Chapter 6
There are a multitude of reasons I should head home the second I leave the football field.
Not only have I likely peaked for the day, but I have boxes to unpack and DIY projects to accomplish.
Also, I’m sweaty, gross, and I might stink.
Nobody deserves to cross my path in this condition. It’s an easy decision, really.
But where’s the fun in easy?
I turn the radio up when the first chords of my favorite song from the Chicks begins to play on the only station that doesn’t turn to static between my house and town.
It’s too hot outside, but I roll the windows down anyway.
I pretend to be unbothered by the oppressive heat and sing at the top of my lungs as I drive deeper into town.
I need to run errands at nearly every store in town.
There are a million and one things on my to-do list that will probably cost me a million and two dollars at the hardware store alone.
Don’t even get me started on groceries. Those would be the responsible stops to make.
But as an adult, I have the God-given right to make as many bad decisions as possible.
It’s still early and the temperature is already creeping toward triple digits. Only the bravest souls are out as I pull into the empty space in front of the building with a for-sale sign in the window next to the craft store I knew I needed to visit the first time I drove past it.
“The Artist Alchemy” is scrolled whimsically across the storefront window in loopy handwriting and again on the sign hanging above it.
A purple wooden bench covered with hundreds of hand-painted stars sits on the sidewalk outside the front door.
Two embroidered pillows nuzzled in each corner remind me to buy an embroidery kit inside.
I pull open the heavy glass door and a bell rings overhead.
A burst of cold air and the smell of acrylic paint ushers me inside.
The playful design outside continues inside with rainbow color-coded shelves jam-packed with paints, yarn, and more craft supplies than I dreamt of finding in this tiny town.
There aren’t many other customers here now, but between the many indented seat cushions and giant corkboard covered with art, it’s obvious how well loved this store is.
“Welcome in!” a friendly voice shouts from somewhere deep in the store. “I’m grabbing some yarn for the knitting group tonight, but I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Take your time,” I call back to the unknown voice. “I’m just looking around.”
It’s nice knowing help is close by, but I welcome having some time to explore by myself. I haven’t been in a store like this in years. The familiar scents and sights cause memories I haven’t thought about in forever to come rushing back with such ferocity, it damn near knocks the breath out of me.
I can almost hear my grandma’s voice, so patient and kind, explaining every item to me as she held my hand while we perused aisles much like these.
She was a very serious crafter, and by proxy, so was I.
My favorite childhood memories are sitting with her at the table, trying to keep up with whatever new project she was working on at the moment.
She was always finding local craft fairs to sell her bounty of goods, and I’d be right by her side through it all, hustling my little butt off to get her as many sales as possible.
I tried to keep it up over the years, but work, the general messiness of life, and the lack of space in my one-bedroom apartment made it difficult to do as much as I wanted.
But now, with an abundance of space and time, I find myself in the very privileged position to fill my life with passions over obligations.
Because my new house was a steal and the price of real estate in Denver is at an all-time high, my savings account has more money in it than I ever thought possible.
Add in my mom’s life insurance, and I have enough of a cushion to update my house, take a work sabbatical, and stock up on plenty of crafts to keep my mind and hands busy.
They say money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you distractions.
And I need a lot of them.
I grab one of the little baskets stacked up inside the front door.
My hands itch with the need to buy everything I see.
Other than the diamond art and friendship bracelet supplies stashed in one of the many boxes I have yet to unpack, I’m building my crafty arsenal from scratch.
I start in the paint aisle, tossing in sets of acrylic, water, and oil paints with abandon before grabbing multiple sets of paintbrushes.
By the time I get to the paper pads and canvases, my basket is already overflowing.
“Holy sh— I mean, crap!” the voice from earlier yells just as a pixie of a woman comes barreling toward me. I don’t even have time to react before she yanks the basket out of my hands with a strength I’m not sure someone her size should possess. “Let me help you.”
Standing at a very average five feet, five inches, I still tower over the woman in front of me.
The pink-and-purple hair flowing down her back is the only thing brighter than her blue eyes.
She has porcelain skin that’s paler than I thought possible living in a Texas town that boasts its outdoorsy appeal.
She aims a wide, welcoming smile my way, but there’s a hint of mischief that gives me the very distinct feeling she’s one of a kind in Celestial.
I follow her to the front of the store and take the new basket she hands me from behind the counter.
“Thank you,” I say. “I want everything in here! I’m not sure I have the self-control to stop myself.”
Her blue eyes crinkle at the corners, and her delicate laughter fills the entire store.
“You and me both,” she says. “My living room looks like a miniature version of the store, and I’m not even the least bit sorry about it.”
“Money well spent.” Stranger or not, now I need an invite to her house. “I think my entire paycheck would go right back to the owner if I worked here.”
It’s what happened when I worked at the Book Nook. You can now find the majority of my former paychecks in the countless romance novels that will soon be lining the bookshelves I have yet to purchase.
“That’s exactly why I opened this store!” she squeals. “Well, that and an excuse to knit during work hours.”
My jaw drops and the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. “This is your store?”
I don’t mean to sound so surprised—and therefore rude—but when I imagine the person who owns a craft store, I picture an older woman with an affinity for printed maxi skirts, embroidered sweatshirts, and beaded jewelry.
The woman in front of me doesn’t look a day over twenty-five and is wearing baggy jeans and a cropped tee that showcases the colorful tattoo snaking down her side.
“It is.” She pulls the items out of my basket, and her already bright smile widens with what I can only assume is pride. “I took my art degree and opened it straight out of college. My parents thought I lost my mind, but our five-year anniversary is this September, so look who’s laughing now.”
She doesn’t seem offended by my question, and the knot forming in my stomach starts to loosen. I don’t want any enemies in Celestial, least of all one with unlimited access to knitting hooks and paper cutters.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “I can’t wait to give you all my money and help you keep proving them wrong.”
Investing in women who encourage my self-interests is the most fun way to do feminism.
“I can’t wait either,” she says, extending her hand across the front desk. “I’m Millicent Dean, but all my friends call me Millie.”
I shake her hand, not caring at all that enthusiasm gives away my borderline desperate desire to fit in around here. “Nice to meet you, Millie. I’m—”
“Luna Starr,” she finishes for me. “The proud new owner of the Monroe farmhouse and Celestial’s newest resident.”
“Ummm…” I struggle to find the words, not sure if I should feel honored or terrified that this stranger knows my name and where I live. “How did you—”
She cuts me off again, but with the added flourish of a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not a stalker.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because that sounds exactly like something a stalker would say.”
I couldn’t be more serious, but she laughs like I just told the world’s funniest joke.
“This might come as a surprise to you, but people aren’t moving to Celestial in droves.
So when someone new comes along, word gets around really fast.” She takes the last set of paintbrushes out of the basket and studies me with curious eyes.
“Especially when said new person is cuddled up with Tate on the sidelines at morning football practice.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“Wait. What? But that was—we weren’t…” I stumble over my words, trying to sort through the barrage of thoughts bombarding my brain. “How’d you hear that? I just—”
“I work hard, but the Celestial Whisper Network works harder,” she says as if that explains everything. “If you’re going to survive here, you have to understand that secrets don’t exist in Celestial. Half the town heard about you and Tate before you left the field.”
“Me and Tate?” My head is spinning. She’s telling me about my own freaking life and I still can’t keep up! “There is no me and Tate…like, at all.”
“Yeah,” she says with a wink and an exaggerated nod that sends her pink-and-purple hair flying. “Sure there’s not.”
“There’s not.” Did I move to Celestial or the Twilight Zone? “I’ve only met him twice, and he’s seemed more annoyed than anything the two times we have talked.”
“Oh yes,” she says. I don’t like the way her shoulders shimmy and her eyes light up. “The infamous bar meeting.”
My jaw hits the floor. “You know about that too?”
“Duh,” she says like I’m stupid. “Like I said, the Celestial Whisper Network doesn’t miss.”