Page 36 of One Small Spark
“That’s good.” I exhale a squeaky laugh. “I mean, that’s too bad. That you don’t sell bikes.”
“Are you in the market for one?”
“No. No way. Bikes and I don’t go together. Don’t want one, don’t need one. I don’t even know the first thing about them or where I would ride one. I know they say you never forget, but I bet I can’t ride a bike anymore. That’s how little they mean to me.” I take a sip of water to stop myself from talking any more about how I definitely don’t bike.
He watches me with an amused tilt to his mouth. “Huh. I kind of thought everyone was a biker around here with the way Lila and that guy?—”
“Callahan.” I bite my lips between my teeth.
“I thought his name was Shepherd.”
“Shepherd Callahan.” Shut up, Wren. Just shut it.
“Right. They made it sound like biking’s a big deal here. But not for you?”
Our waiter appears and sets two steaming bowls in front of us before ducking away again. The spicy fragrance wafting up from the noodles, chicken, and soft-boiled eggs smells amazing. We both grab our ramen spoons and chopsticks and set to work.
“I’m not really outdoorsy,” I say, wrangling noodles.
Rhetttsks. “Are you trying to break my heart?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the heartbreaker here.”
“Maybe sometimes. Unintentionally.” He lifts a shoulder. “Things happen.”
“Uh-huh.” Neither of us is trying all that hard on this date. From his extremely laid-back attitude about most things tonight, I don’t get the impression he’s on the hunt for his one true love. Which doesn’t mean he couldn’t stumble onto someone, but Rhett seems like the type to fend off love with holy water and garlic.
“But enough about my fear of commitment. Tell me more about your granny crafts.”
I blow on my soup. “I really only have the one granny craft. Crocheting my little guys is it for me.”
“Do you have any pictures of them? I’m not picturing ‘weirdos’ in my head.”
I fish my phone out of my purse and pull up my camera roll. I’ve been sending pictures to Hope when I finish them. I like the validation.
I scroll through to find my most recent creation. He’s dark purple, with floppy ears and a tail. “Not quite a bunny,not quite a fish.”
I show him a couple more mashups. They’re goofy little guys, but I love them.
“Cute. Is the truck yours, too?”
“Uh, no.” I close the app and tuck my phone away.
I may or may not collect photographic evidence of Callahan parking in my spot behind our businesses. Most days, he can’t. My work in the bakery starts hours before Get in Gear opens its doors. But those days when I have a late start? He always takes my space.
Until today.
The weird ache in my chest when I saw his truck parked two spots over made no sense. Reminding myself that he stole Blackbird’s investor isn’t the healing salve it used to be.
“That’s it for my granny crafts,” I say a little too brightly. “But I do have some granny friends, and those are pretty close.”
“You run with a wild crowd.”
“So crazy. Their favorite topics are the weather forecast and Callahan’s forearms.”
The only explanation for my continual Callahan-vomitis that he’s messed with my brainwaves this week. I normally never talk about him, but here I am, yapping away and dropping his name like I’m getting paid for it.
But your honor, “You were supposed to go out with me” is a hard line to recover from.
