efficiency.
He had tried to delegate. “Knox can pick this up.”
“Knox thinks vegetables come pre-washed in plastic containers.”
“Ronan, then.”
“Ronan will come back with a plan to revolutionize the agricultural supply chain instead of tomatoes.” Devney had given him the look that meant she had already won. “Besides,you have an investor meeting in the Flatiron. Union Square is a short walk. You can be in and out in ten minutes.”
He couldn’t argue with the logic. Which was how he had become his partner’s wife’s personal shopper.
The tomato vendor had six varieties displayed in wooden crates. Gabriel studied them like contracts requiring due diligence. Red. Yellow. Dark purple. Something striped that looked vaguely alien. He reached for the one labeled Cherokee Purple because the sign saidexcellent for caprese, and that sounded like something Devney would make.
His hand closed over warm skin instead of tomato.
Someone else’s fingers had wrapped around the same fruit.
He looked up.
Tessa stood close enough to touch, in fitted jeans and a cream sweater and a canvas tote over her shoulder, her hair loose around her shoulders in dark waves that caught the sunlight. Her hand was still on the tomato. It was still on his.
They stayed frozen for one beat. Then her eyes went wide, and the laugh came out of her soft and breathless, and Gabriel started laughing, too, the laugh of someone finally giving up.
Tessa pulled her hand back, and her fingers slid against his palm slowly enough to send heat all the way up his arm.
“You know,” she said when she could breathe again, “I’m starting to think you might be stalking me.”
“If I were stalking you, I’d be better at it. You’d never see me coming.”
“Reassuring.”
“Tessa.”
“Gabriel.”
The tomato vendor cleared his throat. “I have more Cherokee Purples.” He produced another from beneath the table and handed one to each of them like a man solving a diplomatic crisis with produce.
Tessa tucked hers into her bag. “What are you doing here?”
“Devney sent me with a list.” Gabriel held it up. “Vague at the bottom.Whatever looks inspiring.I’m out of my depth.”
“You’re at a farmers’ market with a handwritten list. You’re already past most men I know.”
“Set the bar low and be celebrated.”
“It’s the secret to a happy life.” She took the list from him. “Tomatoes. Basil. Mozzarella. Caprese, then. Followed by something with the basil—probably orecchiette, if she’s the woman I’m starting to suspect she is. Get the burrata, not the mozzarella. Tell her to have the bread warm.”
He stared at her. “You did all that from a list.”
“I do this for a living.”
He turned to the vendor. “Six more like that one.”
The vendor’s brows rose a quarter inch, the look of a man who’d been handed a request worth respecting. He picked six more Cherokee Purples, slid them into a brown paper sack the size of a child’s lunch bag, and handed it over. Gabriel paid in cash and tucked the sack under his arm.
Tessa watched the whole transaction with her head tilted. “You’re a closer.”
“Devney said the list was non-negotiable.”
