Page 28 of Demon Loved
Those logistics weren’t her problem, though. Now that she’d dropped off her equipment, she could get around on foot just fine.
No, the biggest problem would be trying to navigate her time with Bill…and not give away how much she knew she already cared for him.
He definitely looked cheerful when they met up by the food trucks a little before noon. Unlike a lot of the crowds who’d already gathered to listen to the music — the first act started right at twelve — he wore another of his short-sleeved camp shirts rather than a T-shirt, this one in deep burgundy that looked great with his lightly tanned skin and dark hair.
And possibly she’d been imagining it, but she thought she saw his hazel eyes light up in admiration when he caught sight of her walking through the crowds, her sequined skirt sending off little happy sparkles as she moved.
“This is much more than I imagined,” he said after they’d exchanged greetings.
Yes, she had to admit that a couple of hundred people gathered in a not-very-big space felt like quite the crowd. Also, the food trucks were accessible to everyone, not only those who’d bought tickets to the festival, so the lines there were also pretty impressive.
“I think we’d better queue up now,” she replied. “Otherwise, we’re going to be waiting forever to get our food.”
“A good idea,” he agreed as he surveyed the crowd. “Which one looks best to you?”
“Anything,” she said simply. “You can pick.”
He studied the various food trucks — there was one from the Mustang Grille in Cottonwood, and one offering Mexican food, and two more beyond that, a truck that specialized in good old American food like hamburgers and hot dogs and one that had Mediterranean fare like shish kebab and falafel and shawarma.
“Let’s try the barbecue one,” he said. “It sounds interesting.”
Bree would probably rather have had the Mediterranean food, since the Verde Valley was pretty short on restaurants like that. But maybe because Bill liked to travel so much, he had a habit of sampling the barbecue wherever he was. She’d heard it could vary regionally quite a bit, although she’d never been able to venture out of Arizona to find out for herself.
They got in line. The queue wasn’t quite as long as some of the others, and she guessed that was because anyone attending the festival who lived in the Verde Valley knew all about the Mustang Grille, since they had restaurants in Cottonwood and Sedona and Prescott.
Thanks to that, they were able to get their food fairly quickly, and managed to snag a spot at one of the picnic tables just as several of the early birds were getting up to leave.
Bree could only hope that kind of luck would continue to follow her for the rest of the afternoon.
“Did you get over to Sedona yesterday?” she asked, thinking that was a neutral enough question.
Bill hadn’t started eating yet, so it wasn’t as though she’d interrupted him. Still, she noticed how he paused before saying, “Oh, I decided to stay here in Jerome and explore a bit more. Also, I knew today would be busy, so I thought it might be better not to go running all over the place.”
She wasn’t sure whether taking a trip of less than a half hour to see Sedona’s red rocks could exactly be classified as “running all over the place,” but she decided not to comment on that. If he’d wanted to stay put and do more sketching or whatever, that was his prerogative.
“I hope you found some interesting stuff,” she replied before taking a bite of her pulled pork sandwich.
He nodded. “Paradise Lane. There are some beautiful Victorian houses up there.”
Bree wasn’t sure why such an admission startled her. Maybe it was because not many tourists made it to the street where she’d grown up, thanks to the way it was so cut off from the normal flow of traffic through Jerome — by design, she was sure. Several civilians lived there, too, but the majority of the residents on Paradise Lane were also McAllisters.
And since he’d already been there, she didn’t see the point in trying to hide that it was her former home base.
“I grew up there,” she said, reaching for a French fry.
Now it seemed to be his turn to be surprised. “You did? Which house?”
“The yellow one with the green trim,” she replied. “My parents still live there. My brother lives on Paradise Lane, too. He bought a house near the end of the cul-de-sac — the pink one. He hates the color, but it was such a steal that he snapped it up anyway. I think he’ll repaint it in the next year or two, though.”
As she said all this, she couldn’t help wondering if Bill would look at her as kind of a loser for living over a gallery when her brother had just bought his first house. All right, Shane was a couple of years older and farther along in his career, but….
“What’s wrong with pink?” Bill asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“I guess he thinks it’s too girly or something.” She couldn’t help smiling a little as she made that remark, mostly because it probably was a bit foolish to say one color was more feminine than another.
Expression considering, Bill scooped up a forkful of brisket. “I think pink is a nice color.”
“So do I,” she said, then added, “but I’m not sure I’d want a pink house, either.”
