CHAPTER FIVE
FINN
Kavya, Nicholas, and I stand in the park, watching the barbecue of local business owners as I try to locate the proprietor of the motorcycle shop.
“This is your second Allentown Business Association Barbecue,” Kavya points out as the sun shines brightly overhead, butterflies dancing about us. “Wild that The Scoop has been open an entire year.”
“That’s true,” Nicholas adds. His eyes light up as he raises a slice of grilled zucchini on his fork. “You’re an ABAB veteran.”
I nod. “It’s been one year, one month, and four days, to be precise. Although it somehow feels simultaneously longer and shorter than that. Living your dream really fills your days up.” A large, scowling man in a black leather jacket lumbers across the gathering, and I stand up straight, nodding toward him as subtly as possible. “Who is that?” I ask, still learning my way around the small business social scene.
“Never seen him. There’s a new record shop opening, though. Maybe he runs that,” Kavya offers.
“As long as he’s not a biker from the garage. That sourpuss has bad news written all over it.”
Kavya casts her eyes around the bustling barbecue. “The restaurateurs are gathering under the old oak,” she says, and turns back to me. “Have you considered some new collaborations? One out of every ten flowers that we sell are sold through other local businesses. Meaning, in your case, businesses that aren’t directly adjacent to a motorcycle shop.”
Nicholas perks up. “That’s a great idea,” he says. “Just because your shop is too noisy to visit…” He trails off with a wince when he hears his words. “That didn’t come out how I meant it.”
“It’s fine. My shop is too noisy to visit this week! And I’d love to build more collaborations. I can’t imagine they’ll be quite as fruitful as your work with the flower farm,” I tease Kavya, referencing the romance she found at Starlight Farms. “But extra padding in the profit would help.”
Kavya pushes her sunglasses up on her nose. “No reason you can’t fall in love with one of the restaurant owners.”
I look back to the group under the oak tree. “Hilaria has a wife, Zeke is a leather dom, and Roger is my landlord.”
Kavya shrugs. “Okay. Maybe love is too high of an expectation. But increased revenue streams aren’t.”
“Oh,” Nicholas says as he grabs my elbow. “There he is! Motorcycle guy, four o’clock.”
I turn slightly and spot the tall, pierced man with red hair. He’s alone, loading up his plate with potato salad, not scowling like the guy in the leather jacket I just noticed but not exactly friendly in his demeanor, either.
Kavya hums ominously, and we all laugh.
“It’s not like that,” I insist. “I’m going to resist making this man my enemy. This calls for honey, not vinegar.”
“You see nearly every problem as a honey situation,” Nicholas says cheerfully.
I toss my plate in a trash can. “As do you. That’s an appropriate attitude for people slinging ice cream and flowers. And now it’s time for me to honey my way over and make introductions.”
“I spot the finance director,” Kavya says. “This might be our chance to ask about the shrinking budget to support the street festivals.”
Nicholas tosses his plate, too. “What else are these barbecues for, if not budgetary chitchat?”
I part ways with my friends and head toward the biker on the other side of the barbecue. While I have an urge to lay out my complaints and seek some clarification on this noise issue, I’ve already decided to tread carefully. Ideally, we emerge from this encounter as friends, not enemies. I’ll start with an affable introduction, test the waters, and possibly wait to address the massive headache he’s causing the rest of the block in a follow-up conversation, somewhere less public.
As I purposefully round a picnic table, though, I somehow walk straight into the man in the leather jacket, a full shoulder-to-shoulder collision that sends his bottle of soda to the ground and me stumbling backward. He’s so solid, it’s like walking into a wall.
“Fuck!” he grunts and steps back. There’s a dragon on his old T-shirt, I notice, a style that reminds me of the cover of a fantasy novel from the nineties. “Damn sun in my eyes.”
“Shoot, sorry,” I manage, sharing in the responsibility. “I was rushing.”
The man frowns at his soda bottle before he mumbles something I can’t hear and squats to pick it up.
I take him in for a moment. A few inches taller than me and bulky, too, he kind of lumbers from side to side, shifting his weight. About my age, he has pale skin, dark scruff, and broad features. Inky black tattoos peak up his neck and onto his hand,fantasy creatures I can’t discern. He’s handsomely disheveled, his hair messy and the fabric of his shirt worn. But his hazel eyes are bright and clear.
He’s attractive, I note, despite the frown and furrowed brow.
My cheeks flush when our eyes catch, and he immediately tears his gaze away.
