“It’s notjusta farmers market. It’s a farmers andcraftsmarket.” She holds up a finger. “Important distinction.”
In this town, she isn’t wrong.
Sully Bay isn’t a big place.
It’s one main street cutting through the business district, a couple eateries, and one or two touristy stores selling tacky souvenirs. The market takes up the whole center of town, tents and stalls set up all along the sidewalk.
It’s the epitome of small-town excitement.
A band plays covers of eighties hits, which is perfect for the crowd. There are a few younger people in their teens and twenties wandering around, but most of the folks here look middle-aged, if not pushing into their senior years.
“Awesome,” Sophie declares, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“See? Listen to your kiddo.” Margot flashes me a knowing smile.
Most of the stalls are hawking local produce, honey, and more blueberries like they’re the local currency.
Of course, the quality is obscenely good.
Sophie pops into a craft stall, looking over a row of birthstone necklaces. Dan hovers at the next one over, keenly scanning some intricate wooden carvings of animals.
Margot struts around like she was born for this.
For a billionaire’s granddaughter, she’s no oversophisticated snob.
I fucking hate how refreshing that is.
She flicks her hair back over her shoulders, dazzling the stall owners with her breathtaking smile, pausing to make polite conversation with a few artists.
Still, nothing grabs her until she comes to a stall filled with ceramics.
I’ll admit, they’re impressive. Artisan quality like you see at the fine shops in New York or whenever I’ve traveled to the West Coast art malls.
Huge urns, bowls, and cups bursting with colors and a glossy finish that makes them look museum-grade.
Some have swirling blue and green patterns, the edges fading to a darker brown. Others look like stone on the outside, with muddy red or dark-purple accents inside.
“Wow!” Sophie’s eyes go wide behind her glasses as she peers in for a closer look at a bowl. “How do you think he did this?”
Margot touches the tip of one finger to the rim of the bowl, her lips pursed in thought as she looks up. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“Um. I dunno. Can you?” Sophie shakes her head so adamantly her glasses slide down her nose.
She’s such a shy girl and she doesn’t strike up conversations with strangers easily. Especially when they impress her.
“Go ahead. I bet he’d love to talk about his art. I’ll get you started.” Margot leans over the table, catching the eye of the man in the corner. She flashes him her showstopper smile. “Excuse me? My friend here has a question about your work.”
I don’t miss the way Sophie’s lips turn up.
My friend.
Damn, this woman has a knack for making kids love her.
Shame it’s so complicated with adults like me.
Then I remember last night, the way she looked at me under the stars.
Not like I was some monster getting in her face with his tattoos and damaged history, but like I was a person she wouldn’t mind getting to know.
