You were just trying to buy peaches.

That’s it. That’s the whole story. A simple plan for a Saturday: wander the Central Park farmers market, iced coffee in hand, maybe flirt with the idea of a potted herb you’ll forget to water. It was shaping up to be a good morning. Blue skies. Warm breeze. Minimal tourist congestion.

The bag on your shoulder held the promise of fresh strawberries, local honey, and overpriced sourdough as you stood trying to decide between fresh peaches and the cute guying selling homemade jas.

And then you turned around and walked directly into a wall of muscle and broad chest.

You let out a startled noise, your mason jar of organic cold brew exploding between you like some sort of hipster landmine as a strong hand shot out and steadied you by the elbow.

"Whoa—sorry about that," a deep, too-handsome-for-public-safety voice said.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry—” you blurt, already reaching for napkins that don’t exist and trying to recover whatever remains of your dignity.

“It’s alright,” comes the reply, low and calm and so ridiculously familiar your brain goes momentarily static. “Are you okay?”

You looked up.

And then you looked up.

The man was tall. Like, block-out-the-sun tall. Blond hair, chiseled jaw, blue eyes that did something complicated to your lungs. You blinked once. Twice.

Nope. Still there. Still stupidly attractive.

Still Captain freaking Valor.

Grant Shepherd. A living, breathing anachronism in a henley that fits far too well and eyes that have seen way too much. He’s got a canvas bag full of produce, a smile that’s way too kind for someone who just got splashed with your cold brew, and—God help you—a single lock of golden hair that’s doing the whole “rom-com breeze” thing.

You blink. “You’re… very tall.”

He chuckles, brushing damp coffee off his shirt like he doesn’t even notice the crowd that’s slowly starting to recognize him. “So I’ve been told.”

“I—uh—sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was…” You waved vaguely toward the peach stand like that explained anything.

His smile was polite and patient, but with the slight twitch of someone who’d done this a thousand times. “No harm done.” He hands you a napkin from his own bag.

"Wow, uh—thanks." You took it and instantly reached to wipe at the stain on his shirt before your brain caught up and screamed at you to STOP. “You’re… you’re Grant Shepherd.”

His brow quirked, amused. “I was, last time I checked.”

You made a sound. You hoped it was a laugh. Could’ve been a wheeze. Could’ve been a slow internal combustion, honestly. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect to run into you while I was buying overpriced nectarines.” Peaches, your brain reminded you too late.

“Nectarines, huh?” he looked past you at the fruit display. “Solid choice. Good balance of sweet and tart.”

You stared at him.

He gave you a small shrug. “What? I have opinions.”

Of course he did. Of course Captain Valor had nuanced fruit takes and the charm of a golden retriever in a Henley.

You were going to need a moment. Or five. Or a whole new identity.

Of all the ways your Saturday could have gone—grocery shopping, laundry, questioning your life choices—you did not have “bantering with Grant Shepherd while dripping in coffee and a bag of avocados” on your bingo card.

You managed to pull yourself together just enough to say, “I owe you a drink. Preferably one not already exploded on your chest.”

He gives you a crooked smile, warm and a little amused. “Is that your way of asking me out?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. He’s teasing you. Grant Shepherd is teasing you. In public. While looking like the blueprint for every historical romance novel you’ve ever secretly devoured.

You recover fast. “It’s my way of saying you should never stand between a girl and her caffeine.”

“Duly noted,” he nods. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

Next time.

Oh, hell.