Page 94 of Always Meant for You
But I don’t lose momentum. There’s too much to do.
“My stuff’s already in your truck, Cal. Let’s go. Bye, Dad! Thanks for breakfast,” I call. Before Cal can object, I take his hand and lead him toward the drive, moving fast.
We reach his truck, and I tap the passenger side door. “Aren’t you going to open it for me?”
The corners of his mouth twitch.
That reaction is what I wanted.
“I didn’t think you liked that.”
“I didn’t think you cared what I liked,” I say, soft but certain.
He nods, cheeks growing the faintest shade of pink, then opens the door and helps me inside.
With a belly full of honest food, a little momentum, and the caffeine kicking in, I’m ready to work.
I find the hat I left on the seat, put it on, then pull my phone from my purse.
“Got a charger?” I ask, settling myself.
He climbs in beside me. “It’s in the glove box.”
I plug in my phone, and the screen lights up. Elverna Wi-Fi appears.
“The town has Wi-Fi?”
“You’re the one who told Jamie we needed it.”
I smile, fingers flying across the screen. “Right. I forgot. That’s good. Visitors to town will appreciate that.”
He nods, and I start setting up the accounts.
“I’ll get the pages set up from here. I’ll need a card to run ads. You’ve got one for town purchases, right?”
“You want access to the town’s credit card?” His shoulders are tight, brows drawn, jaw locked.
“We have ten days until the next farmers’ market. We need targeted ads. There’s no time to waste.”
I’m hoping he doesn’t catch the tiny adjustment I made to the schedule.
He passes me his wallet without looking. “It’s the blue one.”
I flip it open, find the right card, and enter the numbers. Once it’s logged, I slip it back where it belongs and return to filling in the rest of the form.
The truck jerks. He slams it into park, and everything lurches forward.
I glance up from my phone. “What are you doing?”
He watches me, his expression tight. “We’ve got six days until the next farmers’ market. Not ten. They’re every Tuesday.”
He does have numbers written on whiteboards like they’re love letters.
The man probably dreams in spreadsheets. I should have known he’d catch the date switch.
“Not anymore.” I return to my phone.
“Excuse me?” he asks, returning his wallet to his pocket.
