Page 34 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

She glances over her shoulder.

"Well? Aren't you coming?"

"I thought I was."

"You've been promoted from observer."

Before I can respond, she plucks a daisy and walks straight toward me.

"Hold still."

I obey.

She reaches up and carefully tucks the flower behind my ear before stepping back to admire her work with obvious satisfaction.

"There."

She folds her arms.

"Now you look less like a funeral and more like someone I'd actually invite to a picnic."

"I don't believe I've ever had a picnic."

She blinks.

"Seriously?"

I nod.

Without another word, she slips her backpack from one shoulder, drops onto the grass, and begins rummaging through it.

"Well," she declares, producing a thoroughly squashed peanut butter sandwich wrapped in wax paper, "we're fixing that."

She tears it neatly in half before handing me my portion.

"I'm afraid presentation isn't my strongest skill."

"I had noticed."

She laughs.

"I'm a florist, not a chef."

The sandwich is sweet, entirely ordinary, and somehow unlike anything I've ever tasted.

She watches my face with barely concealed anticipation.

"Well?"

"I understand the appeal."

Her smile brightens.

"I knew you would."

She settles back on her elbows, content now that I've been properly introduced to picnics, while I finish the sandwich and wonder why something so simple feels unexpectedly significant.

After a while, she turns her head toward me.