6. Abby
6
ABBY
F ranklin shoots me a broad grin from across the bustling market aisle. I force my lips into a semblance of a smile. They twitch at the corners, but long practice allows me to keep my appearance outwardly cheery. I learned at a young age to remain poised under the most stressful circumstances.
I feel my back going ramrod straight, adopting the perfect posture that was enforced at my mother’s dining table. I’m determined to overcome my social anxiety so that I can sell my art.
No matter how shaken I am after my awful nightmare and sleepless hours at my canvas.
I straighten my bright pink t-shirt, reminding myself of the bold black words emblazoned on the front: ON WEDNESDAYS WE SMASH THE PATRIARCHY.
It’s Saturday, but that doesn’t bother me. It’s the overall, confident vibe of the outfit that counts.
I offer Franklin a little dismissive wave, encouraging him to focus on his sales. My friend’s gaze turns back to the tourist who’s admiring his sculptures. He’s so much more skilled at selling his art than I am. Maybe if I were less socially awkward, I would earn enough to cover my rent.
As it is, I can’t survive without my barista job.
Selling my work is stressful, but it’s the only way to share my art. My landscapes will have to be enough to leave my mark on the world in some limited way.
In an attempt to be more personable, I gather my courage and step around to the front of my stall, just to the right of my paintings. My practiced smile doesn’t waver when I make deliberate, friendly eye contact with a potential customer. The elderly man returns my smile before his gaze skates over my work. He offers me a kind nod of acknowledgement but keeps walking through the market.
My heart sinks slightly, but my smile remains fixed in place. Franklin captures my attention again and gives me a thumbs-up.
Then his eyes slide past me and widen.
“Abby!” he exclaims, pointing to something behind me.
I whirl, and my heart leaps into my throat.
A man is behind my table. He’s clutching my secondhand Vera Bradley purse. The purse itself is too worn to be worth anything—the pale yellow, quilted fabric is wearing thin, and the bluebell pattern has faded over time. There’s not a lot of cash inside. I’ve only made fifty dollars from selling one painting this morning, but I need that money to buy food this week.
“Hey!” I shout, instinctively lunging for my purse to save the precious funds.
The man’s brown eyes meet mine, wide and a bit wild. His brow is creased with anxiety, and his shaved head is shiny with sweat.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say quickly. “Just leave it. Please.”
His jaw firms, and his fist crushes my purse.
I’m blocking his way to the exit. Not out of bravery; the market is busy, and my stall is at the end of the row.
“Please,” I repeat, more desperately this time. “I won’t call the cops if you just?—”
He surges toward me, and I stumble back. Rough hands shove my shoulders, forcing my falling body out of his way. Stinging pain scrapes my palms as I catch myself on the concrete floor.
“Abby!” Franklin shouts my name, and I crane my head back to see that he’s scrambling around his own stall to get to me. A throng of shocked tourists separate us, and he’s pushing his way through the small crowd.
“Abigail.” That deep, lilting cadence caresses my name. “Are you all right?”
“Dane?” I ask breathlessly, turning my face to search for the familiar voice.
Forest green eyes fill my world. They’re tight with concern, fine lines drawing deep at the corners. His brow is furrowed, and those lush lips are pinched with worry.
The strong hands that I’ve painted so many times reach for me. Just like at the café yesterday, they encircle my wrists in gentle shackles. This time, he tugs my hands close to his face so that he can inspect them. He scowls at the shallow pink scratches that mar my palms. They’re not deep enough to have drawn blood, even if they do sting a bit.
“I’m okay,” I promise shakily. “I’m not hurt.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he counters sternly. “Stay still. I’m a doctor.”
My brain blanks for a few seconds, and I comply out of shock more than intentional cooperation. Dane is touching me again. It’s thrilling and surreal.
My heart hammers in my chest, and I’m not sure if the elevated beat is because of the encounter with the thief or because of the visceral physical reaction elicited by Dane’s nearness.
“Can you stand?” he asks, his tone low and gentle.
“Yeah.” My reply is still a touch shaky, but I try to summon up some semblance of dignity.
I tug my hands from his so that I can push myself onto my feet.
His scowl deepens, and he captures my upper arms, steadying me as I rise.
“I’ll call the cops.” Franklin is at my side, his ochre eyes flashing with anger on my behalf. He turns to the elderly man who smiled and nodded at me. “You’re a witness, right?”
The man’s nod is grim this time. “I saw everything.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly.
I don’t want the cops involved. They’ll ask for my full, legal name. There will be paperwork. Possibly a small story in the news.
I suppress a shudder at the prospect of public exposure, the risk that my family might find out about this incident. I’ve learned to find joy in the small, quiet life I’ve built for myself, and I can’t bear the thought of their censure if they find out that I have a stall at the market rather than my own gallery. I’m enough of a disappointment already.
“It wasn’t a lot of money,” I insist. “It’s not worth calling the cops.”
Franklin looks at me like I’m crazy. “That psycho hit you. I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“I just stumbled,” I counter quickly. “And I’m fine. Seriously, Franklin. Don’t.”
His eyes search mine, and his lips thin beneath his neat black moustache. He must see some of the panic churning inside me, because he nods after a tense moment.
“Okay. It’s your call, Abby.”
“How much did he take?” Dane’s voice rumbles with his own anger. On my behalf.
The entire situation is like something out of one of my wildest fantasies. Dane is swooping in to protect me like he’s my own personal white knight.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead of answering him.
I sound a bit rude when I should be nothing but grateful. My mind is so muddled by the wild turn of events that I’m speaking erratically. I’m trying to make sense of everything that’s just happened, and Dane’s presence is a shock, even if it’s not unwanted.
“I mean…” I scramble beneath the weight of his small frown. “I’ve never seen you in the market before.”
He shrugs. “I had some free time today and was going for a walk around town. I saw you and decided to come say hello.” His eyes turn stormy. “I should’ve been here five minutes earlier.”
The protectiveness in that fierce statement makes something distinctly feminine swoon inside me, and I release a small sigh.
“I really am okay,” I promise. “Thank you for coming to check on me.”
His eyes remain fixed on mine, but he tilts his chin in the direction of my purse, which the thief discarded when he grabbed my cash and ran.
“How much did he take?” Dane repeats, and his deep tone demands an answer this time.
“Fifty dollars.” I’m compelled to reply. “It’s early. I’ll sell another painting to make up for the loss by the end of the day.”
His attention turns to my work. I’m seized by the sudden urge to step in front of him so that he can’t see my art. For some reason, it feels too deeply personal; I squirm at the prospect that he might critique my paintings. Someone as suave as Dane probably has expensive taste in art, and even though painting is my passion, I’m far from gallery-worthy.
His head cants to the side, considering for a long, agonizing moment.
“I’ll take all of them,” he says with a sweep of his arm to encompass the entire table.
“What?” I ask on a puff of air.
His lips quirk in a devastatingly sexy smirk. “You heard me. I want to buy all of them. And then we can talk about meeting for drinks tonight.”
Anger hits me like a gut punch, and I forget all notions about being charmed by his white-knight behavior. “I don’t want your money.”
He blinks, and his square jaw goes slack with shock.
Then his jaw firms, and a muscle ticks at his cheek. “It’s not charity, Abigail. I want to buy your art.”
“No, thank you.” The added words of gratitude are frosty and far from genuine.
I might be struggling to make ends meet, but I will not be controlled by someone else’s money. I’ve learned the hard way how to stand on my own two feet, and I won’t be manipulated financially ever again.
It would’ve been one thing if he’d simply asked me on a date. But the qualifier that he wants to buy the privilege makes my stomach churn. What more will he expect of me when he’s bought and paid for my time and gratitude?
“Let me help you,” he says, his tone heavy with something like admonishment, as though I’m being stubborn for no reason.
“No, thank you.” My back goes ramrod straight once again.
His gaze flicks over my squared shoulders, noting my perfect, defiant posture. Then his eyes capture mine again. They glitter with irritation and something a bit darker that I don’t fully acknowledge. A shiver races through me, but I hold my ground.
Dane blinks, and the disapproving glint vanishes from his eyes. They’re warm with concern again, and his handsome face is fixed in a rueful smile.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, his voice resuming his smooth, alluring cadence. “If you’ll forgive me, I’d still like to meet for a drink tonight. I’ll feel better if I can see that you’re okay at the end of the day.”
My mind reels. Did I imagine the darkness lurking behind his eyes when I refused him? He’s so genial now, completely disarming. His six-foot-four frame even seems less imposing, as though he’s making himself less intimidating in order to put me at ease.
I suppose it’s a small mercy, considering how shaken up I am from the robbery. Dane said he’s a doctor. He must have a good bedside manner to adjust his bearing in order to reassure me.
My reaction to his offer to buy my paintings had been snappish, and he was just trying to help me. I won’t back down and allow him to purchase them, but I am grateful to him for checking on me when I fell.
And he’s still the gorgeous man who comes into my café every morning and greets me with a warm smile.
A touch of embarrassment heats my cheeks as I realize the extent of my rude behavior. Dane doesn’t know anything about my damage, and he didn’t deserve my ire; I’m just jumpy after the altercation with the thief, and I lost my composure.
“A drink sounds nice,” I agree. “Where do you want to meet?”
His stunning smile lights up my world, and I’m breathless for an enraptured moment.
“The Magnolia Hotel at eight. Have you been to their rooftop bar? The views are beautiful at sunset.”
I return his grin, my own smile a bit punch-drunk and giddy. The last few minutes have been an emotional rollercoaster.
“That sounds great,” I reply.
“I’ll see you then,” he says warmly. “I’ll let you get back to your paintings.”
The world around us slides back into focus. Somehow, everything had fallen out of existence during my intense exchange with Dane.
He shoots me one final crooked smile and turns. I watch him saunter away until he disappears into the crowd of tourists that fill the bustling market.
“You know him?” Franklin asks.
“His name is Dane.” His name leaves my lips on a dreamy sigh. “He comes into the café every morning.”
My friend lets out a soft whistle. “Hot.”
I nod, my face still fixed in a silly smile. My mind is tumbling through the wild events that’ve unfolded over the last fifteen minutes. I’m so absorbed by excitement for my date with Dane that I don’t pause to worry over the fact that I’ve agreed to go out with a customer from the café.