Page 24 of The Arrangement

I snorted, not even bothering to conceal my amusement.

“Shut your face. And I have always loved the plants in here.” His sweet brown eyes with their striking hazel ring got dreamy as he looked at the abundance of green spilling over lattices and anything else they could get their leafy tendrils on. Abruptly, he brightened and turned his gaze back to me. “Oh, and there’s a sweet shop too. Though try not to fill up on what you find. There are at least three others we’ll pass during our meander.” He dropped his voice and added in a whisper while darting his eyes around for witnesses, “And they’re way better.”

“Fill up?” I asked with a laugh. “Where do you expect me to put it? I’m pretty sure a hay barrel has more room than my stomach at this point.”

He gave me a scandalized look. “First, it’s a haybaleand I’m almost positive you already knew that. Second, you’re not allowed to make country jokes. Just—no. And third, I’m onto your sweet tooth,sir, and I guaran-damn-tee you’llfindroom for sweets.” Honestly, it was the smug grin at the end that sealed his fate.

I hiked a shoulder, not denying it, and lowered my head. “I suppose. They’ll have some steep competition though.”

Confusion pinched his face. “What do you mean?”

I slowly raised my gaze to meet his curious eyes, knowing damn well the effect it would have. “Because so far, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve had in this town.” His face flushed a beautifulscarlet, and his jaw literally fell open. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as I turned to stroll toward this supposed sweet shop, which did, in fact, look quite promising. Also, what the hell was a Moon Pie?

Despite the incredible selection of sweets on display, I took Marc’s advice to heart and did not stuff my numerous pockets full of candy like I was eight-years-old. Though he caught me dubiously eyeing the assortment of Moon Pies. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised when he passed me a silver-wrapped package when we left.

“What’s this?”

He gave me a cheeky grin. “What else? A Moon Pie. Think of it as a rite of passage.”

“Bad country jokes aside, I really am stuffed from lunch,” I said, holding up the large—cookie? cake? Seriously, what the hell was this thing?

“Oh, for sure. Me too.” He plucked it out of my hand. “Which is why we’re splitting it.” He spun around, putting his back to me, so I had to lean close to see over his shoulder as he tore open the package, laid it flat, then whipped out a plastic knife from his shorts.

“Did you… Is that the same knife you got for the sandwiches?”

He glanced at me over his shoulder with a fake scowl, if I ever saw one. “Don’t judge me. You wanna tell me you weren’t too preoccupied to remember your pocketknife?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge. Much as I wanted to argue, he had me there. “Thought so. Now, quit complaining and eat up. Oh, and they can be messy, so, you know,” he said as he passed me half of—yes, that looked like a cookie—the Moon Pie. “Hope chocolate’s okay.”

I snorted. “Chocolate isalwaysokay. Is it your favorite?” I asked, sinking my teeth into the crumbly goodness, which immediately went everywhere. And—holy shit, Batman—thatwas marshmallow in the middle. I groaned my appreciation and promptly took another bite.

“Guess you could say I’m a bit of a purist where these are concerned. Growing up, there used to be just the core flavors of chocolate, vanilla, and banana.” He full-bodied shuddered at the last one, and I chuckled as I popped the last of the surprising treat into my mouth. “Now they’ve got all kinds. Salted caramel—you’d probably like that one. Blueberry, Thin Mint, Lemon, Strawberry. The lemon one actually isn’t too bad.” He froze mid-bite, his gaze darting to me.

I held up my hands. “I know. And if I tell anyone you said that, you’ll kill me in my sleep.” Reassured, he finished his piece, then worked on dusting off his clothes. I mirrored him because he really hadn’t been kidding about the mess they made. That cookie was closer to a graham cracker. When I glanced back up, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“What? What’s so funny?”

Christ, help me, this man was too adorable for public consumption. “You have marshmallow goo on your face.” He tried to wipe it off and looked at me expectantly. When I shook my head, he tried again with the same lack of success. I shook my head again and waved for him to come closer. “Come here.”

He dutifully stepped closer. Without a second thought, I licked my thumb and rubbed it over the stubborn spot of sticky goo, mildly surprised that my brain didn’t immediately take a deep dive into the gutter,especiallyafter this morning. Instead, it did much worse. The sugar dissolved almost instantly, but my fingers lingered, brushing along his stubble, hovering millimeters from caressing his jaw.

My gaze slowly travelled over his face as if it could touch all the parts I couldn’t. His slightly parted lips were a sweet rose I ached to kiss. The perfect line of his nose had a defined redness on the bridge. I’d have to make sure he was better about sunscreenthe next time we went for a run. His full lashes fanned over his tanned cheeks, and I followed them up to meet his stunning eyes. Fuck,his eyes. It felt like I was already drowning in them.

My breathing remained low and slow as we stood there, frozen in an oasis of greenery, but my heart was hammering like I was sprinting for cover. I’d known immediately that I was attracted to Marc. He was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, even if he didn’t realize it. Except he was so much more than that. His was the kind of beauty that shone from within and made everything around him beautiful.

Suddenly, the quiet beauty I’d been appreciating in his eyes morphed into blazing rage. I turned, dropping my hand from his face, and took a step back, in time for some twenty-year-old dipshit with a mullet to sneer, “Fucking queers.” Then he spat a long stream of brown liquid on the ground, nearly hitting my sneaker.

“Sir,” another man said, stepping up in a button-down Hawaiian shirt that screamed “on vacation,” “there are children here. I’d appreciate you not to use that kind of hateful language or spit your cancer juice where my daughter is walking.”

The mullet-dipshit turned a snarl on the dad who was standing protectively between a little girl with blond hair who was the spitting image of the woman holding her hand with an equally angry expression as the dad. To my surprise, it was the young woman tucked under mullet-dipshit’s arm, wearing cut-off shorts and a crop top, that spoke up.

“You got a problem with profanity, old man? Youshouldhave a problem with a pair of faggots getting freaky in front of your baby girl.”

The little girl looked up at her mom with obvious questions in her eyes, and the mom pulled her closer. Meanwhile, I was trying to determine the best course of deescalation. This was a confined space, and things could get out of hand quickly. Clearlythe young idiot had no problem throwing down, judging by the poorly concealed hunting knife hanging from his belt. The dad looked about ready to punch a hole through the guy’s head. And Marc… I sighed inwardly. Marc looked as if he were debating how quickly he could retrieve the sledgehammer from the flower shop.

Before I could decide on a course of action, though, the dad crossed his arms, exuding confidence and a strong sense of FAFO. “Profanity is not my issue. Fucking ignorant bigots with disgusting habits are. And if you so much asglanceat my baby girl again, you’re going to learn what I do for a living, and I promise you’ll regret it.”

Doubt flickered in the hick’s eyes, and he tightened his hold on his girlfriend. “Come on, Sadie, let’s get outta here. Apparently Pete’s isn’t the upstanding joint it used to be.” He went to spit what I now realized was tobacco again, then seemed to think better of it when he saw the dad watching him. Once the pair were gone, the dad scuffed some dirt and debris over the brown stain on the walkway and nodded to the mom, who then released the little girl’s hand.

With a squeal of joy, the little girl raced to the center of the courtyard, where a large fountain burbled happily. Calling for her to slow down and muttering about skinned knees and torn dresses, the mom went after her. Chuckling to himself at the kid’s antics, Marc looked over at me, and I was relieved to see that he hadn’t let the altercation keep him down. I nodded for him to go on ahead. He looked puzzled, but shrugged and followed the pair toward the fountain.