Page 7 of Love and Pumpkins
My life is more pressure than party these days: the unexpected repair, others relying on my business to help them pay their bills, the feeling that I’m the town’s spinster, since I’m thirty-one with two broken engagements.
A couple strolls into Hunter’s booth. I tilt my head towards them, and he walks over to help. I watch their interaction. He’s polite but shakes his head when they ask specific questions about technique. He explains that his sister is the soap-maker, and he points to me. “She could answer your more technical questions.”
The man laughs. “No competition here. I love small towns.”
If he only knew the thoughts running through my head today about my competition. They’ve not been small-town friendly. So far, I’ve melted at Hunter’s touch, wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and admired the lusciousness of his hair, wanting to run my fingers through it.
Stop it, Phoebe! He is either your enemy or your friend. He’s flip-flopped between the two over the years, but he’s never been more.
The lady with blonde hair picks up a soap from Hunter’s booth and comes over. “I like the lavender smell of this one, but do you know what kind of base it contains?”
I glance at the display cards. Joy labeled them with the scents, but not the ingredients. “I’m sorry. There is a variety of different bases. I wouldn’t want to guess and be wrong. Hunter, does your sister have a recipe book or other literature with her materials?”
He shrugs. “She didn’t point one out. I could text her?”
“Oh, don’t bother,” the woman replies. Glancing around my booth, she asks, “Do you have a lavender-scented bar?”
“Absolutely. It’s over here.”
She turns around and hands Hunter the soap in her hand. “Sorry. That won’t work.”
“I understand,” he says, grinning at me.
The man asks Hunter what he knows about soap, and I hear Hunter say, “Not to eat it, even if it smells like pumpkin pie.”
I smile as I tell the lady that my lavender soap contains coconut and olive oils.
She selects two bars. Before paying, she spots an avocado moisturizing bar—a bestseller at a spring craft fair, though it hasn’t been moving this morning. She adds two of these to her pile.
After I bag the soap bars, Hunter comes over to use my credit card gadget for his latest sale. He diligently notes his charge in the notebook, just under mine.
“I think the lunch crowd is on the loose again. It’s getting busy,” he says as he hands me the credit card reader.
He’s right; the rest of the afternoon flies by.
By the time four o’clock rolls around, I’m ready to drop. I’d almost forgotten about the softball game, but Mr. Curtis strolls by before closing to remind me.
I groan. “Mr. Curtis! I’m tired. I can’t possibly play tonight. Could Hunter play instead?”
Hunter’s used my credit card reader at least eighty-seven times today. He owes me!
Mr. Curtis shakes his head. “Sadly, no. It’s a coed game, and I can’t let any more men play tonight. I was lucky to have found you. If I hadn’t gotten another female, we would have had to forfeit the game. Hunter can watch, though.”
Hunter strolls over. “I’d be happy to watch. When and where?”
“Field three,” Mr. Curtis answers. “Seven o’clock. Be there or be a puddle.”
“Ha.” Hunter chuckles. “Lichtenburg Lightning. Don’t be a puddle. I get it.”
Hunter gets it. If only he could getinit. The game, not a puddle.
“Please don’t come,” I say. I can only imagine the humiliation, and I’ll have to work beside him for the next two days. If I catch a fly ball between my eyes, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Oh, I’m coming all right. I’ll be your biggest cheerleader,” he says.
I don’t feel good about this.
Chapter Four
