He grabbed a basket and we started over to the produce, which was so beautiful and arranged so meticulously it felt like a shame to remove any of it. As William took two lemons, I examined a nearby artichoke that was so big and perfect it looked fake.
“I make a great sauce for those with Greek yogurt and dill,” he told me, adding it to the basket. “For another night. Now that we’re eating healthy.”
“Right,” I said, already picturing it rotting in our fridge.
“Excuse me, but can you point me toward the kumquats? They’re on special right now, correct?” a woman pushing a cart asked William. She had a list in her hand, glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
“Um,” he said. “I don’t work here.”
She flushed instantly. “Oh, sorry!”
“But I do know they are over there, by the persimmons,” he said gallantly, pointing. “On sale, I’m not sure.”
“Thank you,” she said quickly, clearly embarrassed, as she turned her cart and headed that way.
“Five minutes,” I said to him once she was out of earshot. “That’s how long it took.”
“Better than three, I guess,” he replied, picking up a melon and knocking it. “And I was even holding a basket. Honestly.”
For as long as I could remember, no matter where we went in the world of retail, it was a given William would be mistaken for an employee and asked for directions, fitting room access, or, in my favorite situations, advice on purchases. Somehow, he just exuded authority and knowledge, even when he was off the clock. He got annoyed, but personally, I found it hilarious.
We moved on to the meat section, stopping at each of the free sample stations along the way. (Another one of our rituals.) We were standing by the case, him studying the prosciutto, when the guy working came up from the other side. He was dark haired, very muscled, and had tattoos up both arms, as well as a thick gauge in one ear.
“William!” he said, his voice friendly. “Where you been? You never came to report back on that Parma.”
I was looking at a piece of tongue—ugh—and so didn’t see, at first, that William was blushing. It was only when he answered with a stammer that I noticed. “I, um, have been busy. But it was good. A little salty for my taste.”
The guy leaned on top of the case, his massive arms flexing. “Agreed. I cut it with a bit of this new blue we got, a cow’s milk, very silky and tart. The Meridien, have you tried it?”
“No,” William said. “I’m not, um, so I need some prosciutto?”
The guy looked at him, then me, and smiled. “Sure. Quarter pound or half?”
“Half.”
“Great. And I’ll throw in a bit of this new Black Forest I want you to try. You have the Wasilla goat at home still, yes? You’ve got to pair them on a baguette. It’s incredible. Just a sec.”
As the guy opened the case and drew out a huge slab of meat, then walked over to the slicer, I looked pointedly at William. He ignored me, focused instead on the ground sausage display. Finally, I poked him.
“What?”
“Who is that guy?” I asked, my voice low. He blushed again. “He’s cute, William.”
“I barely know him,” he replied, going darker red. “We talked meat and cheese at closing once.”
“I think he likes you.”
“Louna. Stop it.”
“William,” the guy called out over the clanging of the slicer. “You want this thin? Are you making that melon dish we had at dinner that time?”
I gaped at him. “Y-yes,” he stammered. I could literally feel heat coming off his face. “That would, um, be great.”
“Excuse me,” a man carrying a baguette said, coming up to us. “Where is the bulk nut section?”
“Over by the flowers,” William told him, clearly grateful for once for this distraction. “Straight ahead, then left.”
“You had him over for dinner?” I demanded, as the man walked away, taking a wrong turn immediately. “When was this?”
“Hush,” he said, fiddling with the lemons in his basket.
“Here you go,” the meat guy said, dropping two plastic bags on the counter. “The prosciutto you like, with a sample of the Black Forest. You want me to walk over to cheeses with you so you can sample that Meridien?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling at him.
“No,” William told him, at the same time. “I, um . . . we have to go. I’m cooking and the chicken is . . . Next time.”
“Sure thing.” The guy smiled at me and then, wider, at William. “I’ll look forward to it.”
William grabbed the meat, tossing it in his basket, then hustled away, vanishing around a display of flavored popcorn. I turned back to the guy, sticking out my hand. “I’m Louna. And you are?”
“Matt,” he replied. We shook. “You’re William’s . . .”
“Goddaughter,” I said, which was the easy explanation.
“He’s a great guy,” he told me, looking at the popcorn. “And, um . . . still single? Yes?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Good to know,” he said, then knocked the counter between us, smiled, and walked away.
I found William dabbing his brow by the macaroons. “You didn’t tell me you’d had anyone over for a date.”
“It was one time,” he said. I waited. “Look, he’s nice. I’m just . . . not ready for anything.”
“William. You haven’t dated since I was in middle school.”
“Exactly. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“With prosciutto and melon, apparently,” I said. He blushed again. “Look, if I can get back out there dating, so can you.”
He looked at me. “You’re dating again?”
“Kind of. Ambrose and I made a bet. I’m actually meeting the Lumberjack at a party tonight.”
He looked surprised. “Really?”
I nodded. “It’s nothing serious. That’s the whole point. I just have to date, but Ambrose has to commit for seven weeks. Whoever caves first has to get set up by the other with their person of choice.”
“Ambrose gets to set you up?” he asked.
“If he wins,” I said. “Which he won’t.”
“You should hope not. Because he’d pick himself for sure.”
Now my eyes widened. “What? No. That’s not how it works.”
“You said he could pick anyone, correct?” He crossed the aisle, scanning the boxes. “So he says it’s him, and then you have no choice but to go out with him. Pretty genius. I take it that part was his idea?”
Come to think of it, it had been. But that meant nothing, either. “Ambrose does not want to go out with me, William. We barely even like each other.”
“So you say,” he said, picking up a box and putting it in the basket. “I hear a lot of laughing when you two are in the office. And you looked pretty cozy at that photoshoot.”
“Sir, can you help me with the curry sauces?” a woman in a sundress called out from one aisle down. “I need one that’s mild but fragrant.”
“I have to get out of here,” William hissed to me, starting toward the register. Still, he couldn’t help himself, saying to the woman as he passed her, “Tamil’s, in mild. Don’t use too much.”