Chapter 2
River
Jars clink together as I carefully unload my truck, the sound cutting through the morning stillness. This early, the air still has that cool layer, crisp against my skin, carrying the mingled scents of damp earth and the coffee half of these people are addicted to from the shop a few blocks away.
It’s another Saturday, and it greets me with open arms. However, part of me still wishes I had stopped at Willow Perk, too.
By now, I should be used to the restlessness that comes with returning here once a week.
Not because I’m worried about the sales that’ll come in, or won’t, but there’s something far bigger that keeps me up at night.
Tossing and turning, grunting and groaning, responding in ways for a reason a man in my shoes should have no part in.
Around me, vendors move with that familiar rhythm—shoulders hunched, breath misting, shifting from foot to foot just enough to keep warm.
Soon, once the sun gets high enough in the sky, it’ll heat up enough that everyone will start plucking at their clothes, missing the coolness the early mornings bring.
While I’m unloading, I get a few nods from familiar faces and return the same to them as I weave through the maze of tables and bodies. Tents are already being built, the mix of hammers thumping and soft curses slipping in between.
Frank, the organizer, is hunched over a pile of tangled cords belonging to a vendor who looks completely out of her depth.
Taking a moment to scan the open spots, deep down, I already know which one I want.
It’s a good thing Frank has that first-come, first-served mindset. He doesn’t care where we set up, as long as no one’s fighting over a table. But when I look around, I’m not hunting for the best spot like everyone else—the one with the most foot traffic or the most shade.
No, I’m looking for her. Daliah. The beauty with golden blonde hair that catches the early light like spun honey and eyes the color of steel—yet carries a softness to them that’s hard to compare.
The same woman who always catches my eye but stays so far out of my reach that I don’t bother getting any closer than the thirty feet I’ve carefully, painfully, maintained between us for the last few weeks.
She has to be around Melanie’s age—twenty-three, twenty-four at most—which puts a solid decade between us.
So there’s no way in hell I can entertain the idea of getting to know her.
Not in the way that I want to. Not in the way that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling, wondering what her lips would feel like against mine.
Like a curse I can’t break, I scan the area for any sign of her. Telling myself I’m just being aware of my surroundings, it’s all lies bouncing around my head.
Already here, unloading her crates with that quiet determination she has, I’m hardly surprised that she’s one of the first ones here.
It’s why I don’t allow myself even ten extra minutes of sleep around this time of the week.
Not because I’m dedicated to my craft or eager to beat the crowd.
But because I can’t risk losing the chance to sit across from her.
To have those thirty feet between us. To steal glances all morning like a starving man watching a feast through a window.
Today, she’s wearing a blue dress that hugs her waist before flowing out past her hips like water finding its way downstream. The fabric catches the breeze, pressing against her thighs for just a moment before releasing. I nearly stumble over my own feet, jars clinking dangerously in my arms.
Ever since Melanie did that swift introduction, I’ve been itching to hear Daliah say my name. Just imagining that soft purr rolling over my name is enough to make me want to climb over every wall I’ve tried to build just to stroll over to her side for a conversation worth deeming as a distraction.
I shake my head hard, as if I can physically dislodge the thought. Pushing myself to keep moving, stay focused, and avoid staring at her, I barely manage to follow my own instructions, just like I always do.
I claim the empty table directly across from hers and abandon one crate against it before making another trip. If I keep moving, keep busy, maybe I can drown in the rhythm of unloading instead of drowning in her.
But Daliah isn’t on the same page as me.
I’m halfway through arranging my jars—apricot, strawberry, blackberry, and the other fruits I sweat over in my garden—when I hear her clear her throat behind me.
I don’t know how I know it’s her. The sound is soft, almost hesitant. But I feel it in my bones, in the sudden stiffening of my shoulders, in the way my heart lunges up into my throat and stays there, pounding.
Maybe it’s that sweet honey scent that clings to her like a second skin. One inhale, and I swear I can taste her on my tongue—warm and golden and so fucking sweet it makes my teeth ache.
I set down one more jar slowly, buying a second of extra time to compose myself before I turn.
My eyes devour her before I can stop them. I can’t tell which part is more addictive. The flush high on her cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips, or the way her chest rises and falls like she’s been running laps around the tents before coming my way.
Up close, she’s even more devastating. A woman with her beauty shouldn’t exist. Shouldn’t be allowed to walk around, risking the threat of bringing every man near her to his knees.
I can’t bear to think about how many men occupy these tents. How many of them have looked at Daliah and thought the same way? It would drive me crazy with sensations I have no right to feel. All because she isn’t mine.
I notice the jar of honey in her grip. She’s holding it so tight her knuckles are nearly white.
Could she be scared? Is that it?
The idea that someone has made her feel nervous, uneasy, or scared stirs a dark feeling in my chest. My lips involuntarily curl into a frown, the thought settling deep in my mind at the possibility.
“What is it?” The words come out too gruff, roughened by that protective instinct I have no right to feel. She jerks slightly, and I realize with a sickening lurch that I’m the one making her tense.
Fuck.
“Um, hello.” She tucks a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear—one of those pieces that’s escaped her hair tie, falling softly against her neck—and drops her gaze to the honey in her hands.
“I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you knew if Melanie would be attending the market this week. ”
Her voice is exactly the same as I’ve heard it in passing. Soft in a way that makes me want to step closer just to hear it better. What do I have to do for her to say my name?
“I promised her some honey after she made me a bee last Saturday.” She glances up, then away, her lashes sweeping down. “You two seemed pretty close, and I didn’t want to risk selling out again. I want to trade her kindness for my own.”
Melanie’s my baby sister, my responsibility, my annoying, wonderful, chaotic mess to take care of every time she tries to run her hustle of a business. Those animals are what brought me so close to Daliah in the first place.
I should be thankful, but right now the last thing I want to talk about is her.
“Oh.” I glance to the side, toward the other vendors, searching for any sign of Melanie’s presence. “Hard to tell when she’ll come. She could skip this one if she has to work on catching up on making those stuffed animals.”
The words come out mumbled, distracted. I’m too aware of her—of the space between us, of the way her dress moves when she breathes, of the fact that she came to me for the first time in two seasons.
Last year was full of longing stares, too. Back then, I held more strength. All those seasons in passing, I longed for her in a way that forced me into the position I’m currently in. Setting up across from her weekly. Keeping an eye on her. My weekly curse.
I pull out my phone and shoot Melanie a quick message about her attendance, then tuck it back in my pocket. “I’ll take it. If she doesn’t show up today, I can hunt her down.”
I hold out my hand, fingers curling.
She hesitates. Just a flicker, there and gone, but I catch it. Her eyes drop to my palm, and something shifts in her expression. Could it be distrust, or something else?
“My sister likes to do whatever she pleases,” I add, softer now. “It’s hard to keep up with her in the moment.”
Daliah sucks in a quick breath at my words. A tiny sound, barely audible, but I feel it in my chest like a punch to my own lungs. A small smile plays on her lips in return, one that makes me want to howl.
“Your sister?” The words are barely a murmur, almost wondering. Then she loosens her grip on the jar and carefully sets it against my palm. “I see. I thought she may have been something else.”
Our fingers brush, and it’s like a tingle shoots up my arm, lightning trapped under my skin. Her touch is soft, warm, but far too brief. Her smile nearly makes my knees give out right there on the spot.
“Something else?” As the words catch in the back of my throat, I realize the misunderstanding. What I don’t understand is how this beauty came to think of it in the first place. She must not pay enough attention to notice just how deeply aware I am of her existence.
I shouldn’t fan the flames, especially when a man my age should know better. Yet, I can’t help myself.
“Not my girlfriend or wife, no. Just an annoying sibling.” The words come out thick enough to choke on. “Don’t have one of those to begin with. It’s just me.”
Giving her information I know she’s not asking for, I don’t miss the way her eyes flick up to meet mine or how quickly a flush forms on her cheeks. That small smile of hers stretches into a bigger one.
It’s a miracle I don’t drop her offering of appreciation.
Instead of putting me out of my misery by telling me if she’s taken or not, her shoes scrape the asphalt beneath us as she takes a step back. The increase of distance doesn’t help like it normally does.
“Thank you, River. I appreciate it. I should get back to my table.”
Fuck. So that’s what it sounds like?
“Well, good luck with the market.” She continues on like she didn’t just kick my feet out from beneath me.
She spins on her heel, that blue dress swishing, and looks toward her station.
Before she drifts away, she pauses. Glancing back at me over her shoulder, those steel-gray eyes catch mine for a heartbeat.
“If you were to want some honey, let me know. I’m willing to trade.
I’ve been dying to try that jam of yours. ”
A swift nod is all I can give her, thanks to my sudden inability to speak, before she’s gone, gliding back to her side of the market, that dress licking at the backs of her knees with every step.
Thirty feet suddenly feels like thirty miles. Like a chasm I can’t cross, the distance becomes unbearable.
I clutch her honey. When I finally tear my eyes away from her, I’m left staring at the silly cartoon bee wrapped around the label—round eyes, striped body, a tiny smile. I scoff softly, a breath of disbelief at the exchange that just took place.
My phone buzzes. I pluck it out on autopilot, still half-lost. Melanie’s on her way, and her usual demand to save her a table follows right after. I consider telling her about the honey now. Consider handing it over as I should.
Instead, I tuck my phone back in.
Then—because I’m weak, because I’m starving, because I’m a fool—I bring the jar up to my nose and breathe in.
The honey is warm and sweet, but underneath it, something else—something that smells like sunshine on skin. It’s the closest thing I can get to Daliah.
A part of me doesn’t want to hand this offering over to Melanie, even though I should. Even though it’s not mine to keep. Debating whether to give in and accept Daliah’s offer to trade, I use this jar to hold me over. To keep a piece of her close.
Because once it’s taken from me, there’s no telling what I’ll do to get another reason to be near her again.