The parking lot is half-empty when I pull in, which is a small miracle for a Saturday morning. I grab the package and head into the tiny post office, just two service windows and a wall of PO boxes with brass fronts that have been here for decades. Marjorie, who’s worked here for going on thirty years, decorates for every season like it’s a competitive sport. Right now we’re in full autumn mode: fabric leaf garlands, several baskets of decorative gourds, and twinkle lights shaped like little acorns strung along the walls. Chloe loves it. She makes me report back whenever I come here without her.
There’s one person ahead of me in line, a man I vaguely recognize from my brother Dominic’s gym. At the left window, a guy with at least a dozen packages spread across the counter is squinting at a customs form like it’s written in ancient Greek. At the right window, a woman with long red hair is finishing up, her back to me.
“You have a good day now, Marjorie,” the redheaded woman says, her voice warm. “Enjoy the chocolate.”
She turns around as she says it, two packages stacked in her arms, and I get my first real look at her face. And when I see that face, I do a small double take that I hope isn’t obvious.
She’sstunning.
Her red hair is the kind that catches light like it’s on fire, falling down in loose waves, all of it framing the sort of face that makes you forget what you were thinking about mid-thought. Bright eyes—green, I think, though I’m too far away to be sure—and a smile that lights up her whole face. She’s young, probably mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a forest green sweater that somehow makes her hair look even more vibrant. I practically have to shake my head to break the spell, as if trying to get a siren to release her hold on me.
I don’t recognize her, which means she must be new in town. Dark River is small enough that I know most faces, even if I don’t know names. Hers I woulddefinitelyremember.
The man ahead of me steps up to take her place at thewindow. She adjusts the boxes against her hip, the smaller one wobbling, and heads toward the door, not really watching where she’s going as she shifts her boxes.
I shift to give her room to pass, but she’s already turning and the corner of her larger box grazes my shoulder.
“Oh, sorry!” She stumbles, overcorrecting, and the small box on top slides sideways.
I reach for it on instinct, catching it before it can hit the floor, but she lunges for it at the same moment and the motion tips the larger box, apparently already open, spilling out enough candy to stock a convenience store. Brightly wrapped candies scatter everywhere, rolling across the linoleum in every direction.
“Ack!” She laughs even as she’s saying it, the sound slightly muffled, and I realize she’s got a piece of candy in her mouth, which explains the already-open box. “I’m so sorry!”
“No, that was my fault,” I say. It wasn’t, but she looks mortified, so I’m happy to take the blame.
She drops to the ground, setting down what’s left in the box and scooping up candy with both hands, trying to corral the scattered pieces.
I crouch down to help and blink at the mess scattered across the floor. Gummies in bright wrappers, the writing definitely not English. Scandinavian, maybe. It’s like a European candy shop exploded on the post office linoleum.
“Thank you, you really don’t have to.” She’s still got that candy in her mouth, talking around it.
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” I realize I’m still holding her other box and move to hand it back, right as I catch the name on the sleek black packaging.Simone Pérèle.
EvenIrecognize that name as the famous French lingerie maker, and my brain supplies an image—delicate lace, silk, skin—before I can stop it. Heat crawls up my neck and I force my eyes back to her face, feeling like a complete ass. She’s young, probably barely out of college, and here I am having whollyinappropriate thoughts about her underwear in the middle of the post office on a Saturday morning.
Her eyes dart to the box, then back to my eyes, and I watch her cheeks begin to match her hair color. She scoops it from my grip quickly, tucking it under her arm like it might spontaneously combust if left in view.
“Er—thank you,” she says, returning to gathering the scattered candy.
I nod and do the same, trying to focus intently on collecting gummies and not on the French lingerie tucked under her arm. Anddefinitelynot on the way her sweater slips off one shoulder as she reaches for a piece of candy near my foot.
“So is this a regular thing?” I ask, laughing a little as I take in the sheer volume of it. There have to be hundreds of pieces scattered around us. “Are you smuggling European candy into Dark River?”
“I might as well be,” she says, laughing too, all signs of embarrassment gone as she grabs a handful of candies and drops them back in the box. She’s got a great laugh, warm and infectious. “As a certified sugar addict, I have an obsession with Scandinavian candy and there’s this website in Copenhagen that ships internationally. Obviously I order in bulk because the shipping costs are insane if you don’t.”
“I can see that,” I laugh, putting a handful of chocolate bars into the box. “How much candy do you go through in a month?”
“Believe it or not, this is actually a light month for me,” she says, completely straight-faced, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You should seeDecember.Thisis what impulse control looks like.”
“The already-opened box really sells the impulse control,” I say, and she laughs harder this time, her eyes crinkling at the corners, which makes me laugh too.
“Listen, when you pay for international shipping, you earn the right to sample the goods immediately,” she says, poppingthe candy she’d been sucking on to the other cheek. “It’s called quality control.”
“Of course. Very professional.”
“Extremelyprofessional.” She grabs another handful of candies. “I take my candy addiction very seriously.”
She grabs the last of the brightly wrapped candies and stands, balancing everything against her hip. “Anyway. Sorry again for the chaos. And for almost taking you out with my candy habit.”
