Chapter 1 #2
“No, that was my fault,” I say. It wasn’t, but she looks mortified, so I’m happy to take the blame.
She drops to the ground, setting down what’s left in the box and scooping up candy with both hands, trying to corral the scattered pieces.
I crouch down to help and blink at the mess scattered across the floor. Gummies in bright wrappers, the writing definitely not English. Scandinavian, maybe. It’s like a European candy shop exploded on the post office linoleum.
“Thank you, you really don’t have to.” She’s still got that candy in her mouth, talking around it.
“Oh, it’s no trouble.” I realize I’m still holding her other box and move to hand it back, right as I catch the name on the sleek black packaging. Simone Pérèle.
Even I recognize that name as the famous French lingerie maker, and my brain supplies an image—delicate lace, silk, skin—before I can stop it.
Heat crawls up my neck and I force my eyes back to her face, feeling like a complete ass.
She’s young, probably barely out of college, and here I am having wholly inappropriate thoughts about her underwear in the middle of the post office on a Saturday morning.
Her eyes dart to the box, then back to my eyes, and I watch her cheeks begin to match her hair color. She scoops it from my grip quickly, tucking it under her arm like it might spontaneously combust if left in view.
“Er—thank you,” she says, returning to gathering the scattered candy.
I nod and do the same, trying to focus intently on collecting gummies and not on the French lingerie tucked under her arm. And definitely not on the way her sweater slips off one shoulder as she reaches for a piece of candy near my foot.
“So is this a regular thing?” I ask, laughing a little as I take in the sheer volume of it. There have to be hundreds of pieces scattered around us. “Are you smuggling European candy into Dark River?”
“I might as well be,” she says, laughing too, all signs of embarrassment gone as she grabs a handful of candies and drops them back in the box.
She’s got a great laugh, warm and infectious.
“As a certified sugar addict, I have an obsession with Scandinavian candy and there’s this website in Copenhagen that ships internationally.
Obviously I order in bulk because the shipping costs are insane if you don’t. ”
“I can see that,” I laugh, putting a handful of chocolate bars into the box. “How much candy do you go through in a month?”
“Believe it or not, this is actually a light month for me,” she says, completely straight-faced, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “You should see December. This is what impulse control looks like.”
“The already-opened box really sells the impulse control,” I say, and she laughs harder this time, her eyes crinkling at the corners, which makes me laugh too.
“Listen, when you pay for international shipping, you earn the right to sample the goods immediately,” she says, popping the candy she’d been sucking on to the other cheek. “It’s called quality control.”
“Of course. Very professional.”
“Extremely professional.” She grabs another handful of candies. “I take my candy addiction very seriously.”
She grabs the last of the brightly wrapped candies and stands, balancing everything against her hip. “Anyway. Sorry again for the chaos. And for almost taking you out with my candy habit.”
“No casualties,” I say, standing too. She’s shorter than me by a good half foot, and I notice freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations. “I’d call that a success.”
She’s smiling, and I find myself not wanting this weird little interaction to end.
“I owe you one,” she says, shifting the boxes to get a better grip. “A gummy fish, at least.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I say, and I realize I’m still smiling.
Her eyes light up, still sucking on that candy, and the smell of lemon drifts over me, bright and tart. “Well then,” she says. “I guess I’ll see you around, post office guy.” She winks, shifts the box on her hip and heads for the door, pushing through into the morning without looking back.
I watch her go. The sunlight catches her hair for just a moment before the door swings shut behind her. Then I’m just standing there in the middle of the post office, holding a box of wrong-colored napkins, wondering what the hell just happened.
Marjorie clears her throat. “Package to send, Theo?”
I turn back to find her giving me a look over her reading glasses, the kind that says she’s already catalogued everything that just happened and filed it away for later.
“Right. Yeah.” I head to the counter, still distracted.
She takes the box from me, smiling to herself as she starts clicking away on her computer.
“That was Emma. New in town. Such a sweet girl.” Her glasses chain—decorated with tiny orange and red leaf beads for fall—sways as she glances up at me.
“Just gave me some of that fancy European candy she got. Lovely, isn’t she? ”
“Yeah, she seems nice,” I say, keeping my voice neutral. I glance at the usual candy bowl on the counter, the one that’s normally filled with mini Snickers and Jolly Ranchers, now overflowing with what must have been two giant handfuls of brightly wrapped European candy.
“Oh, she is.” Her smile widens. “Pretty too. Don’t you think?”
My neck warms. “I didn’t really notice.”
“Really?” She returns to the computer, still smiling. “Hard not to, I would think.”
I don’t take the bait.
We chat while she processes the package, the easy kind of small talk that comes from years of living in the same small town.
She asks after Chloe, I ask after her grandkids, she tells me about the pumpkin patch they’re visiting next weekend.
Before I leave, she slides a mini Snickers across the counter for Chloe like she always does.
The parking lot is busier now. A few more cars, a couple walking in with a stack of packages. I scan the lot without meaning to, but there’s no sign of red hair.
Not that I’m looking. I head back to my car, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling out of the parking lot. By the time I’m on the main road heading toward Madison’s house, I’ve already moved on to thinking about payroll and the prep list for next week and whether the wine shipment got sorted.