No, I’m looking for her. Daliah. The beauty with golden blonde hair that catches the early light like spun honey and eyes the color of steel—yet carries a softness to them that’s hard to compare. The same woman who always catches my eye but stays so far out of my reach that I don’t bother getting any closer than the thirty feet I’ve carefully, painfully, maintained between us for the last few weeks.
She has to be around Melanie’s age—twenty-three, twenty-four at most—which puts a solid decade between us. So there’s no way in hell I can entertain the idea of getting to know her. Not in the way that I want to. Not in the way that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling, wondering what her lips would feel like against mine.
Like a curse I can’t break, I scan the area for any sign of her. Telling myself I’m just being aware of my surroundings, it’s all lies bouncing around my head.
Already here, unloading her crates with that quiet determination she has, I’m hardly surprised that she’s one of the first ones here.
It’s why I don’t allow myself even ten extra minutes of sleep around this time of the week. Not because I’m dedicated to my craft or eager to beat the crowd. But because I can’t risk losing the chance to sit across from her. To have those thirty feet between us. To steal glances all morning like a starving man watching a feast through a window.
Today, she’s wearing a blue dress that hugs her waist before flowing out past her hips like water finding its way downstream. The fabric catches the breeze, pressing against her thighs for just a moment before releasing. I nearly stumble over my own feet, jars clinking dangerously in my arms.
Ever since Melanie did that swift introduction, I’ve been itching to hear Daliah say my name. Just imagining that soft purr rolling over my name is enough to make me want to climb over every wall I’ve tried to build just to stroll over to her side for a conversation worth deeming as a distraction.
I shake my head hard, as if I can physically dislodge the thought. Pushing myself to keep moving, stay focused, and avoid staring at her, I barely manage to follow my own instructions, just like I always do.
I claim the empty table directly across from hers and abandon one crate against it before making another trip. If I keep moving, keep busy, maybe I can drown in the rhythm of unloading instead of drowning in her.
But Daliah isn’t on the same page as me.
I’m halfway through arranging my jars—apricot, strawberry, blackberry, and the other fruits I sweat over in my garden—when I hear her clear her throat behind me.
I don’t know how I know it’s her. The sound is soft, almost hesitant. But I feel it in my bones, in the sudden stiffening ofmy shoulders, in the way my heart lunges up into my throat and stays there, pounding.
Maybe it’s that sweet honey scent that clings to her like a second skin. One inhale, and I swear I can taste her on my tongue—warm and golden and so fucking sweet it makes my teeth ache.
I set down one more jar slowly, buying a second of extra time to compose myself before I turn.
My eyes devour her before I can stop them. I can’t tell which part is more addictive. The flush high on her cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips, or the way her chest rises and falls like she’s been running laps around the tents before coming my way.
Up close, she’s even more devastating. A woman with her beauty shouldn’t exist. Shouldn’t be allowed to walk around, risking the threat of bringing every man near her to his knees.
I can’t bear to think about how many men occupy these tents. How many of them have looked at Daliah and thought the same way? It would drive me crazy with sensations I have no right to feel. All because she isn’t mine.
I notice the jar of honey in her grip. She’s holding it so tight her knuckles are nearly white.
Could she be scared? Is that it?
The idea that someone has made her feel nervous, uneasy, or scared stirs a dark feeling in my chest. My lips involuntarily curl into a frown, the thought settling deep in my mind at the possibility.
“What is it?” The words come out too gruff, roughened by that protective instinct I have no right to feel. She jerks slightly, and I realize with a sickening lurch thatI’mthe one making her tense.
Fuck.
“Um, hello.” She tucks a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear—one of those pieces that’s escaped her hair tie, fallingsoftly against her neck—and drops her gaze to the honey in her hands. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you knew if Melanie would be attending the market this week.”
Her voice is exactly the same as I’ve heard it in passing. Soft in a way that makes me want to step closer just to hear it better. What do I have to do for her to saymyname?
“I promised her some honey after she made me a bee last Saturday.” She glances up, then away, her lashes sweeping down. “You two seemed pretty close, and I didn’t want to risk selling out again. I want to trade her kindness for my own.”
Melanie’s my baby sister, my responsibility, my annoying, wonderful, chaotic mess to take care of every time she tries to run her hustle of a business. Those animals are what brought me so close to Daliah in the first place.
I should be thankful, but right now the last thing I want to talk about is her.
“Oh.” I glance to the side, toward the other vendors, searching for any sign of Melanie’s presence. “Hard to tell when she’ll come. She could skip this one if she has to work on catching up on making those stuffed animals.”
The words come out mumbled, distracted. I’m too aware of her—of the space between us, of the way her dress moves when she breathes, of the fact that she came to me for the first time in two seasons.
Last year was full of longing stares, too. Back then, I held more strength. All those seasons in passing, I longed for her in a way that forced me into the position I’m currently in. Setting up across from her weekly. Keeping an eye on her. My weekly curse.
