She shook her head and followed him to the register where a line of customers was already waiting. But even a few minutes gave her time for second thoughts. Flannel pants or not, the pajama top was little more than a spaghetti-strapped camisole.
She tugged at her sleeve.
“Stop worrying.”
She dropped her hands to her sides.
So what if the top left her arms bare? He’d already seen the scars. And it wasn’t as though she’d be modeling her nightwear for him.
He had an Ashley, after all. Plus—mortifying as it had been—he’d already seen Laurel naked. He hadn’t exactly been overcome with desire.
Her cheeks felt on fire. “I’m going to wait outside.” She hurried away before he could protest.
The teenage couple was still sitting on the bench when she went back through the bell-jingling door. She turned her back on them and moved toward the curb.
The door jangled twice more before Adam joined her on the sidewalk, with his purchases inside a paper shopping bag. If he was surprised that she hadn’t tried making a break for it, he hid it well. Instead, he pointed up the street. “Look at that. Hot-air balloons. Come on. They don’t look too far.”
“You can take the trolley.” The couple from the bench had obviously overheard and had risen, joining them near the curb. “Should be here any second.” The young man jerked his thumb toward the old-fashioned trolley rumbling along the street toward them. “Runs every twenty minutes.”
“There’s a trolley stop by the balloons. That’s where we’re heading.” As the girl spoke, the trolley glided to a stop in front of them, disgorging several passengers.
Adam looked at her. “What do you say? Walk or ride?”
His warm fingers were still enclosing hers. “Walk.” She felt breathless.
The trolley driver was looking at them. “You coming?”
“Maybe on the return trip,” Adam told him.
The driver closed the door and the trolley rumbled off again.
A second balloon—this one with red, white and blue chevrons—rose in the air. As they neared, Laurel spotted the ropes tethering the balloons to the ground, as well as the lines of people waiting for a chance to ride.
“Have you ever been up in one?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, but he let go of her hand when a streak of white-blond hair on stubby legs plowed between them.
“Sorry!” A woman pushing an enormous stroller hurried past. “Abigail, you stop right this minute!”
The tot skidded to a halt but the pure devilment on her face warned it probably wouldn’t last long.
Laurel looked up at Adam, seeing the dimple flash in his cheek and she didn’t mind so very much then that he’d released her hand.
Even before they reached the park, it was obvious there was some kind of festival going on. In addition to the tethered balloon rides, there were caricaturists set up with their easels and pencils. A table positioned beneath a bright blue tent was occupied by a woman painting flowers on a teenager’s cheek. Vendors with pushcarts sold pretzels and hot dogs and huge puffs of pink and blue cotton candy. Two food trucks did an equally brisk business.
And everywhere Laurel looked, she saw couples holding hands. Families with children chasing about.
It was festive and beautiful and still bright before sunset. And it made Laurel ache inside.
The white-blond streak that was little Abigail tore across their path again and they waited while her mother and stroller chased in her wake.
Adam’s head bent toward her. “Want an ice cream?”
She looked up at him, ready to shake her head. But the light in his eyes lured a smile from her instead. “How can you possibly want an ice cream after that steak dinner?”
His dimple appeared again and her stomach dipped and swayed. “Ice cream melts, sweetheart. Fills in the cracks.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Fine.” She waved her hand toward the cart several yards away where an old man wearing a crimson-and-white top hat was scooping ice cream into waffle cones. “Ice cream, then.”
He took her hand again as they crossed the green grass.
“Evenin’ folks,” the man greeted with a broad smile. “What can I getcha?” He had several tubs of different flavors inside his refrigerated cart.
Laurel shook her head. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Black walnut and pistachio,” Adam said.
She tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Because just one nut is never enough?”
“I like what I like.” He handed her the paper bag while he pulled out his wallet.
“Man after my own heart,” the man said. “Waffle cone or cup?”
“Cone. And she’ll have a scoop of that peanut butter ice cream in a cup.”
Laurel opened her mouth to protest.
“With chocolate sprinkles,” Adam added before she could.
Her stomach actually rumbled. She did love peanut butter. But she still had to offer some kind of objection. “Maybe I want vanilla.”
“When there’s peanut butter in the vicinity? Not likely.”
He was right, of course. “I don’t need sprinkles,” she assured dryly when the vendor upended a perfectly round ball of ice cream into a small white cup.
“Every pretty girl needs sprinkles,” the man countered, sweeping a scoop of chocolate shavings over the top. “Isn’t that right, sir?” He jabbed a small plastic spoon into the scoop and handed it to her with a flourish.
“Every pretty girl does,” Adam agreed. He handed over the cash and then took the shopping bag from Laurel again.
She almost regretted that she hadn’t insisted on a waffle cone, despite her dislike for them. It would have left one of her hands still free to be held.
But he settled his wide palm on her shoulder, which she quickly realized was even better, despite the shopping bag in his hand bumping against her arm.
They wandered to the far side of the park where even more vendors sold candles and soaps and handmade jewelry. She slowed as a display of gold necklaces caught her eye. They were similar to her L necklace, which had her wondering if hers had been handmade, too.
Then they wandered closer to the clearing where the balloons
