Page 21 of Rare Blend
Finally, after what feels like years taken off my life, some of the tightening around his jaw releases and his mouth relaxes. “Fine.”
I still. “Fine?”
“Fine,” he repeats. “But I have rules.”
I stare at him with my brow arched, waiting to hear about these so-called rules of his.
He sighs, as if just being around me exhausts him. “Rule number one, no visitors.”
That seems unreasonable. “What about my dad?” I quickly shoot back.
“I’ll allow family to visit, but no strange men and no parties. I like my privacy, and I don’t need any loud, rowdy noises around.”
It’s not like either of those things will be happening, but I don’t like being told who I can and can’t have over. “And if I do?”
“Then you’ll have to stay somewhere else, or better yet, go back to Seattle.”
“Okay,” I agree, begrudgingly. “Any more rules?” I put air quotes around the last word.
“Keep to yourself and I’ll do the same. Me and you”—he points between us—“we’re not friends.”
As if I want to be friends with his grumpy ass anyway. No, thank you. “Works for me,” I say, sugary sweet.
I wait for a third rule, but he doesn’t continue.
“Is that all, sir?” I smile prettily, daring him to crack.
He doesn’t. Instead, he stares at me blankly, eyes dull and mouth flat.
The energy it must take to not show any emotion other than anger and irritation—could never be me.
He turns on his heels and stalks back to his cottage, muttering under his breath something that sounds a lot likedamn city girl.
CHAPTER 8
Marisa
DROPPED AS AN INFANT
Days pass in a blur. I make some progress unpacking but leave most of my things boxed up, only taking out what I absolutely need. I’m supposed to start working for theRed Mountain Heraldon Monday—one of my dad’s conditions until I can find a job— but right now, it feels like I’m in limbo. My dad has extended invitations for dinner and offered up his laundry room as a way to get me to come visit. Like a coward, I’ve lied and said I was busy. Now it’s Saturday, and the last thing I feel like doing is spending the day with him and his family.
Hisfamily. Notmyfamily.
But if I spend one more day cooped up in this cottage, feeling sorry for myself and binge watching reality shows about strangers marrying each other, I’ll likely fuse to the couch.
I force myself to take a shower, a good, long everything shower. I put on makeup, something I haven’t done since I lost my job. My mom would probably have a stroke if she knew I’ve been living this way. Rosario Castilla would never be caught dead without a full face of makeup, perfectly curled hair, fresh manicure and pedicure, and just the right amount of jewelry. She raised me to be the same, but with age, I’ve stopped caringas much about what other people think of my appearance. Something I think she puts a little too much emphasis on.
However, I need to crawl out of this slump I’ve allowed myself to fall into before it completely swallows me. And the best way I know to do that is to fake it. I pick out a cute outfit and finish the look with some loose curls. Looking at myself in the mirror, I already feel slightly better. More me. More alive. And I did it purely for my own enjoyment and how it makes me feel, not for anyone else.
The drive to downtown is short, with little traffic, but once I get closer, parking lots are overflowing and cars line the streets. Main Street is blocked off, and I’m forced to park on a random residential street and walk.
The farmers market Jenn mentioned is a lot larger than I imagined. There are vendors showcasing everything—local sugar dot corn, homemade soaps and lotions, various foods on a stick, artisan candles, and an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. I weave through the crowd, overwhelmed, my eyes darting about like a squirrel, trying to take it all in at once. I could spend hours walking through, looking at each stand, and still not get to see everything.
Further along, the aroma of coffee wafts through the air, guiding me to a coffee shop adorably named Novel Teas and Coffee. Peeking through the windows, I can see it’s packed, but not more so than the coffee shop I used to frequent back home. Once inside, I’m met with a wall covered in opened books, the pages creating a 3D effect. As an avid reader, I can’t decide if it’s cool as shit or blasphemous. I’m the kind of reader who won’t even dog ear a book, let alone make a whole wall of pages begging to be ruined. It does contribute to the overall atmosphere of the shop, though, which is very Jane Austen, romantic with florals, full bookcases, and curated furniture, that feels like a step back in time. Even the menu is on theme,with drinks named The Author, Blank Page, and Typewriter. Naturally, I go with The Writer, espresso with brown sugar and cinnamon.
“Would you like to try one of our chocolate croissants? They just came out of the oven?” the bright-eyed girl, working the register asks me after I place my order.
I can’t say no to a fresh croissant. “Sure, I could use a chocolate pick me up.”
