Page 13 of Chasing Sunsets

Her eyes crinkle as she quips, “More like stalking.”

I chuckle. “Freda said you’ve got a box for me.”

Tabby leans against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “A box for you?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m here to pick up wind chimes for the church.”

“Oh, yes. Hold on a sec, and I’ll grab it.”

I watch as she disappears, leaving the door wide open. I step closer and glance inside. Her RV is small but cozy, with art supplies scattered on a little table. A hammock chair is strung up in the left corner, and a tiny bed is tucked in on the right. The faint scents of coconut and paint linger in the air.

A moment later, she comes back with a medium-sized cardboard box and hands it over.

“Here,” she says. “I’ll swing by the church next week to pick up the leftovers, so you’re good to go.”

I take the box, but don’t move right away. Instead, I shift my weight, looking her over. “You make all these yourself?”

She nods. “I did.”

“Impressive.” I glance down at the box. “They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she replies, her lips curving slightly, as if she’s trying not to smile.

I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever thought about selling them outside of the church fundraiser?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation—any conversation—going so I can stay a few minutes longer.

She hesitates. “I do. I have a booth at the farmers market.”

I smile. “Nice. I bet the older gentlemen gather around your table every Tuesday.”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re harmless.”

I laugh. “I thought so.”

“Whatever. You’re the stalker, remember?” she says.

I catch the way her gaze flickers over me, the way her fingers tighten just slightly around the doorframe.

I hold the box under one arm, sliding my free hand into my pocket. “You got plans tonight?”

Her brows pull together. “Why?”

“I thought you might want to grab some dinner.”

She glances down at her torn tank top and paint-covered skin. “I’m not exactly ready for an evening out.”

“Yeah.” I smirk. “I can come back in, say, an hour.”

She looks over her shoulder to the table where she is working.

“Come on, please. If we share a meal, I can’t be considered a stalker anymore,” I say.

She tilts her head, eyeing me like she’s trying to figure me out. I don’t say anything, just let her think, let her weigh whatever it is she’s considering.

After a long pause, she sighs. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes, fine. I’ll go to dinner with you.”

---