Chapter 11
Saturday morning was Jamie’s sacred chaos day.
No alarm. No oat milk. Just mismatched socks, a hoodie two sizes too big, and wandering the downtown food market with a large iced coffee in hand, pretending to be a functioning adult.
He was convincing. Mostly.
He weaved through the stalls, distracted by the smell of fresh bread, clinking crates, and a man yelling “Organic eggs! Laid with love!” like it was a pickup line.
Jamie paused by a produce stand, eyeing a pile of avocados like they were trying to scam him.
“Looking for the perfect one?”
Jamie turned…
and nearly dropped his coffee.
Blake Sterling.
In dark jeans, sunglasses, a gray sweater pushed to his elbows, holding a canvas tote bag and a bunch of spring onions like a GQ ad had wandered into a farmer’s market.
Jamie blinked. “You shop here?”
Blake smirked. “Where else would I get real food for my real brain?”
Jamie laughed. “You sound like an Instagram nutritionist.”
Blake stepped beside him, plucked an avocado from the pile, squeezed it gently, then handed it to Jamie. “That one’s ripe in two days. Perfect for Wednesday. You want the skin firm but not tight.”
A beat.
“Like confidence.”
Jamie stared at him. “Did you just compare an avocado to confidence?”
Blake grinned. “Stick with me. You’ll never overpay for produce again.”
They moved down the table. Blake was in his element – pointing out which tomatoes had better acidity for roasting, how the sweet potatoes with the darker skins were creamier inside, how smaller red onions packed more bite.
Jamie followed him like it was a very specific kind of cooking show he hadn’t known he needed.
I could get used to this.
“You know a lot about this stuff,” Jamie said, tucking the avocado into his own bag.
Blake shrugged. “Used to cook a lot in uni. Couldn’t afford takeout. Cooking was how I unwound.”
Jamie smiled. “You unwind?”
“On occasion. With wine. And possibly risotto.”
They stopped in front of a crate of heirloom tomatoes – bright, weird, lumpy, beautiful.
Jamie reached for one, then hesitated. “This one’s… ugly.”
Blake picked it up and turned it in the light. “And absolutely perfect. Best flavor. The uglier they are, the richer they taste.”
He handed it to Jamie.
Jamie took it, still unsure. “You always this charming in public?”
Blake leaned in slightly, sunglasses pushed up now, eyes warm. “Only when I run into someone worth charming.”
Jamie flushed.
Oh. That was direct.
They moved toward the herb stand in an unspoken decision to keep walking together.
Blake picked up a bunch of basil, snapped the stem, and held it out.
Jamie leaned in, inhaled – fresh, sweet, peppery.
“Makes the best tea,” Blake said. “If you steep it right.”
Jamie laughed softly. “You’re dangerously close to being too perfect.”
Blake turned, and for a moment…
the ease slipped.
“I’m not.”
Jamie stilled.
Blake held his gaze. “But I am trying to be real. Even when it’s messy. Even when I’m not wearing a three-piece suit.”
Oh. That again.
Jamie exhaled slowly. “That’s… hard.”
Blake nodded. “Tell me about it.”
They stood for a second too long in the middle of the crowd, market sounds swirling around them – voices, music, the scent of strawberries – and the quiet between them felt louder than everything else.
Comfortable.
Charged.
Dangerous.
Then Blake smiled again, easy and mischievous. “Want to learn how to pick the best garlic next?”
Jamie smiled. “I might regret saying this, but… yeah.”
“Good,” Blake said, offering his arm like a damn rom-com lead.
Jamie rolled his eyes…
looped his arm through…
and didn’t let go.
Yeah. Definitely dangerous.
For once, he wasn’t performing.
He was just…
being.