There’sno way in hellI’mlifting up the baggy worn legs of my overalls in front ofMr.Twinkles.Notleast because my legs haven’t seen a razor since the last timeIwore a dress, which was at the harvest festival.Mypolicy of prioritizing my mom and the shop above everything else—and by “everything else”Imean men—meansIhave neither the time nor the need for personal grooming.
“They’refine.Allof me is fine, thanks.”
“Yourhands definitely look a bit scuffed.”
Hereaches out as if he’s about to take one and check it over.Istep back and whip both hands behind my back.Butthat thrusts out my chest, likeI’mtrying to show it off to him, soIstuff them in my big patch pockets instead.
MaybeI’ma bit dazed from the fall, but he doesn’t seem real.It’slike this guy in a pin-striped suit suddenly fell from the sky.Helooks veryManhattan.
Theonly city folk we have up here are the hipsters whose artisanal soda making, small batch chocolate production, and specialty pickling, have been priced out ofBrooklynso they move upstate for cheaper rents.WarmSpringsis close enough for them to hand-deliver products to theNewYorkCitystores that sell them for ludicrous markups, but too far away for daily commuting, so we’re still a reasonably priced place to live and run a business.
Well, until my shop’s new landlord showed himself to be a money-grabbing devil.
I’vebeen silently staring atMr.Twinkles’sperfectly structured face for way too long now.Whyis he still here anyway?Smiling.Andbeing annoying.
Iblink myself back to reality and tear my eyes away from the chiseled cheekbones and plump lips.Theyland on the potatoes crushed in the gutter.
“YousquashedPeter’spotatoes.”
Hefollows my gaze.
“Oh, sorry.Doyou have more for him?”
“They’renotforPeter.Hegrew them.They’refromPeter’sfarm, farther up the valley.”
Hecocks his head. “Youknow who grew the potatoes?”
“Iknow who grows everything.”
Ipoint through the shop window.
“Thebroccoli’s fromRollingRidgeFarm.EdandVera’sis always greener than anyone else’s.Thechard was grown on a gorgeous acreage nearMillstockbyTedJames.Hisfamily’s farmed that land for four generations.Theapples come fromLennard’sOrchardinChippingwood.ShallIgo on?”
“Nope.ThinkI’mall good for the family history of the produce, thanks.”Helooks at thePolly’sProducesign etched on the shop window. “Polly?”
Inod.
“Hi,Polly.I’mMax.”
Heholds out his buffed hand again.Itwould be rude to refuse it a third time.Iwipe my right hand down the side of my overalls, wince as the graze catches on the fabric, and gingerly take his hand.
“Thoughtit looked sore.I’llbe gentle with it.”Hetwitches his brows the tiniest bit.It’sa big enough movement to be saucy, but small enough to allow for plausible deniability that he’s done it at all.
Andhe is.Gentle, that is.Hegives me a light but firm shake, then flips my hand over and skims his thumb across my palm, skirting the scrape. “Youshould put something on that.”
Whateverthat tingle is that’s running from my hand up my arm has to stop.It’snot helpful at all.Ineed that hand back.Rightnow.
AsIpull away, his fingers drag slowly across it, causing a flutter my stomach hasn’t felt for years.
GoodGod.Ibet those fingers have skills.
Potatoes.
Mustfocus on potatoes.
Idrop to my knees and pick up the ones scattered at my feet, which has the bonus of hiding how red my cheeks must be.Theycertainly feel like they must be midway between pomegranate and plum.
“Ihave to fix the display.I’mrunning behind this morning.”
