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Daliah
The area is bustling. People move around each other, some balancing wooden crates as they carry their produce from one end of the market to the other, while others scramble to quickly get set up before the townspeople start filing in.
My table is nearly ready to go. Radiating a sweet scent I’ve grown used to, I shift the jars around for the third time before stepping back to take it all in, making sure the entire presentation is perfect.
My favorite part is the tablecloth I had custom-made. No matter how many times I see the cartoon bee winking at me, I can’t help but gush at how cute it is. Pretty sure it’s what snags people’s attention when they come across my stand. Not the delicious honey my colony of bees works to create or the beeswax that comes after. No, those are what keep people coming back every weekend.
Looking for any flaws and finding none, I smile with excitement. Every Saturday, I try to bottle my feelings, but as always, it’s an impossible feat.
I love the farmers’ market. Not just as a seller, but a consumer, too. Already set up and ready to go, I’m half tempted to make my rounds and see all the familiar faces to get first picks before everyone starts flooding in.
With how nice the weather is, not even a single fluffy cloud in the sky, there’s no doubt it’s going to be a busy day. With how much stock I have to sell, I’m happy to take on the busy.
While I’m weighing my options of which direction to go first, I suddenly hear it. The low, familiar grumble behind me. Automatically, the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall, and on instinct, my heart perks up, fluttering in my chest.
I don’t need to turn to see who the voice belongs to, but I do anyway to see who it is. Under the excuse of taking in the rush of my neighbors, I turn, and automatically, my eyes lock ontohim.
River Pierce. The man who always hunkers down at the spot directly across from me. If he’s not in his usual position, then something must be wrong. Today is no different.
Like everyone else at the market, he’s in the middle of setting up his station. Jars of different colored fruit spreads cover his table. From jellies to jams, he’s got his own thing going on, going as far as putting out samples to taste with pretzel sticks.
He’s the kind of man who stays in his own world most of the time. Where he lacks in friendliness, he makes up for it in flavor, since he’s a popular table that’s always crowded.
Fortunately, another vendor has caught his eye, allowing me to indulge in that deep, low raspy voice of his. Without looking his way, I’m willing to bet that he has that permanent fixture of a scowl carved on his lips. Despite always frowning, his words carry a lightness. They’re what make my chest feel light, and my stomach clench from the fluttering that takes over.
If I were to pause what I’m doing and drift in his direction, asking to try one of his jams, would that grumpy expression of his soften a little, or would he shoo me away?
Last year, I was still new to this whole farmers’ market thing. Overwhelmed would’ve been an understatement. I was far too busy to even introduce myself to him. Couldn’t get a word out, even if I wanted to. Not with the way he has a habit of packing up and being one of the first to leave. That behavior has continued this year, too.
He’s a veteran of this weekly event. By now, he’s got a strict schedule. Showing up and leaving at the same time every week, I can’t even imagine catching him for a conversation to find out everything I can about him.
Makes me want to wiggle my way in that much more.
One of these days, I’ll have the courage to offer him some of my honey as a conversation starter.
As if feeling my gaze, he turns his head and looks directly at me. Like a piercing hit, my heart jumps in my chest in response, as it always does. And as always, his scowl deepens before he yanks his head back to the guy who snagged his attention.
It should be important to mention that River Pierce hates my guts. Or, at least, that’s what I’ve come to accept.
He sells jams. I sell honey. In a sense, maybe he sees me as competition. If I tried to get close to him, he’d probably growl at me.
That shouldn’t fill your stomach up with butterflies, Daliah…
But it does, every single time. Not just ticklish tingles, but something warmer, too. It’s why I always catch myself standing straighter, keeping my thighs pressed tight together beneath my dress so I can experience the heat he brings with that glare for a little longer.
While I’m standing here, foolishly longing after a man that’s way out of my league, I feel something hit my foot. Looking down, I spot a crocheted octopus. Kneeling and picking it up, my stomach clenches in a knot for an entirely different reason as I dust off the dirt in an automatic response.
“Oh my goodness.” A few feet away, I hear her voice. Another familiar vendor. One woman I’ve found myself very jealous of over the last couple of weeks.
Looking over, I see a beauty with brown hair collecting a few other fallen animals from the ground. By the looks of it, her cardboard box has torn at the flaps. She’s the same woman I’ve spotted talking to Rivermanytimes.
She has the bravery I long for, and she doesn’t even try to buy his jams. One time, I think he actually gave her one for free. No trading was involved at all.
Now isnotthe time for jealousy to start flaring up.
Grabbing one of my empty crates, I push my feelings aside and move toward her. Unlike those who watch her struggle to save a rolling duck, I’m already there, ready to capture it. However, a hand surrounds it first.
