Chapter Sixty-Nine Rae
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Rae
NOVEMBER
EVERY YEAR FOR AS long as I can remember, I’ve come to the Harvest Festival Market as a customer.
The day I left Sugar, I signed up for a slot to sell book nooks here, but even before today, I was all sold out.
In fact, business is absolutely booming.
It’s been less than two months, and I’m already making what I made full-time.
Plus, I get to pick my projects, work from home, and not think about Grant day in and day out.
The biggest miracle is that, thanks to a big social media influencer who took an interest in my work, not only did I break a couple hundred thousand followers almost overnight, but I’m officially booked out for the next eighteen months.
The down payments on those alone filled my savings account right up.
But one of the promises I made myself when I left Sugar was to make sure to get out of the house. I know how easy it can be to stay stuck inside, cozy and warm with my little worlds. The fact is that I like people. I just don’t want to be at their beck and call.
“These are adorable. How much is this one?” A woman’s standing at my table, arms full of shopping bags from the various vendors. Her clothing says Old Richmond Money as clearly as her hair and face.
“Oh, sorry.” I point at the little sign leaning up against the finished Carytown building model, featuring the miniature Off the Cuff and Sugar.
Beside it is a book nook I made with my parents, my sisters, and me singing around the Christmas tree.
It’s our last Christmas together before Mom died.
I will never sell either one. They’re like time capsules of times I never, ever want to forget.
“These are not for sale. I’m commission-only now. ”
“That’s a shame. I’ve got a friend on the architectural board who would love a Richmond original.”
“Please give them my card.” I hand it over.
“Listen, I need one of these. My daughter follows you on TikTok. She’s obsessed. I really would love to order one. Or two? Could you do me two?”
“I’m booked up.” Even now, refusing people isn’t easy. “But feel free to reach out, and I’ll add you to the wait list.”
“I’ll triple your price. Quadruple it.”
Okay, this is wild. I swallow back the urge to capitulate and smile. “No. Thank you.” Saying those words is like a drug. I swear. I hand her the clipboard with my interest form. “Go ahead and sign up here. I’ll reach out when commissions open up again.”
“Wow.” She gives me a disgruntled look, and I’m convinced she’ll walk away without signing up, but then she doesn’t. Instead, she fills in the form, thanks me, and leaves.
The power of saying no. It astounds me every day.
A text comes in a little later. It’s from Harlow, asking if I plan to come into the club again soon. She’s been actively trying to get me in there, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s honestly trying to find me another Dom or if she’s trying to get Grant and me back together again.
It’s something I might consider, at some point. But I can’t walk into that place anytime soon without thinking of Grant. Even now, just hearing from Harlow, I am swamped with emotion.
How long does it take to get over a thing that didn’t last more than—what?—three weeks?
It’s been two months since I last saw him, and I don’t feel any lighter. All I feel is this ache.
I actually tried to play with a Dom that Harlow recommended way back in the beginning. It was fine. Like, fine. I very clearly laid out my limits and told the guy that I wasn’t interested in anything sexual. He was okay with that.
I hated it.
In the end, I think that kink, for me, is inherently sexual. Sadly, I also think it’s inextricably linked with Grant. Which sucks.
Maybe that’ll change. Right? Yeah. Sure. Definitely. I learned how to say no, didn’t I? Every person who’s come up today has gotten a no, and that includes some really pushy individuals. I can learn. I can change.
I have 100 percent kept my nose out of my family’s business these past few weeks.
That’s a learned behavior. I’m not saying it’s easy to sit here and be strong when Otty’s homesick and begging me to come down to Charleston for a sleepover.
I’ll probably give in to that offer, eventually.
But for now… saying no is kind of my superpower.
I type out a quick message to Harlow, thanking her for thinking of me and letting her know I don’t feel ready to spend time in the club, but I’d love to have lunch with her at some point if she’s up for it. It feels good to hit Send.
I shut my eyes, breathe deeply, and listen to the distant strains of a local bluegrass band and the hum of happy chatter. I suck in the smell of smoke and caramel apples. If there’s a bittersweet twinge, I don’t mind. That’s life, I guess.
Something new enters the mix. Cinnamon. Cloves. My pulse picks up like it knows something I don’t.
I open my eyes. Blink.
Grant is standing at my stall, a smile creasing his gorgeous eyes. Is he thinner? He looks sort of chiseled out around the cheekbones in a way he didn’t a few weeks ago.
“Hi there,” I say, sounding like a premade recording of Happy Rae. Sales rep Rae.
“Hi, Rae.” His mouth relaxes, but the smile’s still there in his eyes while they take me in, slowly, top to bottom. When his gaze returns to mine, there’s that deep, warm flicker, but not as intense as I remember it. The burn not quite as bright.
Has he mellowed? Have I? Oh my god, am I hallucinating?
“What’s up?” I chirp, way too upbeat for this reunion. Whatever this is. Why is he here? Grant’s not a Harvest Fest kind of guy.
Maybe he’s not here alone. He’s with a woman. Of course. What else could drag him to an event that is so clearly not his thing?
“You been busy?” he asks, then laughs, shaking his head. “Never mind. I, um, I know you’ve been busy. I, uh… get news. Pretty much hourly from Harlow and Dorothy. I know you helped Sam get her job back at Sugar.”
“She’d have done it on her own.”
“Right. Well, your builds are unbelievable too. I follow your socials and… The Ice Queen one for that kid at the children’s hospital? Blown away. You’re an artist, Rae. Anyway… has Sam told you she texts me pictures?”
“What?”
“Yeah. She’s a real pain in my ass.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through photos. “I’ve got the diner. Sushi. Indian food.” He holds it up. “This one is you baking cookies in your tiny little kitchen.”
He drops the hand holding the phone and looks at me, a little… dumbstruck, maybe. “Sorry. I, um… This isn’t how I wanted to do this.”
“Oh, yeah?” My nerves spark. “What is it you’re doing?”