“Leaving so soon?” says a deep voice from behind me.
Kneeling with a handful of precariously balanced tchotchkes, I don’t turn around. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be back next week.” I pause, thinking about that spa day I’m pining for. “But just in case I’m not, I have a website, too. Are you looking for anything in particular?” I can’t afford to lose a new customer, so maybe I can find him what he needs. I lean forward, carefully setting down the enormous mound of glass in my arms.
The man grunts something unintelligible under his breath.
“Sorry?” I get to my feet and turn, but I sort of wish I’d stayed low to the ground.
My eyes sweep up the tall man in front of me. His dark-red hair and fairy-tale good looks remind me of the Jamie guy I’m in love with from that Outlander show. Hot. But it’s his eyes that grab my attention. They’re a shocking ice blue that almost match his faded denim jacket.
Mesmerized, I stare into their depths, noting a coldness that reaches right through me, leaving an indelible mark. He’s giving off some serious vibes, like he’s a man who’s been to hell and lived to tell about it.
“I said you’re leaving an hour too soon,” he repeats, per my request. “Is there a particular reason why?”
I blink at him, my mind churning until something clicks. “Oh! You work for Mr. Espinosa.” Stupid me. Espinosa is the market’s manager. He issues permits and ensures everyone’s products and booths are up to code. “I know I’m not supposed to leave before four, but I’m really tired. And no one’s come by since Teresa sold out of her hothouse beef tomatoes. I figured no one would mind.”
The very tall man—maybe six four—looks down at my five-five frame, making me feel smaller than I really am. His denim blue eyes grow increasingly colder, a complete contrast to his lips, which strike me as more warm and sensual.
“Why the fuck would I care about that?” His eyes lock on mine, almost like a challenge or a warning. Honestly, I’m not sure.
Okay. Strike that whole thing about sensual lips. Obviously, this guy uses his mouth for verbally crapping on people, which leads me to believe he doesn’t work for Espinosa. Espinosa and his staff are always professional and courteous. Luckily, other vendors are all around me, and my booth is ten feet from the entrance, so I’m not entirely nervous about this stranger pulling anything. Security is right there.
“Not sure who you are or why you’re sticking your nose up my glass, but it’s time for you to move along.” I turn away, continuing to pack up my wares, but every inch of my skin is tingling, fully aware of his presence. It’s like he’s in the air all around me.
“Don’t be rude, woman,” he says. “I merely asked a simple question: Why are you leaving so soon?”
Woman. Did he really just call me that? Instead of engaging, I ignore him. I have no need to react to nosy tyrants. No matter how hot.
A few seconds later, I turn around to start stacking crates onto my dolly, and the man is nowhere to be found. I whip my head in both directions.
There’s no sign of him, and I have a clear line of sight down the aisle.
Jesus. I really do need time off.
Chapter Six
The next three nights, I dream like never before, everything in vivid colors except for that black car. I’m at the movies, watching Aquaman, and turn to my right, only to find that car sitting next to me, eating popcorn, its hood lifting as I feed it handfuls of buttery popped kernels. Next I’m in Venice, floating on a gondola, the gondolier singing the Little Caesar’s tagline, “Pizza, pizza,” while that black car sits next to me, its tire around my shoulder. Weird. I don’t know what any of it means, but I do know when my mind is stuck in problem-solving mode. Nothing’s felt right since I found that bottle.
Strike that. Nothing’s felt right since Greg obliterated my ability to trust myself. In short, I know my heart is good, but what if that’s my Achilles’ heel? I mean, the fact that I’m not an asshole keeps me from thinking like one and, therefore, I’m no good at spotting them in the wild. No assholope detection whatsoever. I’d make a terrible asshole cheetah.
What the hell am I saying? Asshole cheetah, I chuckle to myself.
I swing my feet to the cool hardwood floor in my bedroom—aka my calming sleep sanctuary with whitewashed furniture and fluffy white everything—and will my tired body out of bed. Thankfully, another order came in yesterday, and it’s for a café tabletop. They want a mosaic of a wineglass surrounded by green grapes, which means I have to hunt for materials. If I add that to the really expensive piece I just sold on Etsy—a scene of a man next to a wintery lake—I’ll be in good shape.