Page 8 of Stirring Up Love
And he hadn’t gone to bed until nearly dawn, but if Bella knew that, she’d be all over him about how sleeplessness fed stress, which is not something he needed reminding of, considering his therapist had reiterated that last week. But he struggled to find rest in temporary dwellings. Working long hours ensured he’d stay out until he was exhausted enough to sleep.
Digging his toes into the gravel, he jammed his arm under the seat as far as it would go and finally hit pay dirt, then used his fingers to maneuver the card reader out from under the seat. “Darius found a farmers’ market for me to sell at. Long story—I’ll explain tonight. Right now I gotta go before I get a reputation for running behind schedule.”
“Too late,” Bella teased. “See ya.”
“Bye.” Finn wriggled out of the car and grabbed the credit card reader and his last box of sauce.
The market had just opened, and already he had to dodge his way through the packed parking lot. At least the half hour spent tearing his car apart from glove box to trunk in search of the missing piece of technology hadn’t been in vain.
And everything else was set up—mason jars on ice to sample from, pretzels and breadsticks laid out on covered plastic trays, and bottles of Finn’s Secret Sauce on display, with extra inventory tucked in boxes under the tables.
In his absence, a small crowd had gathered around his tent. His heart beat faster at the prospect of making real money. Until now, he’d sold through word of mouth. But he hadn’t drained his meager savings just to sell sauce at cookouts and block parties. Hopefully these potential customers had helped themselves to samples and were ready to make a purchase.
He set down the box outside the tent. “Hi! Sorry, I had to grab something out of my car.” Dusting off his hands, he put on a shaky smile.
Sell sauce. Save money. Finance your dreams.
“Have you had a chance to—”
What. The. Heck.
Finn spun in a slow and dizzy circle. His bottles of sauce were gone, replaced by overflowing baskets of yarn. Ribbony yarn, multicolored yarn, and fluffy neutrals that looked like they came straight off a yak. Yarn knitted into scarves and hats and slippers and beer cozies and—he stepped closer to peer at something propped on a table—a knitted large-mouth bass on a plaque.
And next to it ... a deer head, complete with antlers.
Knitted taxidermy? He shrank back in horror.
“Cute little fellas, aren’t they?” A woman in what could only be described as a cape—also knitted—stepped up next to him and joined him in scrutinizing the deer. “We do custom orders. Care to browse our brochure?”
He shook his head and stepped back, hands out. “Maybe another time, thanks.” He flashed his teeth in a half grimace, half smile.
Wrong booth. Time was ticking. He stepped around the woman, intent on locating his own tent, and strode down the walkway. Stopped.Was that ...
Backtracking, he surveyed the interior of the far side of the booth. Bags of pretzel sticks sat next to plastic domed containers with bottles of his original and spicy blend arranged next to them. And hanging from the back of the tent, the vinyl sign he’d picked up from the printer yesterday.
So this was the right stall after all. Except, unless he was losing it—plausible, running on only a few hours of sleep—when he’d ventured out to his car, there hadn’t been a single homespun yarn creation in sight.
As he stood there, hands on his hips, questioning his sanity, a woman in a knitted teal bowler hat bounced over to him with a smile. “You must be Finn. Of secret sauce fame.” She nodded toward the sign. At least she saw it too. One tally in theHasn’t completely lost itcolumn. “Becky Doyle,” she said, and he realized that was an introduction.
Clasping her hand, he grimaced at her grip, wresting his expression into a smile.
“When we got word this stall was available, we couldn’t believe our luck.”
“But it’s not,” he said, to underscore the obvious. “I’m here.” And all of his stuff. Right next to their wares, assuming she was also a yarn seller. At this point, he didn’t have the headspace to figure out her presence. Had there been a mix-up with Darius’s intel?
She grinned. “And we’re glad to have you. Always nice to see a new face around here. Although”—she leaned toward him and dropped her voice to a whisper—“you do know you’re bending the rules a bit.” He was? How so? “But we’ll look the other way, since you’re being so good about sharing the booth.”
“Sharing?”
“All the booths are double occupancy. Tim is one of the few vendors who rents both halves. He needs the extra space for his goats.”
Goats?When had goats come into the mix? Finn’s head was spinning, and not from the sun beating down, though that didn’t help. He stepped into the shade, marveling at the other woman’s composure in her thick hat.
“We went ahead and shifted over your inventory so you wouldn’t have to.”
An elderly woman on a scooter motored up to the tent. “If you need anything else set up, Aimee would be more’n happy to lend a hand. She’s got young legs.”
Next to her, a young woman in a flowy skirt with a knitted purse slung over her shoulder rolled her eyes. “Aunt Janet, quit trying to set me up with every man you come across.” She scowled at the woman, then flashed a smile his way. “Not that I mind helping out.”
