and pawed Marc’s palm. “We got us a girlfriend and a date.”
“Are you dating my brother?” Abby accused by way of greeting. She said it loud enough that it carried to every customer within a three-booth radius. And since it was prime time at the farmers’ market, it reached the maximum number of listeners.
“Classic French pastry?” Lexi said loudly, forcing a salesgirl smile.
She strategically avoided her friend’s glare, instead paying particular attention to the arrangement of mouthwatering éclairs, fluffy and custard filled and drizzled with enough chocolate to make her forget that it was only eight in the morning, on a Tuesday, and she had already been up for more than four hours.
“Two for five dollars,” she said, licking a glob of filling from her finger. As heavenly as it was, it wasn’t going to save her from an inquisition.
Today the DeLuca Darling wore distressed snug-fit jeans, a bright-teal top, and enough accusation to fill three churches. She also wore a slicked-up ponytail, minimal makeup, and a glare that cut through her designer sunglasses. Abby might look like an innocent coed, but even at five foot one she could be intimidating as hell. “Are. You. Dating. My. Brother? Yes or no.”
“No. Yes.” Lexi sucked her lips inside her mouth to keep from saying anything else. She’d promised Marc that their relationship would stay a secret, well, the pretend part, anyway. She’d also made a blood oath with Abby senior year, after daring Abby to steal the school mascot and blame it on the rival high school’s quarterback, promising her that no one would find out, only to have photographic proof of Abby’s crime end up on the front page of the school paper, that she would never lie to her again. And she hadn’t. Ever. And she didn’t want to start now.
“It’s complicated.”
“That’s a Facebook status, not an answer. Is. Marco. Your boyfriend?”
They stared at each other for a tense moment, neither willing to cave. One night, in the tenth grade, they had had a heated discussion over which was the hottest boy band. Neither had been willing to concede, so they’d glared at each other until the sun came up.
“Fine, he’s my boyfriend,” Lexi started, then corrected herself. “But not my boyfriend.”
“What does that even mean?” Abby threw her hands up in frustration and opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out—except for a high gasp.
Clasping her cheeks as though it would keep her head from shaking back and forth, Abby took a step backward with every word. “No. No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had who doesn’t go stupid around my brothers.”
Lexi rolled her eyes. “I’m not going stupid. And we aren’t even dating…really.”
“Wow, thanks, Lex. That clarifies things. Really, it does. So clear, in fact, that next time Natasha corners me at Picker’s Produce demanding to know if you’re sleeping with one of my brothers, I’ll know exactly how to answer.”
Three ladies in neon sun visors and armed with big canvas bags looked up from the stand one over. The pudgiest of the group, who just so happened to be Nora Kincaid, set down the locally grown honey and moved on to inspect the baskets of organic squash. Not because she had a sudden craving for zucchini bread, Lexi mused, but because it was as close as she could get to eavesdrop without looking too obvious.
“Will you please lower your voice,” Lexi hissed. She grabbed Abby’s arm and dragged her around the table. After shoving Abby into a plastic chair and taking the closest metal folding one, Lexi leaned in and whispered, “She asked that? Really? When?”
“Yes. Ten minutes ago. While my nonna was two feet away trying to barter for a better price on the fava beans.” Abby did not whisper.
Nora leaned closer and pulled out her smartphone, elbowing an eggplant in the process and sending it crashing to the sidewalk.
Lexi waved politely and then turned so that her back was to the pedestrian-filled street. In St. Helena, farmers’ markets were serious business, and if Lexi wanted to discuss her business without it becoming the town’s business or winding up on YouTube, then she had to keep it down. “Wait. What were you doing at Picker’s? You’re supposed to be supervising the remodel.”
Lexi looked behind her, squinting through the back flap of the white farmers’ market tent toward the bakery. Over the heads of a group soccer moms whose faces were pressed against the windows, Lexi