“Whatcha got there?” A woman stood in front of his stall. She was probably in her sixties and wore a faded purple T-shirt. Curly gray hair sprouted out from underneath an old denim baseball cap that hadFarmers Feed Citiesstitched onto it.
“Good morning.” Oliver smiled. He’d learned in law school to start every conversation with a smile. It made most people relax and made nervous people wonder what he knew. “How are you today?”
“Oh, fine.” The woman looked over his setup. He’d hung the Pulpability banner over the front of the tent. She had to step a long way back to see it, which was not ideal. He didn’t want people stepping away. Oliver made a mental note to hang it lower next Saturday.
“Are you interested in trying something?” He settled the sampler bottles in the ice. The woman eyed them suspiciously.
“What’s in them?” She lifted a bottle. Her expression said she was expecting him to say “arsenic.”
“Well, the one you’re holding there isMango Tornado. It’s mango, carrot, ginger, and lime, with a little bit of apple.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Seems like a waste of perfectly good apples to me.”
Oliver kept his expression patient. “The apples are a base. The real nutritional value comes from the other ingredients.”
That got another skeptical look. “Apples are good for you. I eat an apple a day, and I haven’t been sick in years.”
“Well yes, of course. They’ve got fiber and vitamin C. Most people should eat more plant-based material. But in a juice like this, you have to remove the peel, which eliminates a lot of the nutritional value in apples.”
The woman pursed her lips. “Are you going to be here all season?”
“That’s the plan. I’m Oliver, by the way.” He reached over the table to shake her hand. She took it, but she still watched him suspiciously.
“I’m Marsha. My husband Glen and I have a booth over there.”
“Great to meet you. What do you sell?”
“Glen’s family runs an apple orchard. Right now we’re selling the end of last year’s apple butter and cider. But you wouldn’t be very interested in that.” Her lips pinched together in a bitter smile. Oliver’s cheeks flushed as he pulled his hand back.
Oops.
He was given a merciful reprieve when the sound of a car with little or no viable muffler choked to life in the parking lot. Nick’s car pulled out of its parking spot. Something squealed as he came to a stop and took the car out of reverse, but the squealing sound died as he made his slow chugging way toward the exit. He didn’t even glance at Oliver as he pulled onto the street.
Oliver had clearly failed to make a positive impression. Or maybe he hadn’t managed to claw his way back from being the jerk who had Nick’s car towed.
It would all be fine, except even the shadowed sight of Nick’s profile in the car brought back all the memories. The rasp of Nick’s stubble on Oliver’s neck, the wet heat inside his mouth. The firm insistence as Nick grabbed Oliver’s ass and showed him exactly how much Nick wanted him.
Oliver’s dick twitched in his jeans, and he shifted, tearing his gaze away from the old sedan that rumbled up the street. He turned back to the front of his stall to find, much to his relief, that Marsha had moved on. No need to dig himself in deeper with her by not only insulting her produce but also sporting a hard-on like he had a fetish for classic junkers.
The morning crowd rolled in, and Oliver didn’t have more time to fixate on his memories of Nick. He did his best to catch people’s attention—those who made it all the way down to his end of the aisle, anyway. Most listened politely as he introduced himself and his business model. Some accepted his offer of a free sample, although their reactions were mixed. TheMango Tornadowas the most popular. People treated the kale and spinach blend that Oliver called theGreen Monsterlike a magic potion that needed to be choked down but would give them superpowers if they survived. No one seemed to likeBeet the Rap. More to the point, hardly anyone bought anything. Despite all his planning, nothing could have prepared him for the quiet desperation that flared up in his chest whenever someone walked away.
He handed out a bunch of flyers, though, and at least a few people seemed excited about his workshop. One guy, who had the reddest hair Oliver had ever seen, nearly fist-pumped the air when Oliver explained it to him.
“This is exactly the kind of thing I’ve been looking for!” He smiled broadly, flashing white teeth against his freckled skin.
“Well, I look forward to seeing you there.”
The red-headed kid—he couldn’t be more than twenty—grinned at him, bought three bottles ofBeet the Rap, and went on his way. Oliver couldn’t help his smile as he watched him go, although it faded when he spotted the death stares coming from Marsha and Glen across the way. The orchard stall was busier than his. Whatever they thought of his opinions on apples, they weren’t hurting.
As he packed up for the afternoon, nervous energy twitched under his skin. He’d spoken to more people that morning than the week before, but the crowd had still been small. He’d see how many people actually followed through on their promises to come to the workshop. The market felt like a smart way to introduce himself, but he still had a long haul before he could call Pulpability a success.
He would succeed, though. He’d left too much behind, would have to answer too many questions if he failed.
He drove to the shop, letting himself in through the back so he could put his remaining stock in the fridge and stash his tables and banners.
The shop had a storage room behind the kitchen. He shuffled a few boxes around, trying to create more space. The bottles rattled as he stacked their crates. As he stood from setting down the last one, he banged his head on a shelf hard enough to see stars.
“Ow!” He clamped a hand down on the throbbing spot on his skull, then growled as a stack of paper tumbled to the floor in a rush.
