2. Ellie
ELLIE
I didn’t expect to run into him again so soon.
Especially at the grocery store. It’s only been a few hours.
He isn’t the typical resident of Lawson Ridge.
His dark brown hair, tousled and untamed, brushes the collar of his jacket, lending him an air of someone not quite tamed by the small-town life.
When he takes off the leather jacket and puts it in the basket, I gasp.
He is wearing a white t-shirt that doesn’t hide his tribal tattoos, the intricate patterns bold against his skin, whispering tales of a life colored outside the lines.
Did the tattoos signify a past he kept wrapped beneath the leather and indifference?
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the end-cap display until it was too late.
My shoulder nudges the precarious arrangement of pickle jars—a tower of glass and vinegar poised for disaster.
In a ballet of chaos, my fingers graze the tumbling jar, failing to secure it as gravity claimed its due.
The sound of impact rings out, a single jar’s demise announcing itself with the fanfare of shattering glass and spilled brine. Pickle slices go all over the floor.
A flush of heat surges up my neck, painting my cheeks with the colors. I stand rooted to the spot, surrounded by the evidence of my clumsiness. My heart, already misbehaving at the sight of Julian, now hammered against my ribs in mortification.
He rotates on his heel, a single brow lifting as he registers the source of the commotion. The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk. His eyes lock on mine as he walks over to me, then leans against the wooden crate of apples.
“Bet you didn’t expect your shopping trip to turn into a comedy show.”
“Or a crime scene,” Julian adds, nudging a wayward cucumber with the toe of his boot. “But I have to admit, it’s the most entertainment I’ve had since I rolled into Lawson Ridge.”
My heart does a little skip. Is that him opening up? I brush a strand of hair behind my ear, considering the man before me—a mosaic of toughness and tenderness. “Well, you know what they say about first impressions. They’re a real... pickle.”
He laughs again, and there is no mistaking the lightness in his eyes this time. “Ever thought about getting a tattoo?”
“Thought about it? Yes. Actually getting one? Not so much. My pain tolerance is probably not as high as yours.”
“Never know until you try,” Julian teases back, locking eyes with me for a moment.
“Maybe I will then. Just to prove you wrong.”
“Is that so?” His lips curve upwards. “I’ll hold you to that.”
The banter is easy, as if we have done this a thousand times before. The conversation shifts seamlessly from tattoos to music as we clean up, uncovering a mutual love for old-school rock that surprises us both.
“Led Zeppelin?” Julian’s eyebrow arches in playful skepticism.
“Absolutely. Their ‘Stairway to Heaven’ never gets old.”
“Agreed. It’s timeless.”
Picking ourselves up off the floor, we dispose of the last remnants of the pickle catastrophe.
“Thanks for helping clean up and for not freaking out over my clumsiness.”
“Adds excitement to my grocery shopping experience.” Julian clears his throat. “Guess I should let you get back to your shopping.”
“Right, my shopping.” I glance down at my list and then back up at him. “So, um, I’ll I see you around?”
“Count on it. Lawson Ridge isn’t that big, after all.”
I finish my shopping in a daze, barely registering the items I place in my basket. Mrs. Henley at the checkout counter gives me a knowing look when I accidentally hand her my library card instead of my credit card.
“Someone’s distracted today,” she says with a wink that makes me wonder if the entire store has witnessed my pickle fiasco.
“Just one of those days.”
Outside, the evening air has cooled. I tug my cardigan closer around me as I load the groceries into my trunk. The parking lot is nearly empty now, most of Lawson Ridge already home for dinner or at The Rusty Nail for Thursday night trivia.
“Need a hand with those?”
Julian’s voice startles me, and I nearly drop another jar—this time strawberry jam that would’ve made an equally spectacular mess on the asphalt.
“I think I’ve caused enough destruction for one day,” I laugh, securing the jar in my trunk. “But thanks.”
He leans against my car, arms crossed over his chest. The streetlight casts shadows that accentuate the sharp angles of his face. “So, about that tattoo...”
“Are you offering your services?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“As it happens, I am a tattoo artist. Or was. Among other things.” There’s something guarded in his expression now.
“Really? What brings a tattoo artist to Lawson Ridge, of all places? We’re not exactly known for our thriving body art scene.”
He shrugs, a casual gesture that seems practiced. “Change of scenery. Needed somewhere quiet for a while.”
“Well, quiet is our specialty here. Along with gossip and apple pie.”
Julian laughs, the sound warming something inside me. “I noticed. Mrs. Henley asked me three times if I was ‘just passing through’ before I even reached the checkout.”
“That’s her subtle way of gathering intel. By tomorrow, half the town will know there’s a mysterious stranger with tattoos buying...” I peer into his single paper bag. “Instant coffee and protein bars? That’s criminal our town.”
“Haven’t had a chance to explore the local cuisine yet.”
The words tumble out before I can reconsider: “I could show you around sometime. If you wanted.”
I’m about to backtrack when he nods. “I’d like that.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a receipt, scribbling something on the back before handing it to me. “My number. In case you decide to take the plunge.”
I stare at the number, unable to contain the smile tugging at my lips. “For the tattoo, right?”
“Or dinner. Your choice.”
My fingers close around the receipt, and I tuck it safely into my purse. And Julian gets on his motorcycle and takes off into the night.