Free Love in All the Right Places (Chick Lit bundle) by Chris Mariano, Agay Llanera, Chrissie Peria

parted on such terms. You know that I only have the utmost regard for your hobby talent art
    I am leaving Bacolod in April. If it is not too forward of me, may I be permitted to visit you at your home in Ibajay? I also wish to extend an invitation for you and a chaperone to accompany me on a sailing trip. It should be a welcome change from all your suitors.
     
    Dear Caring,
    I just received the piña shawl that you sent. Did you really weave this? It is quite exquisite. I must add it to your growing list of talents.
    Same time, same place?
    Anding
     
    Min Hee peered over his shoulder. “What’s that?” she asked.
    “I think I know the name of the artist whose sketches we saw yesterday,” Gio told her. “Caridad Melchor. She might not be too hard to trace.”
    “Do you think she’s still alive?”
    Gio carefully placed the letters in an envelope. “I hope so.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry about that. Not quite two minutes, but I’m ready now. Shall we go?”
    In response, Min Hee handed him a small paper bag. “What’s this?” Gio asked, but opening it just the same.
    Inside was the white lizard button-down that he had tried on last night.  “You didn’t have to.”
    “My way of thanking you,” she said simply. 
    “Thank you,” Gio told her seriously.
    “This way every time you have a severe need to wear that ratty 25 th Reunion shirt, you can wear this instead.” She laughed, the twinkle back in her eye. “Come on, Mr. Museum. The day’s waiting.”
     
    * * * *
     
    After they had crossed to the mainland on the pump boat, the two of them walked to a nearby lot where Gio had parked Carlos’ car. The first on Gio’s agenda was a pineapple plantation that was about two hours from the Caticlan Jetty Port. It was a long drive, even further than his house, but he decided it was better to visit the furthest spots first and then slowly make their way back to Boracay.
    “So these pineapples get processed and sold in cans?” Min Hee asked as they drove off.
    “No, this variety is called the Spanish Red. It’s the only pineapple plant grown for its fibers,” Gio replied. He glanced at Min Hee and grinned at her puzzled expression. “Do you remember the paintings and photographs in the museum? Most of the men and women there wore clothes made of pineapple fiber, mostly because those photos were taken at special occasions. It’s also what Anding Torres mentioned in one of the letters we read this morning. The shawl the artist made for him was woven from pineapple.”
    On the way to the plantation, Gio continued to share a lot of information about piña cloth while Min Hee asked question after question. He had grown used to it by now, and the nice thing was, she was also letting him finish each answer, as if she was really interested in what he had to say. He’d point out interesting spots along the way: “This town is famous for their cold springs” or “There’s a cave there that they say ends at a totally different province” or “There are waterfalls there with seven basins.” (The latter was a mistake, because Min Hee insisted on taking a detour.) It made him realize that it wasn’t that she was flighty, as he had assumed when they first met, but that she just had about ten thousand things on her mind.
    “It must be crazy to live inside your head,” he noted.
    Min Hee blushed unexpectedly, as if he had caught her off-guard. “What do you mean?” she demanded.
    He shrugged. “Just that you jump from topic to topic so quickly. I feel like I’d be constantly reorganizing your brain if I lived there.”
    “Oh, that.” She looked relieved, although Gio couldn’t figure out why. Then she stuck her tongue out at him. “Stay away from my brain.”
    It was late morning when they finally arrived at their destination. They were welcomed by one of the farmers, whom Gio had met while working for the Torreses. The farmer showed them the even rows of pineapple, muted reddish-purple fruits