The four of them wandered off toward the other booths, Emily already pointing at something that caught her eye. Scout trotted beside Evan, perfectly behaved, while Nate cast one last longing look at Daisy before Emily pulled him along.
I exhaled slowly, tension draining from my shoulders.
“That went well.”
Rosie appeared beside me, her voice bright with approval.
I glanced down at her. “They didn't run away screaming.”
“It's a good start.” Her eyes danced. “Did you make plans to hang out? Grab a beer sometime?”
I stared at her. “You want me towhat?”
“You know.” She made a vague gesture. “Guy stuff. Whatever it is men do when they socialize.”
“I just met them.”
“So?”
“So I can't just...” I shook my head. “That's not how it works.”
“Why not?” Rosie tilted her head, genuine confusion on her face. “You seemed to get along.”
“We exchanged maybe ten words.”
“Perfect foundation for friendship.”
“Rosie.”
“Cal.”
She was smiling at me like I was the most ridiculous person she'd ever encountered. Which, given the week she'd had with escaped goats and a broken irrigation system, seemed unfair.
“I'm not inviting near-strangers to hang out,” I said flatly. “That's insane.”
“It's called making friends.”
“It's called moving too fast.”
She patted my arm, her touch light and infuriatingly patronizing. “Baby steps. We'll work on it.”
Before I could respond, she was already heading back to her booth, that red dress swishing around her legs.
I looked down at Daisy and Hank. “She's exhausting.”
Daisy wagged her tail. Hank yawned.
Helpful.
I moved to the shaded spot Rosie had designated for the adoption setup, setting up the folding chair Sharon had insisted I bring and positioning it where I could keep an eye on both dogs. Daisy sprawled in a patch of sun, already making friends with every person who walked past. Hank remained under Rosie's table, watching the crowd with wary eyes.
The market bustled around us—families browsing produce, kids chasing each other between booths, the steady hum of conversation mixing with birdsong from the trees lining the square.
Rosie laughed at something a customer said, her voice carrying over the noise. Bright. Easy. Natural.
I watched her arrange flowers in a mason jar, her hands quick and confident. A few days ago, I'd been driving to Sullivan Farm expecting Walt's familiar gruffness and Buddy's routine checkup.
Instead, I got Rosie. She crashed into my life—literally—and now I was standing at a farmers’ market with two rescue dogs, making awkward small talk with strangers, and it didn't feel terrible.