Page 5 of Love and Pumpkins
After two broken engagements, maybe I hadn’t found my type yet.
But it would definitely not be Hunter Young.
Chapter Three
“Um, Phoebe,” Hunter says, approaching with clipped words and wide eyes. He holds up a small gadget. “This credit card reader is dead, and I can’t find a charging cable. Any suggestions?”
“Your sister knew there was an event this weekend, right?” I ask with a laugh. “I’m kidding. Well,” I drawl, “it might be confusing, but you could use my card reader. As long as we keep detailed records.”
How could I say no? With his wide eyes, he resembles an owl. I love owls.
“I’m a numbers guy.” He shrugs. “That’s not a problem.”
I move towards the small table I use for processing sales. “I record sales and payment info in this notebook. Use the next page to jot down your credit card transactions.”
He steps closer to me, looking at my notebook. “Got it. You’re a godsend, Phoebe. Thanks for bailing me out.I’m going to pummel my sister when she returns. I hope Vegas was worth it.”
I chuckle at his comment. Before he returns to his booth, he gives me a side hug and lightly runs his hand over my upper arm. My skin tingles from his touch. As hot as it is, I don’t mind the extra warmth from his body.
“Wow,” he says, stepping away. “It’s hot. That was probably repulsive.”
No, nowhere near repulsive.I keep that thought to myself.
The next two hours pass in a blur. Not sure if all the people browsing my booth cause the blur, or if it’s the sweat dripping into my eyes.
I keep a close eye on my stacks of soap: no melting pools yet. When Mr. Curtis stopped by earlier, he brought one of the cooling “machines” he’d mentioned, and I gladly accepted it.
Miraculously, it’s working. The temperature in the shade of my tent canopy dropped about ten degrees after he set it up. It’s not equivalent to air-conditioning, but it’s an improvement, and so far, no melting soaps.
The crowd thins out at lunchtime. Fair attendees make their way to the fire station, where the Women’s Guild sells a tasty plated lunch. Profits will go towards the town’s Christmas celebration.
Hunter politely asks me to cover his booth while he takes a break. When he comes back, I notice he’s carrying two plates of food.
As he approaches, the sweet, smoky scent of grilled pork chop sandwiches surrounds me.
“Pork chop?” I ask.
“Yes,” he grins. “It’s your favorite. You always made me save one for you at the football games when I worked concessions.”
I’m flabbergasted. “How do you remember that?”
Yes, I asked him nearly every football game for four years to save one for me. I was in the marching band and never ate until after the game; I was always a bundle of nerves before performing.
My first memories when seeing Hunter earlier today were all negative. There are lots of wonderful memories, too. I had just filed them away in the deeper corners of my memory bank.
Memories of him saving food for me at football games, being the one I could call when I was stuck on math homework, and his obsession with the music of Kings of Leon and Jack White.
Hunter played basketball, not football, and constantly volunteered with the booster club to work at the concession stand during football games. He wasn’t concerned about watching the game; he said he preferred interacting with everyone over sitting and watching. Though he never failed to watch the marching band perform.
Hunter shrugs. “I remember a lot of things.”
Whoa. His words sound wistful, and it makes my stomach lurch.
A rush of memories floods my mind, and the memory machine trips a circuit breaker. I try to lighten the mood. “Look at the big brain on Hunter. No wonder you were the class valedictorian. Your parents must be proud.”
I say it jokingly, but Hunter’s eyebrows pinch together. I’ve hit a nerve, and I don’t know why.
He grunts and hands over the plate. “Enjoy.”
