Page 1 of Beg Me

CHAPTER

ONE

Markie

“Do you think anyone would notice if I shoved a bunch of napkins between my boobs?”

My best friend Nettie laughs at my question, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her eyes. “Without a doubt. But it might make your job a little easier. They’ll come for the boobs and leave with a jar of jam.”

I laugh, too, shaking my head and wiping a sheen of perspiration from my forehead.

A sea of umbrellas forms a colorful line to my left in a futile attempt at shielding the farmers’ market stalls from the unrelenting sun. The doors of the old Dairy Barn housing the year-round vendors are wide open in hopes that a little air circulation might prevent anything, or anyone, from melting.

“What are you doing tonight?” Nettie asks, swirling a straw around her lemonade.

“I’m not sure. My evening interview canceled on me.” The memory of the text I received this morning from a potential pickleball partner spikes my blood pressure. “Get this,” I say, placing a hand on my hip. “He said it was too hot and asked if we could reschedule to next week when the temperature wasn’t so … what word did he use? Obscene.”

Nettie’s hand lifts as if I’m a feral animal that she’s trying to calm. “It is ninety-three degrees today.”

“What if it’s ninety-three degrees during the pickleball tournament? What if it’s one hundred? Do you think they’re going to call off the games because it’s too hot?” I lift a brow, challenging her to debate me. “Five years ago, we played through a thunderstorm while lightning danced in the periphery. The tourney stops for no one.”

My hand slips off my hip, probably because of the sweat coating my body, and I groan.

In the decade I’ve been competing—and winning—the Sugar Days Pickleball Tournament, I’ve never had this much trouble finding a partner. My usual prospects are either out of town, dealing with a broken leg, or in a new job that prevents them from playing. Normally, I’d find a man with mediocre talent and enough ego not to want to suck and call it a day. I’m used to carrying the team on my back, after all. It happens every year. But this year, the stakes are far too important to entrust the odds to an inferior partner.

Losing is not an option.

“The tourney stops for no one,” Nettie repeats. “But neither does heatstroke.”

“Which is why I have to find someone already in decent shape, but with enough humility to listen to my instructions. I don’t have time to turn a dud into a stud.”

Nettie snorts. “Stop.”

I shrug because there’s nothing that I can say to temper that statement. I know how it sounds. But the facts speak for themselves, and I’m not in the business of shrinking my abilities to make others, namely men, feel comfortable.

“Why do they have you out here hawking jam?” Mr. Crowder asks, shuffling to the stand. He grips the edge of the table with shaky hands. Out of all the Saturday regulars, he’s my favorite. “I looked for you inside by the concessions where you usually spend your time instead of working.”

Nettie snickers as I pretend to be offended.

He grins. “I thought this was your weekend off.”

“It was,” I say. “But Brenda called this morning and said she wasn’t feeling well. So I volunteered to stand in for her today. I mean, we can’t have people going without her famous peach jam, can we? The whole town may come to a stop.”

Nettie touches me lightly on the shoulder. “I’m going to head home. Mom’s coming over this evening so I can help her plan her new husband’s birthday party.” Her eyes roll. “Yay, me.”

“Have fun.”

“I’ll call you later.” She waves at my customer. “See you soon, Mr. Crowder.”

“Perhaps at church in the morning?” he asks.

She purses her lips. “Perhaps.” Her nose wrinkles as she turns away, heading toward the parking area.

I take a moment to appreciate the crowd of people despite the heat. The farmers’ market is open every weekday and every other Saturday, and the Saturdays prove to be the busiest. Instead of just drawing in the Sugar Creek townies, the weekend brings people from across the whole county. I’ve loved coming here since I was a little girl. So when the town board discussed closing the market because no one wanted to take responsibility for it, I threw my name in the hat. I had no experience, and the pay barely covers my martini habit, but there’s something great about contributing to a wholesome endeavor like a small-town farmers’ market.

It balances my karma. I think.

I grab two jars of jam off the shelf behind me. “So, we have peach, but Brenda also made some cherry jam this week. Have you ever tried it?” I set both in front of Mr. Crowder. “It’s been selling like hotcakes, and I overheard a little birdie saying this is the secret ingredient in the Cherry Pie Pizza at Piper’s.”