Page 21 of Under Pink Skies

“Youcandothis.”

I bit my bottom lip as I gently coaxed the tall glass flour jar off the very top shelf of the storeroom.

Refilling the newly milled flour Imogen brought from her homestead once a week had to be my least favorite restocking activity. Namely because I apparently hated myself and decided the most convenient place to store the insanely large bulk jars was on the tallest shelf. It required me, a grown ass adult, to give myself a pep talk every time I had to retrieve a new jar.

I paused as the metal shelf beneath me wobbled. I desperately needed to invest in a new ladder that was tall enough to reach the top shelf, but that was neither here nor there.

“Come to mama,” I said, grunting with the effort of extending my arm farther back. I wiggled the jar another inch forward, and then another, finally pulling it far enough to the front that I could grab it with one hand. Using my left arm to balance myself against the shelf, I pulled the jar into my right, making the final leap back down to the ground.

I grinned, looking at the jar as I strolled back to the front of the store.

While flour filled the glass jar through a large funnel, I let my thoughts wander to the flower farm I dreamed I’d have one day. I grunted with effort to move the burlap sack of flour to the floor behind the counter. Imogen was endearingly hopeful about how many people in Watford were actually coming here to buy flour in bulk. Kelly would be in for her weekly sourdough refill, and someone from the Roadhouse or the diner almost always needed a last-minute refill during the week, but other than that, the only person who’d be using this flour was me.

If I’d had the chance to cultivate my flower farm, I could have been dealing with a very different flour—one that would excite me far more than this. I could have spent today lounging in a field of lush mountain wildflowers that I tended myself, curled up with a new release from one of my favorite authors. I slid the now-full jar of flour toward me and latched the lid.

“God, you’re heavy,” I sighed, pushing it down the wooden counter as far as it would go. I looked at aisle two, where most of the bulk goods were located, and let out a moan.

I finagled the jar into my hands by carefully pressing it against my chest, using my core to brace against the weight.

The front doorbell rang, announcing someone had entered the building, and my eyes widened.

“Crap,” I breathed, my grip on the incredibly heavy jar slipping. I shuffled my way forward, poking my head around the end cap, searching for the individual who’d just walked in.

“Hello! I’m so sorry to whoever just walked in, we’re actually closing now. Sorry for the confusion, haven’t updated the hours sign—”

“Abbie?”

Everything in my body went white at the sound of that voice.

Hisvoice.

It couldn’t be him.

It’d been a rough few weeks, and my mind had officially started playing tricks on me. It was the only logical explanation for why that man—boy, the last time I saw him—would be in my store and talking to me right now.

Between managing the store and fending off the IRS lady who is hellbent on nailing my father for tax evasion, I was at my limit every hour of every day. The universe wouldn’t fuck me like this.

“Abbie Collins,” the man spoke again, more sure of himself this time.

The jar of flour slipped from my hands.

“Shit,” I swore, and then flushed with embarrassment at having cursed in front of a customer. In the same breath, I wanted to sprint away because the man in front of me wasn’t a stranger passing through on their way to bigger cities.

It was Connor Harvey.

He rounded the corner, and I staggered back a step. My mind raced to reconcile the image of Connor now with what he looked like on the day he left. He’d grown his dirty blond hair out, so much so that it was almost shoulder length. He was all long lines and hard muscles, and as he kneeled to assess the flour disaster at my feet, I couldn’t ignore the way his biceps flexed and strained against his cotton shirt.

I was gawking and helpless to stop myself from doing so.

“Let me help,” Connor said, giving me a small smile. His brown eyes met mine and I was helpless to do anything but stare. “Got a dust pan so we can sweep up the glass?”

“Behind the counter, should be beneath the cash register,” I said quickly, unable to do anything but stare at the man in front of me.

Connor nodded, heading in that direction. I wiped my damp palms on my jeans and willed my sweaty fingers to keep from shaking. I suddenly wished I’d at least put on lip gloss or something this morning. How many times had I dreamed of running into the guy who broke my heart while looking drop-dead gorgeous and making him wish he’d stayed?

Was this my life now? I’d always imagined I would be the image of calm if I ever ran into Connor again. I wanted to be the chill ex-girlfriend who was unflappable.You completely abandoned me? Whatever.

In reality, I looked more like a fish stunned into silence from utter shock, outfitted in stained work jeans and a classic dark pink button up.

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