“Age is just a number.”
“They think so.” I chew the inside of my cheek, but he doesn’t continue the conversation. I want to crawl out of my skin. He just talked my dad’s ear off. “Did you and Haven have enough time?”
“Oh, yeah. Plenty.” We reach town, and he drives straight to the bakery.
My stomach sinks. That’s it. I’ll never be the recipient of any of Cruz’s flirting again.
He parks by the back door. The little light over it illuminates the landing and the inside of the cab. Cruz’s profile is strong and the shadow across his jaw is darker. The hair that was damp when he arrived is now dry with a hunk hanging over his forehead, giving him a carefree appeal.
All I want to do is smooth it back, feel the silky strands run through my fingers. How warm is his skin?
“Gimme a call if you need a ride before your car’s done,” he says, snapping me out of my delusional thinking.
“Oh. Thank you. Uncle Karl is looking for a set of wheels for me.”
He shrugs. “My schedule’s pretty flexible. Haven said he’ll call you about hauling your supplies down to Billings Friday morning.”
“Oh, yes. Thanks.” Haven’s giving me a ride? I might need the cargo space, but... Haven? Cruz said he’d be working the Billings fair. “I was thinking of using that whiskey you gave me for an exclusive batch of cupcakes. Who do I have to clear that through?”
“Telling me is fine. I know they won’t care.” His smile is tight, functional. “But I’ll pass it on and let you know that it’s all good.”
“I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” There’s that professional smile again.
My heart sinks down to where my stomach went earlier. “Well, thank you.” I slide out of his pickup, feeling all sorts of rejected, which is ridiculous.
“Night, Elodie.” He waits until I’m in the bakery and the door’s closed behind me to drive away. I lean against the cool metal and sigh.
I’mthatgirl. I pushed him away, and now I want him close so damn bad.
CHAPTER FOUR
Cruz
The crafters fair in Billings is set up over two downtown blocks. Local businesses remain open, using the sidewalk as an extension for their booths, and tents line the middle of the street so people can mill down both sides and shop.
It’s packed in the best way. Lane will swing by and help during the busy midday hours, but Haven and I will tackle the whole fair. That way, Lane can work on Elodie’s car.
As for Elodie, she’s in her element. Her dark hair in a messy bun, wearing a big yellow Dee’s Sweets shirt with two cupcakes on the front, she’s all business but in a competent baker way that appeals to people. When she smiles and pushes her glasses up her nose, she charms anyone who’s talking to her even more.
I’ve only spied on her twice since the fair started. Once, when I grabbed a bite from a taco food truck, and again when I ran to meet Lane for a case of gin we’d left behind.
Our booth is a block away from Dee’s Sweets, but we have plenty of customers stopping by, telling us they have to try our stuff after the sample they had at Elodie’s booth. They make itsound like she talked us up more than she did her own products. We’re doing the same for her.
Haven pours a sip of juneberry vodka for one of the many people who’ve been by the booth. This has been one of the best fairs we’ve sold at to date, and Lane is already planning another run of vodka and gin. Those are a hot commodity in the summer.
“Tell me how that is on the palate.” I hand two ladies each a sample of our cask-strength wheat whiskey.
One of the women smiles at me, and I know everything she’s inviting in that grin. Her dark hair is in two braids, one over each shoulder, and she has on an itty-bitty camisole top and shorts that show off amazing, bronzed legs. Once upon a time, I’d have taken that invite.
Now, all I care about is figuring out how to get to know a prickly baker who’s the most bizarre mix of lukewarm and frigid, yet my brain is hanging on those tepid signs for all they’re worth.
The second woman sputters, and the first laughs at her and looks at me, but my attention is yanked away. Behind them, Clem and Elodie are wandering, each with a plate of food.
“Hey, Palmers,” I call. Elodie slides her gaze toward mine, keeping her fork poised over the last chunk of her nachos.
Clem waves her plastic fork in the air. “Hey, boss.”
