Chapter 24 Mercer #2
By the time we finished up at a small hut at the perimeter of their public berry fields, I was impressed by what Applecloud had to offer. Florence handed us two small buckets and pointed out which vine sections were ready to be picked.
“Sample as much as you like. Take some back and try them. Then come see me if you want to talk numbers,” Florence said before the golf cart fought for its life puttering away on the dirt path.
She was a straight shooter without a hint of a sales pitch. Or maybe that was the sales pitch. Either way, it was working.
“Thanks, Flo!” Summer called out before turning to me. “She’s great, huh? Let’s go pick the good ones before the tourists and families sweep through.”
The golden sun trapped a white heat in the high rows of brambles. I pushed aside the overhanging vines and followed Summer through them. A smile over her shoulder, siren-like, and my palms grew sticky with sweat.
“Here, this one’s ripe.”
Summer carefully plucked a vibrant raspberry off a stem between two fingers and slid it past my lips. Tart, a hint of sweetness, and with the perfect amount of bite. So much better than what we’d been using for the last few weeks.
“It’s perfect. But you knew that.” I couldn’t resist grasping her outstretched wrist and kissing her palm. Her omega perfume shimmered on her skin, and I lingered. Another kiss and the passionfruit in her scent sharpened.
“Mercer! We’re here to pick berries, not get kicked out for public indecency,” she whispered. The chatter of people in the distance punctuated her point.
I interlaced our fingers. “I kissed your hand.”
“It was the way you kissed it.”
“How did I kiss it?” I said, impudently.
Summer bared her teeth, nose scrunching. “You know exactly how.”
Adorable. Farthest thing from threatening.
We continued down the path, searching for ripe berries and taking care to avoid the ones that still hadn’t reached their peak.
“So what made you decide to go to pastry school?” Summer asked.
“My grandfather, well, Lucien’s grandfather technically, was a retired pastry chef from France.”
“Technically? He was yours, too. You three called him Papi, right?”
Her small correction had the impact of a tidal wave.
“How do you know that?” I asked, my heart thudding.
Summer tucked her hair shyly behind her ear. “Jae mentioned him once or twice. We talked about baked goods a lot.”
Time had softened my memories of Papi, blurred and overexposed. “Before he passed, he lived in that house with the blue shutters, one block over from Main Street.”
“Where the Russells live now,” Summer said, placing it immediately.
I nodded. “He taught me in that kitchen. Just me. Lucien didn’t like getting his hands dirty, and Jae only wanted to eat the results.”
Summer laughed. “Why does that not surprise me at all?” Her fingers lightly brushed mine before fitting into the curve of my palm. “He must’ve left quite an impression.”
“He did. I applied to a few programs in the States after high school and included one in France as a long shot. Still can’t believe I got in.”
“That’s amazing. He would’ve been so proud. Was it hard studying in French?”
“Yes,” I said frankly. “I knew some conversational French, but I had to take language courses at the same time. I haven’t spoken it in years. Haven’t really had the opportunity to. It’s hard to maintain if I’m not using it regularly.”
“Is that why you haven’t used it yet to make my knees weak?”
My footsteps faltered. Mischief sparkled beneath butterfly lashes. “Tu es le fléau de ma vie, mon choux,” I said finally.
“Oh my gosh, what did that mean?”
“You are the bane of my existence.”
Summer fanned herself. “Stop it.”
We meandered down another row of bushes. Strawberries this time. Her hand was still in mine. I held the buckets and she picked.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What about me?”
“Why Suns Out Bánhs Out?”
Her hand slipped from my grasp so she could hug her frame. Barricading herself, just in case.
“You know my family owns Red Lantern, right?”
I nodded, unsure of where she was going with this.
“I always found it…” Summer squinted at the clear sky, searching for the right words.
“…disheartening that twelve years ago, my parents thought the only way they could be successful was to open a Chinese restaurant. Not a Vietnamese one. Ethnically, my dad’s family is Chinese and immigrated to Vietnam several generations back, so it wasn’t like they weren’t familiar with the food.
But it still didn’t feel true to who we were.
I don’t think my parents ever saw it that way, though.
It was a business decision. They chose what they thought would do best in Starlight Grove at the time. ”
I remained quiet. Present. I wasn’t sure how I came to be entrusted with her vulnerability, but I wanted her to know it was safe with me.
“I grew up working at Red Lantern, and it only made me want to open something with our food one day. To introduce people to the flavors I grew up eating at home.” Summer’s voice dropped with the weight of her truth. “I think I wanted to prove to myself that we belonged here.”
“And do you feel that way now?” I asked, every word balanced on a tightrope.
“Yeah.” Her smile lit up, vivid and vibrant, and the pressure in my chest eased. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people really like me and my bakery,” she said archly, eyebrows raised.
I laughed. That was an understatement.
“Although some flavors are probably too ambitious,” Summer added as an afterthought. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to convince people to like mung bean.”
“Why not?” I shrugged. “People won’t know until they try.”
“Careful, Mercer. Don’t give me ideas.”
“I like your ideas.”
Summer stuffed a strawberry in my mouth.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. You were being nice and I panicked!”
There were worse things she could’ve used to shut me up. Summer hid her face behind her hands as I dutifully chewed and swallowed.
I wish I had seen more of her bakery before the flooding. “I noticed you had an altar at Suns Out, similar to the one at Red Lantern.” The small ornate shrine used to sit unobtrusively near the front door of the bakery.
Summer twirled a loose strand of hair nervously around her fingers.
“I—I’m not really religious, but my parents are.
It’s more cultural for me. We believe it brings good fortune.
They gave it to me when I opened because they wanted my business to prosper.
” Her eyes glimmered but when she blinked it was gone.
“They’re helping me store it right now.”
“Set it up at the patisserie.”
“What?”
I didn’t care that our arrangement was temporary. It was important to her. She should have it in her place of business. “Why not? I want some of that fortune and prosperity.”
Summer rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.” Her bluster faded and shyness crept back in. “But thank you. I will.”
“Any updates on the repairs, by the way?” I asked, ignoring the sickly twinge in my gut at the thought of her leaving.
“Not really.” She kicked a frustrated toe in the dirt.
“I’m getting the impression from Claudia that my landlord’s dragging his feet on all the quotes from the builders.
Apparently he owns a bunch of properties.
I’m not sure he cares all that much about mine apart from paying as little as possible to get it fixed. ”
“That sucks.”
I hated that Summer’s livelihood was at the whim of someone who only saw her bakery in numbers on an email, but I couldn’t dampen the thrill of knowing we still had more time.
“Just a bit longer,” she sighed. “Then I’ll be out of your hair, don’t worry.”
I kept my face impassive as I pretended to commiserate.
The fields began to fill with visitors. Small children learning that unripe berries were sour. Tourists getting their perfect aesthetic shot among the neat rows. “I’m going to chat with Florence,” I decided.
“I’ll keep picking.” Summer smiled. “Come find me when you’re done.”
Her kisses tasted like fruit punch. Mangoes muddled with berries, sweet and wild. The flower from earlier almost fell, and she rushed to tuck it back behind her ear. I promised to be quick and left.
I found Florence back up the hill near the store where they sold homemade jams, pickles, and chutneys. We exchanged very informal, approximate numbers and shook hands, with a promise to iron out all the details later.
“Summer’s still down there. I better get back.”
Florence’s lip twitched. “She’s one of a kind, that girl. Don’t let go of her.”
I made an awkward sound between a chuckle and a stress burp.
It was even more crowded when I returned. Luckily, Summer’s telltale ponytail was high and bouncy, popping in and out of view like a submarine. I smothered a smile with my palm as I trudged toward the brambled row I saw her wander down.
She wasn’t alone.
Her body language was screaming— screaming —that she needed to get away from the man leering over her. He was huge. Veins popping gruesomely from his muscled arms and a thick, bull-like neck.
An alpha.
And he was about to touch my omega.