killer.”
“No, thanks,” Beck said. “But you go ahead. I’ll stay out here and wait for everyone else. If we get too spread out, we’ll never find each other again, and I think we should do a quick tactical before we start shopping.”
With a wave and a head bop, Winslow melted into the crowd, and Beck turned his attention back to surveying the market itself, scanning for a glimpse of his other teammates.
Standing head and shoulders above most of the sea of people milling around him, Beck crossed his arms and tried not to notice the wide berth the other shoppers gave him. When he caught himself scowling and ducking his head to let his chin-length hair swing across and hide his face, he jammed his hands into his pockets and moved out of the flow of foot traffic.
The market was a riot of color and life, scraggly-bearded organic farmer hippies in ripped tank tops rubbing shoulders with young mothers in yoga pants pushing strollers. An arriving ferry pulled in to the dock around the back corner of the building, disgorging a group of up-and-coming urban professionals in slim-cut suits, on their way from their homes in the ’burbs to jobs in the city.
Northern California’s growing season extended well into November, and the vendors’ tables were piled high with tail-end-of-summer goodies, mounds of sun-warmed nectarines and opulent globes of Italian eggplant glowing deeply purple in their baskets. The air smelled exciting, full of the ripe scent of fresh fruits and vegetables, the rich soil still clinging to them.
Beck’s mind was conditioned now to see the potential in ingredients like this. He wandered closer to a forager’s stall, where a blackboard easel sported amazingly detailed chalk drawings of chanterelles and maitakes.
Mentally calculating the meatiness of a sautéed mushroom against the delicate brine of a seared diver scallop, Beck scrolled through possible accompaniments. A ginger butter sauce? Or maybe something with more acid, like a brown butter and lemon vinaigrette. He put out a thoughtful finger to the overflowing basket of grayish brown fungus, relishing the grit of the dirt under his fingertips.
“When did you start liking mushrooms?”
Chapter 6
Beck froze with one hand outstretched, his broad, blunt fingertip pressed to the smoothly rounded silken head of a dark portobello.
The chill brilliance of afternoon sunlight reflecting off of San Francisco Bay whited out his vision for a long moment—or maybe that was the swift blow to the head of hearing Skye Gladwell’s sweet, bright voice directly behind him.
Turning to face her, Beck steeled himself for the sight he was pretty sure he’d never get used to: Skye as a woman, not a girl. Her hair was a cloud of strawberry-blonde curls around her pretty, heart-shaped face—so familiar and at the same time, so changed.
The face he’d once known better than his own was the face of a stranger now.
Still, it didn’t take the familiarity of years to read the mocking note in her casual tone.
“I learned to like a lot of things, the last ten years,” Beck replied. “Learned to hate a lot of things, too.”
It wasn’t hard to keep his voice even and calm. He’d had lots of practice, in way worse circumstances than standing in front of a vegetable vendor’s tent, staring down the first person he’d ever loved.
His wife. Who wanted a divorce.
Good thing he didn’t love her anymore, or that would probably hurt.
Curiosity sparked in Skye’s changeable blue-green eyes, colors shifting like waves out at sea, but she didn’t ask what else he’d learned.
She’d changed, too.
One swift glance was enough to take her in from head to toe. Clearly, Skye still favored comfort over style. Her ankle-length, gypsyish skirt was the color of denim but made of something much softer. She had a sweatshirt tied haphazardly around her curvy waist, rucking up the hem of her loose, flowing top and exposing a tantalizing sliver of tanned, smooth
“No, thanks,” Beck said. “But you go ahead. I’ll stay out here and wait for everyone else. If we get too spread out, we’ll never find each other again, and I think we should do a quick tactical before we start shopping.”
With a wave and a head bop, Winslow melted into the crowd, and Beck turned his attention back to surveying the market itself, scanning for a glimpse of his other teammates.
Standing head and shoulders above most of the sea of people milling around him, Beck crossed his arms and tried not to notice the wide berth the other shoppers gave him. When he caught himself scowling and ducking his head to let his chin-length hair swing across and hide his face, he jammed his hands into his pockets and moved out of the flow of foot traffic.
The market was a riot of color and life, scraggly-bearded organic farmer hippies in ripped tank tops rubbing shoulders with young mothers in yoga pants pushing strollers. An arriving ferry pulled in to the dock around the back corner of the building, disgorging a group of up-and-coming urban professionals in slim-cut suits, on their way from their homes in the ’burbs to jobs in the city.
Northern California’s growing season extended well into November, and the vendors’ tables were piled high with tail-end-of-summer goodies, mounds of sun-warmed nectarines and opulent globes of Italian eggplant glowing deeply purple in their baskets. The air smelled exciting, full of the ripe scent of fresh fruits and vegetables, the rich soil still clinging to them.
Beck’s mind was conditioned now to see the potential in ingredients like this. He wandered closer to a forager’s stall, where a blackboard easel sported amazingly detailed chalk drawings of chanterelles and maitakes.
Mentally calculating the meatiness of a sautéed mushroom against the delicate brine of a seared diver scallop, Beck scrolled through possible accompaniments. A ginger butter sauce? Or maybe something with more acid, like a brown butter and lemon vinaigrette. He put out a thoughtful finger to the overflowing basket of grayish brown fungus, relishing the grit of the dirt under his fingertips.
“When did you start liking mushrooms?”
Chapter 6
Beck froze with one hand outstretched, his broad, blunt fingertip pressed to the smoothly rounded silken head of a dark portobello.
The chill brilliance of afternoon sunlight reflecting off of San Francisco Bay whited out his vision for a long moment—or maybe that was the swift blow to the head of hearing Skye Gladwell’s sweet, bright voice directly behind him.
Turning to face her, Beck steeled himself for the sight he was pretty sure he’d never get used to: Skye as a woman, not a girl. Her hair was a cloud of strawberry-blonde curls around her pretty, heart-shaped face—so familiar and at the same time, so changed.
The face he’d once known better than his own was the face of a stranger now.
Still, it didn’t take the familiarity of years to read the mocking note in her casual tone.
“I learned to like a lot of things, the last ten years,” Beck replied. “Learned to hate a lot of things, too.”
It wasn’t hard to keep his voice even and calm. He’d had lots of practice, in way worse circumstances than standing in front of a vegetable vendor’s tent, staring down the first person he’d ever loved.
His wife. Who wanted a divorce.
Good thing he didn’t love her anymore, or that would probably hurt.
Curiosity sparked in Skye’s changeable blue-green eyes, colors shifting like waves out at sea, but she didn’t ask what else he’d learned.
She’d changed, too.
One swift glance was enough to take her in from head to toe. Clearly, Skye still favored comfort over style. Her ankle-length, gypsyish skirt was the color of denim but made of something much softer. She had a sweatshirt tied haphazardly around her curvy waist, rucking up the hem of her loose, flowing top and exposing a tantalizing sliver of tanned, smooth
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