Her expression falls, and she tosses her sample cups in the garbage bin we keep handy for them. “Whiskey isn’t usually my thing. Thank you though. Thank you for this.”
She’s sincere, but she’s also rushing off. Was it something I said? All I know is that it’s me.
Haven crosses to me just as she’s stepping away. “Hey, Elodie. You mind riding home with Cruz tomorrow? Lane and I need to take the trailer to grab an order from the warehouse while we’re in town. Your stuff should fit in Cruz’s pickup.”
“You mind?” she asks almost cautiously.
Do I mind spending more than an hour in the car with her? Fuck yes. It’ll either be an hour of complete, stony silence and I’ll lose the urge to continue my dogged pursuit. Or she’ll crack and tell me that I’m her dream man, everything she wants, and she can’t stay away anymore. It’s a good thing I’m not a betting man. “It’s fine with me.”
“Thanks,” she says, and I still can’t get a read on her. “Any of my treats left over go with you guys though. It’s the least I can do.”
Haven snorts. “I’m not going to argue.”
The corner of her mouth twitches up before she walks away. Her long, sunny skirt swishes with each step.
Haven’s stare bores into me. “Do you want to go with Lane tomorrow instead?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Why?”
“You don’t seem to like Elodie.”
“I like her just fine, but she seems to think I’m some sort of player or something. I’m trying to act trustworthy, and I fuck up every time.”
He cocks up a dark brow. “She’s been like that for as long as I’ve known her. She came home to open the bakery, but she’s never even told Clem what she did in the years she was away.” He rolls a shoulder. “The baker’s got a story.”
I nod. My story isn’t a secret, but not many people know it. Even fewer know about what I was like before I was nineteen. To everyone in Huckleberry Springs, I’m part owner of Foster House Gold and I ranch with my brother. When I lived in Bourbon Canyon, I was one of the two Foster brothers working for Mae. We were too old to be foster kids, but she brought us in like family. No one in Huckleberry Springs knows I wasn’t born and raised to do chores in the morning and evening, calve in the spring, and work cattle in the fall.
I owe both my brothers and the Baileys for not being a giant fuckup anymore. No way Elodie went through the type of shit I experienced growing up, not with her folks, but I can understand not bringing up the past. I also get being cynical because of it.
Whatever Elodie’s baggage is, it’s heavy. It’s a good thing I’m a strong guy.
Elodie
If I had a Cruz every time I broke down my booth after an event, I would do more of them. He hauled everything and was careful not to bang tables or scratch display cases. All my boxes and equipment are safely stashed in the bed of his pickup, and he even nestled the boxes of extra cupcakes and cake pops in his back seat so they wouldn’t get jostled around. Now we’re driving back to Huckleberry Springs.
“It was a good weekend,” he says.
My weekend is when I’m closed on Mondays, and even then, I’m in the bakery or doing admin work.
“Yeah, it was great.” I almost wince at my wooden tone.
My sales were gangbusters. I made enough to pay Lane for my car and fill up the loaner Karl found for me before I return the tiny Ford Focus to him. It was handy around town, but it wouldn’t have worked for this weekend. That thing would’ve been full past the windows just with my cupcakes.
Cruz slides a sidelong glance my way but doesn’t say anything else.
He has to have noticed my tone. He seems more sensitive to it than anyone else in my life. More considerate. But then he does that for everyone. Just like he said.
Only he made the claim in regard to his job. He was so animated and knowledgeable when he walked me through the samples, I felt special.
He does it for everyone. At least he’s open about it.
I could’ve been more exuberant about his comment. The weekend was phenomenal. I nearly ran out of business cards. I sold so much on Saturday that I baked over half the night to haul more goods in today. I dug into my stores of frozen cookie dough to sell that too. I ran out.
I’m going to be a baking machine tonight into tomorrow. I’m going to hustle frozen cookie dough hard since it’s a proven seller. With those sales, I should have the payment I need for the end of the month.
Nineties country music plays quietly from the speakers. Does he keep it turned down because he’s normally visiting with his passenger? The dashboard is still dust-free. Other than the bottle of water in his console, there’s no garbage of any sort. Does he vacuum every day too? For a guy who lives on gravel, this pickup is too clean. I’ve studied everything I can in the cab, but I’m not getting any new insight into him. I could stare at himfor the next forty-five minutes, which I’d love to do, or I can gaze out the window.
The silence gets to me.
