Chapter 4
Zara
"This is supposed to be fun," I whisper to myself as I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, a little annoyed at how much traffic is congested in this very poorly planned parking lot.
I pull in a deep breath, letting my cheeks puff up before allowing the exhale as I watch a minivan's reverse lights light up down the long row of cars, but it doesn't immediately back out.
As always, this is proof that I never ask the right questions. When Tommy called after hearing about Billy going to prison, instead of just taking him up on the escape to East Tennessee that he was offering, I should've given it a little more thought.
Moving to one of the largest tourist locations on the eastern side of the United States, during one of its peak seasons, was clearly a huge mistake. It takes longer than forever to get through town, and then there's such a massive influx of people that finding parking for all of them is nearly impossible.
I nod at the man in the minivan when he finally manages his fifteen-point backup, but the car behind me honks before he can even get past me enough so that I can pull into the spot I was waiting for.
"'Tis the season," I mutter as I put my car into park.
I shove open my door, barely grabbing it in time when the wind catches it before it slams into the nice truck parked beside me.
"For fuck's sake," I mutter as I climb out, the wind tangling up my hair more than it already is.
The chill is bone-deep as I suck in another fortifying breath before walking toward the front of the building.
I look up at the sign that declares I'll find rare stones. The only reason I'm here is because I found a coupon in one of those booklets in the rack at the front of the grocery store. I don't necessarily want to do the tourist thing, but I made a vow that I'd have some sort of life. I've been in the area for over a month and this is the first time I've actually forced myself out of the small house I'm renting to something other than work or the grocery shop.
When I step inside, the screened-in building offering very little resistance to the whipping wind, I come to realize that this absolutely isn't a great idea.
To my right, behind a long counter, buckets of sand in ascending sizes line the wall.They range from some as small as a sand pail a child would use at the beach to massive fifty-five-gallon metal drums. Those have huge rocks on top, probably as an incentive to buy them instead of one of the smaller ones that are merely topped off with sand.
"I bet you're here for one of those big ones."
I look over, my smile in place, to find a guy who looks so young that I wonder if he has a valid identification to even get this job.
"Not even close," I tell him, earning a half smile.
I bet he offers that huge one to everyone that comes in just to break the ice.
"I'll take whatever this coupon will get me," I say, holding out the coupon I ripped from the booklet before leaving my house.
"That coupon takes five dollars off that one there," he says, pointing to the third bucket down the row.
Forty-five bucks for rocks? My mother didn't raise a fool, the current situation not included .
"And how much is that one?" I ask, pointing at the smallest bucket.
He does his best to hide his smile, but a little of it slinks onto his face as if he agrees that paying to sift through sand to get rocks is ridiculous.
"That one is twenty-five."
"Sold," I tell him.
He offers me the coupon back, but I wave it away. I doubt I'll ever be back here, so there's no use in having it.
He rings me up, telling me to grab a shovel as he plops the small bucket on the countertop in front of me.
"What's that for?" I ask when he hands me a clear plastic bag.
"All the treasure you're going to find. You can have almost any gem you find turned into a special piece of jewelry inside," he explains, angling his head to the far end of the building that leads into what appears to be a store, then he winks at me like I'm not at least a dozen or so years older than him.
"I love treasures!"
I smile again as I lift my bucket from the counter and turn to see a little boy with dreams of finding diamonds in his eyes.
"Good luck," I whisper to him as I walk by.
The woman who I presume is the little boy's mother tightens her grip on the man's hand she's holding as if she's fearful I'm going to pull him away from her.
I pull in a deep breath and make my way to the far side of the long table of rushing water. Why do people always think that their insecurities are caused by people outside of their situation when, more often than not, their problems are the ones under the same roof as them? I guess it's easier to project and blame people you don't know rather than have the courage to speak up when things aren't right. I know it was easier for me.
I plan to sift through my bucket in sections, but the entire contents of the small pail fall out in a large clump the second I tip it over the framed sifting box. I frown down at it, the water under the box already revealing the tiny treasures .
I wince at the cold the second my fingers touch the water as I try to urge the clumps of sand to fully release.
I lift my gaze, watching others as they lift their boxes and swish it back and forth, and I mimic their actions. The sand washes away, disappearing into a hole at the very end of the table where I have no doubt it's collected and used to refill the pails.
Disappointment fills my chest as I look around and see others lifting massive rocks and stones into the air in celebration. That's why you get the bigger pails. This is a classic you get what you pay for situation, and although I know I have no right to be upset, I realize that maybe I, like the little boy who was in line behind me, too, wanted diamonds.
The growl of a motorcycle pulls my attention as I gather my paltry treasures into the bag provided, but the sound disappears before I can spot the bike.
It's the third time today I've heard the sound. It drew my attention, knowing that the stranger who sat and stared at me for hours last night was the one who parked in The Lost Kitten's parking lot. Motorcycles never even registered to me before then, and knowing my track record, I should probably ignore them now.
My hands feel frostbitten as I complete my collection and head toward the store the clerk told me about, but I doubt I have anything worth turning into jewelry. The idea of watching them make a ring or necklace out of something I dug out of sand sounds pretty neat.
Once I step inside the store, I lift my hands to my mouth, blowing warm air onto them in an effort to get them to warm up. The tip of my shoe catches on the threshold, forcing me to make an embarrassing grand entrance into the building, all because standing not fifteen feet away is the scowling stranger from the bar.
He looks up at me, but instead of being surprised to see me like I am him, he looks a little frustrated.
I fully expect him to turn and walk away, but he surprises me further by waving me to him, like he's been waiting for me.
"Can you help me? "
His voice is gruff, almost as if he doesn't use it very often. I know my body is deprived when the sound of it makes my thoughts head a little further south than they have any business going.
I look down at his hands, seeing the tiny little soapstone figures resting in his massive hand.
"I don't even know your name," I tell him stupidly, feeling a wash of guilt for the images those thick fingers bring to mind.
"I don't know your name either."
I roll my lips between my teeth to keep the smile off my face. It has only seemed to annoy him when he sees it in the bar.
"I'm Zara," I offer, but he just blinks at me as if he's surprised I offered him the information. "Zara Hailey."
"Owen Clark," he says after a long beat of thick silence.
I don't offer my hand for him to shake like I normally would because, at this point and with the insanity in my head where he's concerned right now, I don't think it's a good idea to make any sort of contact with his skin.
The name Owen seems a little too simple for a man like him, but then again, Zara is rather exotic, all things considered. Since this is the first time I've really been in public in the last couple of months, I guess my name doesn't fit me either. It's better served by someone who lives daily adventures, not one who turned down the use of a coupon fifteen minutes ago because she decided rocks were a good idea to cut her teeth on as a newly single woman in a new town. Call the cops. She's getting crazy, folks!
Instead of speaking again, he simply stares at me like he did for hours last night, only now, in the light of day, with normal people swirling around the two of us, it feels different.
I turn to walk away, not one to stick around when I know I'm not wanted, but he touches my arm, freezing me in place.
I can feel the warmth of his skin through my jacket, the heat of it radiating through my forearm.
My first instinct is to grab both of his hands and force him to sandwich mine in between because I can hardly feel my fingertips, but I imagine that wouldn't be received very well.
I look over at him, noticing now that I'm so close to him by just how far I have to look up to see his face. I feel like prey with the way he's looking down at me and make a mental note to evaluate the fact that the idea of that sends a thrill of adventure up my spine at a later time.
"I need your help," he says, sounding annoyed by the confession.
He pulls his hand away, muttering an apology. I want to ask him what he's sorry about. Does he regret touching me? Does he feel like he should ask permission?
I frown at the thought of the second one. I don't want to be manhandled but, at the same time, what woman wants to always be asked permission before being touched?
I pull in a ragged breath as I turn to face him fully once again, but I also take a step back to put a little distance between the two of us. Of course, he apologized for touching me. There's not even a friendship between the two of us. He never should've reached out and touched me. Speaking my name would've been enough to stop me in my tracks and garner all my attention.
"What?" I ask when he doesn't speak.
His eyes narrow, and I realize almost immediately that he's just as distracted, clearly already having forgotten that he asked for help in the first place.
"What can I help you with?" I ask, giving him a bright, customer service smile.
"With these."
He opens his palm, the hand opposite of the one he touched me with, and I see the little soap stones I'd already forgotten about.
"They say two ninety-nine," I say, glancing at the sign. "Have a good day."
"Wait," he snaps before I can turn away. "They're for my umm… nephew. I don't know what he likes."
"You should contact his parents."
I watch as he chews the inside of his cheek, his brows furrowing deeper before he speaks. "I want it to be a surprise."
"How old is he?"
"Why does that matter?" he snaps.
I raise both of my eyebrows, tilting my head at his annoyance.
"If he's young, then those might be a choking hazard," I explain, wondering if he also had trouble parking and is as equally annoyed as I was when I first got here.
"Oh," he says, as if he never considered such a thing. "He's umm... eight?"
"Are you asking me?"
He blinks slowly as if he doesn't understand the challenge. I feel my cheek twitch, wondering if I'll ever get to see that dimple of his in its full glory. It's probably better if I don't because I know it'll be devastating. It's already difficult to stand here, jealous over how thick his eyelashes are. What I thought were dark brown irises actually have hints of hazel and green in them, making his eyes seems like a galaxy worth of depth.
"He might be nine," he answers. "I’m not sure."
"I don't have much experience with kids, but I've seen a bunch of little boy clothes at my last job with dinosaurs on them." I look down at the three figures in his palm. "But they also have loads of animals, so either one of those should probably be fine."
"Thanks," he says, curling his fingers around the elephant, whale, and dog bone in his hand, and then, like a weirdo, he turns and walks soundlessly toward the register.
Usually, I'm a woman capable of taking a hint, but other than the bar, this is the most social I've been. Well, other than small talk with the cashier at the tiny grocery store near my house. Despite his lack of social skills, I sort of enjoy that rugged, pissed-off edge to him.
I wait off to the side as he purchases the figures for his nephew, hating the way the cashier flips him off behind his back when he walks away .
I glare at the kid until he looks rightfully ashamed of himself, but this gives Owen time to walk right past me.
"Owen," I say when he's halfway to the door, repeating the call of his name a second time, yet it still doesn't make him turn around to face me.
Insulted, I follow him to his bike.
He doesn't seem pissed to see me standing there, but I do get the feeling that my presence stresses him out some.
"Do you have plans today?" I ask. "Other than buying those soap stones?"
"No," he says, offering nothing else.
The silence between us is filled with the traffic on the main road that splits Pigeon Forge's most popular activity destination down the middle.
When he doesn't speak, my smile grows even wider, his attention dropping to my mouth. I have to clear my throat twice before I find the ability to speak.
"Maybe we can grab some lunch or something," I offer, finding myself growing nervous as his attention stays on my mouth.
When he licks his own lips, I feel it on my skin, that delicate spot right below my ear that has always driven me crazy.
"Owen?" I prod when he seems content to just watch my mouth for the rest of eternity. "Lunch?"
"Busy," he snaps. "See ya around."
He climbs on his bike, leaving me standing there alone after the massive thing roars to life and he drives away.