“You go first.”
Her voice was soft and nudging in his ear, and he recognized the sound of it immediately. Without even glancing towards his right, Christian Wallace was certain of the identity of the woman who stood there, despite not having heard Rosie Donovan’s voice in more than four years. He knew instinctively who was motioning him to go forward through the tight, crowded aisle of the Stop N’Save. He had somehow known it the moment the earthy fragrance of patchouli oil first caught at his awareness a few seconds before she spoke.
He allowed himself a quick look in her direction. Rosie’s short pixie-like hairstyle was as he remembered, its brown spikes standing in stiff disarray. Her equally dark brown eyes slid to meet his, momentarily dancing with inner amusement. He regarded her and arched his eyebrows at the getup she was wearing. On her feet, Rosie wore bright orange flip flops. This was topped by fluorescent pink sweatpants and an oversized neon green t-shirt emblazoned with a huge fish hook and the words, Hooked on Jesus.
He sighed. Yep. Irreverent. Bold. It was Rosie alright. “Rosalind,” he corrected silently. By now she had doubtless shed the childhood abbreviation and adopted her full given name. And grown up.
He snorted outloud. “It seems like I’ve heard those words from you a few times before, Rosalind. And the suggestion is still a bad idea, almost two decades later.”