Page 19 of Stirring Up Love
I plan to play nice. If she does.
Stalking, ha. He silenced his phone without waiting for a reply and took advantage of Simone’s absence to get a closer look at her wares. Sizing up the competition.A sound entrepreneurial strategy, he thought, mentally parroting Darius’s words and chuckling to himself. She’d arranged the bottles in neat triangles like billiard balls. The labels were matte black with swirly gold letters. Elegant and appealing on the outside, just like her.
Which probably meant the barbecue sauce inside was slimy and tasteless.
The tent flap lifted, jangling the brackets attaching it to the pole. He stumbled backward at the sound, but no one materialized. The white vinyl fabric fluttered again at the same time a hot breeze ruffled his hair. Just the wind, not his rival returning.
Well, he’d tried. Whistling, he shoved his hands in his pockets and backtracked. When he was a safe distance away, he spun on his heel and was halfway back to the safety of his own booth when a piece of paper blew across his feet.
After stomping on the litter, he bent down and picked it up. Legal jargon. None of his business. But on the bottom, below a scrawled signature, the nameSimone Blakewas printed in neat blue letters.
Interest piqued, he flipped the paper over to read the front.
THE EXECUTIVESLIABILITY RELEASE FORM.
The Executives?She planned to be a contestant on that dumb show hawking her barbecue sauce? But why? She already owned a restaurant. And judging by the long line outside her booth last week, she had no shortage of customers. What more could she want?
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the paper, tempted to toss it in the nearest trash can. From the snippets of conversation he’d heard last week, the locals who thought she couldn’t handle taking over her grandfather’s restaurant were a tiny, grumpy minority. She had a whole town behind her, and yet she was out for more than her fair share. Figured.
Some people didn’t know how good they had it. He’d gone to school surrounded by kids like her who took everything for granted. Family, community, unconditional love. Typical, and he shouldn’t have been surprised. Not coming from a woman who hadn’t wanted to relinquish even a smidgen of her profits to a newcomer.
Maybe if he tore up the form, she’d forget to send it in and lose her spot on the show. The perfect chance to get back at her. But he found himself retracing his steps. He scanned her booth and found a leather bag tucked underneath the table. Careless, to leave her purse out. Then again, she’d mentioned everyone here was like family. Everyone except him.
He refolded the paper along the seam and quickly slid it into the bag. Last thing he needed was someone to catch him and assume he was after her wallet. She’d probably press charges out of spite.
Good deed accomplished, he strode away, not looking back this time. The more he thought about it, finding out Simone wanted to go onThe Executivesaligned with his image of her. Cutthroat, soulless, and out for a big chunk of undeserved cash? Sounded like the ideal contestant for a reality show.
All the more reason to turn down the opportunity. If the producers were interested in someone like her, he’d be a giant letdown. She was a sparkler, and he was last year’s birthday candle. Why volunteer for public humiliation?
He reached his booth and got to work setting out bottles of sauce. New strategy: pretend Simone Blake didn’t exist.
Unfortunately, after unpacking all the boxes, he discovered that his credit card reader was nonexistent, again. But this time he had no intention of leaving his booth unattended to track it down. The Yarn Spinners were attending a needlework conference in St.Louis, which left half the booth unguarded, and he wouldn’t put it past Simone to rustle up another tenant to pester him.
He actually missed the chatter and good-natured gossip of his stall buddies. He’d soon discovered the knitters were a bighearted group of people, inclusive and welcoming, if a bit over the top in their recruitment techniques. The next trick Simone had up her sleeve could be far worse than a bunch of noisy, nosy knitters. He didn’t plan to leave the tent for so much as a bathroom break until closing time.
He was in the middle of writing aCash onlysign when a shadow fell across him.
“I see you resolved your little scheduling issue with the Spinners.”
Ignoring the shivers of anticipation pricking the back of his neck, he straightened up. Simone’s hair was slicked back into a ponytail, the puff of curls twirling defiantly toward the sky, a match for her arched brows and the upward twist of her lips. Rosy-pink today, not the ruby from last week.
A subtle change he only noticed because he had been trained to create visually pleasing aesthetics on the plate. People ate with their eyes first. Not that he was thinking of tasting Simone’s mouth ...
He gulped down a breath of air. “I never had an issue with the Yarn Spinners. As a matter of fact ...” He bent and pulled a bright-red scarf out of one of the boxes and wrapped it around his neck. “They gave this to me last week as a welcome gift. Real alpaca hair.”Hair? Fur?Whatever the case, he took their word for it, not being familiar with natural fibers. Or alpacas. “My problem is standing right in front of me.”
The corners of her lips lifted a tad more. “I’d say your problem is that you’re wearing a fluffy wool scarf in ninety-degree heat.”
“Wool”—that was the word he’d been searching for.
“And I’d say you clearly have no appreciation for fine craftsmanship.” He resisted scratching his neck where a trickle of sweat inched down. “If you came all the way over here just to pick on me, at least get out of the way so I can serve actual customers.”
She stayed put. “Says the man who drove fifty miles to be a pain in my butt.”
“Looked me up, huh?” That shouldn’t give him a thrill. And it didn’t. Not at all. Minor heat stroke from the scarf, manifesting itself in chills.
“It’s on your sign, genius.” She lifted her chin, and he glanced over his shoulder. Oh, right.Springfield, IL. Printed under his company name.
Another of Darius’s suggestions. Studies showed customers felt more comfortable purchasing from someone with a backstory. Roots. Might explain his dismal sales. He could churn out big batches of home-cooked flavor, but at the end of the day it was all smoke and mirrors, inauthentic. A sleight of hand from someone who’d been transplanted so many times he’d given up even trying for the illusion of permanency.
