Page 102 of Hidden & Held

“Oh, really.” He smiles back, already reaching for the fist bump. “Good for you, man. We’ll miss you around here—go have fun.”

“Sure thing.” I bump his fist. “See you soon.”

Walking toward my car and putting my measly belongings into the trunk, I feel a sense of nostalgia as I look at the office. This place may have been the catalyst to the downfall of my relationship, but it’s also what brought us together. And for that, I’ll forever be grateful I took this assignment.

My phone buzzes, bringing me out of my reverie.

Jordan

Heard you are going on a date. Don’t fuck it up. I want a nephew someday.

How did you hear I’m going on a date? Besides, James is older. He should be giving you the nieces and nephews first.

Jordan

Mom, of course. And James, really? Dude has to stay in one place long enough. Again, don’t mess it up!!

Rolling my eyes at his antics, I head out of here to get the last few items I need for my date tonight.

Knocking on Phoenix’s door at 5:00 p.m. on the dot, I take a breath to calm my nerves. I made myself wait out here for three minutes, not wanting to rush her or appear too eager. I failed miserably.

My breath catches when she opens the door. She’s wearing a lilac sundress with delicate white flowers that falls below her knee, skimming the top of her walking boot. Her hair is down and softly curled at the ends. She catches me staring at her, and her normal boldness recedes as she shyly tucks an errant curl behind her ear.

“Is this okay?” She grabs the side of her dress, spreading it out, moving back and forth slightly. “I wasn’t sure where we were going. And honestly, I am sick of this boot. Nothing goes with it.”

“Trust me, Sugar. Nobody is going to notice the boot,” I say truthfully.

Her cheeks pink slightly as she reaches her side table and grabs a small purse. “Where are we off to?”

“First Friday street fair.”

From spring to fall, the first Friday of the month in Cascadia hosts a street fair. Main Street is closed to traffic, replaced with food trucks, local artists, flower vendors, musicians, and enough children running around with painted faces to make driving through here impossible anyway.

Opening the passenger door of my Range Rover, Phoenix slides in easily, no assistance required. I stand there a half second longer than necessary, mourning the rusty truck and the hand I hadn’t gotten to offer her.

The drive takes seven minutes, which I fill with sidelong glances at her, aware that she is willingly in my car. Her cherry blossom scent fills the air once more.

Pulling up to the blocked-off street, I find a spot close to where the fair has already started. Strings of lights crisscross between the buildings, and for a second, I’m back in Phoenix’s yard with the ones we hung together.

I catch her eye. She smiles—soft, a little private—like maybe she’s thinking the same thing.

The sun hasn’t started to set yet, and the whole town looks lit from the inside anyway. Phoenix’s eyes open in wonder as her lips gently curve into a smile. “I can’t remember the last time I got off work early enough to enjoy a First Friday.”

Her eyes dart around, taking in the sights. The local fire department is handing out firefighter hats and running a 50/50 raffle. The sheriff’s department has a table next to them, but Officer Dicks is missing, out on probation from what I hear. Good riddance.

“So, I know you aren’t a big fan of crowds or public spaces. Why did you bring me here for our first date?”

“You always stop at every booth or aisle anywhere we have ever been. You buy things from high school fundraisers that you don’t need. You know the names of the farmers at the market.” I glance toward her. “You like places where people make things. I wanted our first stop to be that.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Thank you,” she almost whispers.

A local bluegrass band has claimed the courthouse steps, their fiddle carrying over the laughter and conversation drifting between booths.

Phoenix slows every twenty feet. To admire pottery. Or to ask a former client questions about handmade soap. Once, to compliment a teenager that Nessa taught who’s selling watercolor bookmarks to fund a school trip to Europe.

She genuinely cares about the people behind the tables. In this town. It’s one of my favorite things about her.