5. Claire
5
CLAIRE
I opened my eyes wide then squinted. Then again. It didn’t matter how many times I tried to make my eyes work, those tiny little letters just were not clear.
“That one’s the apple and spice,” the vendor lady told me, pointing at the jar of jam. It looked pretty, more sophisticated and artistically presented than anything I could buy in a store, even the fancier places that seemed to be at every corner in the city. Red and gold bows complemented the dark glass of the container, and the sprig of evergreen with a bell seemed like a cute touch too.
Of course, that might all be part of the gimmicky appeal. To doctor up a product to con a customer into thinking the inside might have been granted just as much care to detail and therefore be high quality. I wasn’t that fond of jams or jellies. I certainly never took the time to stroll down crowded holiday market days. But it’d be nice to have something for my toast in the morning.
If Dad thought my best option was to look around here, in Preston, for prime real estate and save the company, then it’d make the most sense to just stay with him at his house in Macomb, the adjacent town to Preston. Unfortunately, that would mean adopting what was in his pantry. With his health-nut ways, I’d be struggling with a sugar withdrawal. This jelly could look healthy and perhaps escape his scrutiny.
I understood curb appeal, though. I dealt with it plenty in the real estate business. Just because something looked good on the outside never implied the interior would match.
“Oh, I thought you said this was the berry one,” I replied, wishing I could just read the fine font and see the difference.
“Nope. That’s the berry. Oh! These might be up your alley too. With cinnamon.”
“Cinnamon and fruit?” I asked, scrunching my face.
“Oh, yeah. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.” She beamed, eager to make a sale, clearly.
And that was something I knew all too well. That excitement. The buildup of optimism. The confidence that a success was coming.
“Two for twenty,” she reminded me.
“Oh.” I squinted at the chalkboard sign with prices. “I thought that said two for ten.”
The lady laughed. “Lose your glasses?” she asked.
I wanted to groan. Very funny. Actually, that could’ve been really rude. I got a good vibe off her. I was great at reading people, and I could tell she wasn’t poking fun at me. Besides, I was getting so used to people commenting on my crappy eyesight that it wasn’t a shock any longer.
I wasn’t against glasses. Or contacts. I simply didn’t have the time in my schedule to handle it all. Finding a doctor. Then going through an appointment. Didn’t they make you schedule more appointments to try on glasses and contacts and?—
Too much.
First up was saving the company. Then, after the new year, I’d look for an optometrist.
“Well, that cursive penmanship is sort of tricky to follow, too,” I admitted.
The vendor nodded. “That’s what I said! My wife insists that it’s all part of the branding. All part of the image.”
“It is!” another woman piped up from further back behind the stall.
“It is pretty, but it can be difficult to read.” I smiled, not wanting to cause any issues. That horse-drawn carriage was coming by again, and I bet the people getting off the carriage would beeline to this stall.
I hadn’t been here long, forced to stop to get around the traffic for the event, but I’d been here long enough to see that many people carried bags imprinted with this jelly stand’s logo. It worked. It sold me on stopping here.
But I couldn’t linger and dawdle all day. I had a town to drive through, land to check out. All that preliminary research needed for preparing a deal.
“I’ll take these.” I held up both hands, not sure which flavor was which anymore. And I didn’t want to take the time to read the itty-bitty labels again. “Oh, heck. I’ll try the other one, with the cinnamon, too.”
She grinned, bagging up my things and taking my card. “Here,” she said as she handed me my things. “A sample on us.”
“Oh! Thank you!” I accepted the purchases and juggled sliding the straps of the bag onto my arm as I held the plate of toast with jellies.
I was starving, despite the huge Thanksgiving meal last night. This morning, I woke up hungry yet not, too anxious about the challenge before me. My appetite was lagging with my nerves, and I wasn’t sure if eating would be a good or bad idea. Now, though, with the scents of roasted chestnuts and freshly baked goods in the air, I was famished.
Instead of being in the way at this stall, I looked around the busy scene until I spotted a bench near another tent. They sure jammed a lot of things into this Main Street area, but it worked. It looked full and bustling. And the overall mood of the crowd was positive. People shopped and talked. Others were laughing near the food stalls. Kids were laughing and goofing off, especially here near the bench I’d found.
The toast was thick and crisp, a perfect complement to the sweet and tart jellies. Letting the flavors meld on my tongue, I watched the kids playing near a collection of wooden instruments anchored to the ground.
Smart. The designers of Preston’s town square knew what they were doing. Families loved seeing public green spaces for children, and adding structures like playground and interactive equipment was just another step above that.
“Hey!” A tall boy shouted loudly enough to make me flinch. “I want that.” He made a grab for the sticks a younger girl was using to play on a xylophone.
“Then wait your turn,” she replied bluntly, tapping the rounded end of the stick on the bars without glancing at him.
“No. You can’t tell me what to do,” he insisted, grabbing for the sticks again.
“And you can’t tell me what to do either, Hollis.” She tipped her chin up defiantly, experimenting with the notes.
You tell him, girl.
“I waited for my turn and I’m not done yet,” she said when he lunged to take the sticks out of her hands again.
“Tough shit,” the kid argued.
My brows shot up high. The girl looked nonplussed but commented, “That’s a bad word.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t care. Move it!” He grabbed for the sticks again, and she turned to hold them out of his reach.
“Stop bullying me,” she said. “I’d offer to share them so we can use them together, but you’re too mean.”
“I don’t wanna share. I want to play it now. Give them over, or else.”
She turned, getting in his face with a sneer. “Or else what , punk?”
He snatched one stick and threw it, smiling smugly. The slim dowel flew through the air and knocked my empty paper plate to the ground. “Hey!”
The boy jolted at my stern shout. Maybe it was the fact that I was a stranger. Or maybe it was because I was bigger and therefore a figure of authority as an adult.
“You heard her, punk .” I narrowed my eyes and tried to look like that third-grade teacher who was so chill and effective that she made one of the bullies in my class cry and sob with an apology. “She’s not finished with her turn on the xylophone.”
“It’s a marimba,” the girl corrected plainly.
“Huh?” Talk about a smart Alec. But she didn’t irritate me like that boy did.
She nodded. “This is a marimba.”
Well, I guess you learn something new every day…
The element of surprise at an adult catching him being a brat wore off. He rolled his eyes at me. “Mind your own business, Lady,” he retorted.
Lady? The way he said it, like it was a derogatory slur, irked me. I stood, crossing my arms and glowering down at him. One more stern look was all it took.
He frowned and stepped away from her.
I pointed at the stick he threw and cleared my throat.
Sulking, with his head hanging, he got the stick and handed it back to the girl. Then he ran off, likely to bully another kid.
Wow. What a jerk! I shook my head and sat again.
“Did you get the apple flavor?” the little girl asked, pointing at the plate the boy knocked over. “I was in the crafts tent next to the jelly lady and saw you there shopping.”
“No, I didn’t get the apple one.” I frowned, stooping to pick up the plate and sit again. “I thought I did.”
“Too bad. The apple one is good.”
I shrugged, watching as another kid came up and politely asked to play with the instrument. She handed over the sticks and approached me. “Did you misplace your?—”
“Oh, for the love of— No. I didn’t lose my glasses. I don’t have glasses.”
The girl furrowed her brow as she sat next to me, peering up at me and dangling her feet as she swung them back and forth. “I was wondering because…” She shrugged. “You presented signs of presbyopia.”
I blinked. “What?”
She shrugged again. “That’s merely my observation.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, smiling because she was too cute. Weirdly dorky and smart. And not afraid to speak her mind. I liked that. “How old are you?”
“That’s personal information that I shouldn’t share with strangers,” she said primly.
“Well, you’re diagnosing my pres… something, so I’d say that’s more personal than your age.”
She smiled. “Presbyopia.”
I set my elbows on my knees, leaning forward as I tilted my head toward her. “Which means what, now?”
“It means you need reading glasses,” she explained, matter-of-factly.
“Ah.” I sighed. “I’ll make an appointment sometime.”
“I’m going to be seven in January,” she said.
“Hmm.” I nodded. “I’ll be twenty-eight in June.”
She smiled, seeming to appreciate how I’d share tit-for-tat with her.
“You seem pretty smart for your age.”
She nodded. “I should.”
I laughed, charmed by her personality. “Really? How come?”
“Because I read all the time. My daddy said my mommy was a librarian before she died. I think he assumes being a bookworm is hereditary, but I suspect that’s not true. I just like to read.”
“Well.” I sat up a bit and slapped my hands on my thighs. “It seems you’re spared from needing reading glasses for pre— what was it again?”
She giggled. “Presbyopia. How come you haven’t made an appointment for glasses yet? You would look smart with glasses.”
I laughed harder as I leaned my elbows on my knees again. “You are smart and you don’t have glasses.” Then I shook my head. “Wait. Are you implying I look dumb without glasses?”
“No. But doesn’t it feel awkward when people notice you can’t read well?”
Waving off that concern, I blew a raspberry. “Eh, what do I care what people think of me?” I did—when I had to make a deal. But I wasn’t worried about buying or selling property with her.
She smiled wider. “I like that perspective.”
I winked. “Good. Me too.”
“Why haven’t you gone to an optometrist yet?” she asked.
“Too busy.”
“Doing what?” She swung her legs faster.
“Working.”
“Working on what?” she quizzed without missing a beat.
I smiled. “My job.”
“What do you?—”
“Easy there, Naomi,” a man said as he approached. “There’s no need to interrogate her.”
I looked up. And up. My neck ached with how much I craned it to face this tall, bearded man walking across the play area. Sitting forward like this wasn’t a great angle, but even as I sat upright and studied his lean face, I was still at a disadvantage. He was towering over me like a giant of a mountain man.
“I wasn’t interrogating, Daddy.” Naomi stood and skipped over to him, taking his hand.
Oh, whoa. Hello there, Daddy.
I swallowed, annoyed that I could be this awestruck and blinded by the mere sight of a sexy man. In jeans and a thick coat, his body was hidden from my view. But I could imagine how fine of a specimen he was. A man wasn’t that tall and broad-shouldered for nothing. He was ripped. Fit. And with a hint of grays on the sides of his black hair, he was one heck of a sexy daddy, indeed.
“This is my dad, Mr. Derek Scott,” Naomi said.
He lifted his free hand in a slight wave and almost smiled at me. Despite the low caliber of his smile, he was still handsome.
Oh, shit. He had to have seen it all. He had to have been standing close by and seen how I’d stood up for her.
“I’m Claire.” Too intimidated by this instant attraction, I tore my gaze from his blue eyes and addressed Naomi instead. Holding my hand out to her, I smiled. “Ms. Claire Barone. Nice to meet you, Ms. Naomi.”
She beamed, seeming impressed that I wanted to introduce myself to her, before her dad. Or perhaps it was the formality that entertained her.
“Nice to meet you,” she replied. Then as she looked up at her dad, she said, “She scared off that jerk-face Hollis for me.”
He nodded. “I saw. Good job standing up for yourself, though, kiddo.”
Aha. He did see.
As I looked back at him, finding him watching me curiously, I realized how good that made me feel. Whoever Derek Scott was, it felt nice that he saw me.
I would’ve stood up for her anyway. I knew nothing about kids or being a parent, but it was human nature to root for the underdog and defend the weak. Being caught red-handed doing a good deed like that warmed me from the inside out.
But that wasn’t all.
The fact that a hot guy like him was appreciative of what I’d done made me feel… too warm.
He’d appeared out of nowhere, like a normal, decent guy whom Grace and I seldom ever encountered in the city. Not pervy, not overly eager with a horrid pickup line at the ready.
Just a sexy, rugged man at a town market day with his precocious, wise daughter.
It’d been a long time since I felt the burn of awareness that came with his careful gaze on me.
And now’s not the time for it.
I smiled back up at him, wondering if there would ever be an ideal time to go for what I wanted in life. Like, for example, basking in the glow of a man’s appreciative stare. I felt seen. I felt… noticed. And I didn’t mind this flicker of attraction sparking in the cool air between us.
Now is definitely not the time to be noticing him. Or any other man.
I was here to work, to save the company.
Nothing more. I sighed and tried to keep this smile plastered on my face.