3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
“ U m, Phoebe,” Hunter says, approaching with clipped words and wide eyes. He holds up a small gadget. “This credit card reader is dead, and I can’t find a charging cable. Any suggestions?”
“Your sister knew there was an event this weekend, right?” I ask with a laugh. “I’m kidding. Well,” I drawl, “it might be confusing, but you could use my card reader. As long as we keep detailed records.”
How could I say no? With his wide eyes, he resembles an owl. I love owls.
“I’m a numbers guy.” He shrugs. “That’s not a problem.”
I move towards the small table I use for processing sales. “I record sales and payment info in this notebook. Use the next page to jot down your credit card transactions.”
He steps closer to me, looking at my notebook. “Got it. You’re a godsend, Phoebe. Thanks for bailing me out. I’m going to pummel my sister when she returns. I hope Vegas was worth it.”
I chuckle at his comment. Before he returns to his booth, he gives me a side hug and lightly runs his hand over my upper arm. My skin tingles from his touch. As hot as it is, I don’t mind the extra warmth from his body.
“Wow,” he says, stepping away. “It’s hot. That was probably repulsive.”
No, nowhere near repulsive. I keep that thought to myself.
The next two hours pass in a blur. Not sure if all the people browsing my booth cause the blur, or if it’s the sweat dripping into my eyes.
I keep a close eye on my stacks of soap: no melting pools yet. When Mr. Curtis stopped by earlier, he brought one of the cooling “machines” he’d mentioned, and I gladly accepted it.
Miraculously, it’s working. The temperature in the shade of my tent canopy dropped about ten degrees after he set it up. It’s not equivalent to air-conditioning, but it’s an improvement, and so far, no melting soaps.
The crowd thins out at lunchtime. Fair attendees make their way to the fire station, where the Women’s Guild sells a tasty plated lunch. Profits will go towards the town’s Christmas celebration.
Hunter politely asks me to cover his booth while he takes a break. When he comes back, I notice he’s carrying two plates of food.
As he approaches, the sweet, smoky scent of grilled pork chop sandwiches surrounds me.
“Pork chop?” I ask .
“Yes,” he grins. “It’s your favorite. You always made me save one for you at the football games when I worked concessions.”
I’m flabbergasted. “How do you remember that?”
Yes, I asked him nearly every football game for four years to save one for me. I was in the marching band and never ate until after the game; I was always a bundle of nerves before performing.
My first memories when seeing Hunter earlier today were all negative. There are lots of wonderful memories, too. I had just filed them away in the deeper corners of my memory bank.
Memories of him saving food for me at football games, being the one I could call when I was stuck on math homework, and his obsession with the music of Kings of Leon and Jack White.
Hunter played basketball, not football, and constantly volunteered with the booster club to work at the concession stand during football games.
He wasn’t concerned about watching the game; he said he preferred interacting with everyone over sitting and watching.
Though he never failed to watch the marching band perform.
Hunter shrugs. “I remember a lot of things.”
Whoa. His words sound wistful, and it makes my stomach lurch.
A rush of memories floods my mind, and the memory machine trips a circuit breaker. I try to lighten the mood. “Look at the big brain on Hunter. No wonder you were the class valedictorian. Your parents must be proud.”
I say it jokingly, but Hunter’s eyebrows pinch together. I’ve hit a nerve, and I don’t know why .
He grunts and hands over the plate. “Enjoy.”
He walks to the back of his booth, where he settles into a chair and pulls out a bottle of water from the cooler.
Glancing around and seeing no customers approaching, I sit and pull the aluminum foil off the sandwich. The wafting smell makes my stomach grumble. Loudly. I’m glad Hunter is over eight feet away.
“I heard that,” he says.
“No way!”
“Yep. Good thing I brought the sandwich when I did.”
“Thanks again. I’ll get dessert later.”
I eat quickly and rise to meet a lady and her daughter as they enter the booth.
The young girl oohs and ahs at the colorful soaps.
She picks up my newest creation, Pumpkin Pot Pie.
No, it’s not edible, but it was made in a pot, and it smells like pumpkin pie.
I used a sparkling, copper-colored mica in this batch of soap, which gives it a fancy glow.
The pumpkin puree and pumpkin spice fragrance take this soap to another level—it’s the perfect fall soap.
“Mommy, can I eat this?” the girl asks.
“No, it’s soap,” the mother replies.
I laugh as I approach. “If you’re hungry for pumpkin pie, Mrs. Johnson has the best.” I point towards Mrs. Johnson’s booth. “But if you want to be clean and smell yummy like pie, this soap is for you.”
“I bet this is a bestseller!” the mother says.
“It is. Luckily, I made plenty, though I may be out of stock by Sunday.”
Although Chloe had to take a day off from work, she is covering my store today and tomorrow. It means a lot to me she was willing to jump in and help. With most of the town here at the festival, it should be a light day for her at the boutique.
The lady continues browsing as she adds soaps, one bar at a time, to one of the small shopping baskets I provide for customers.
She asks about the ingredients in several bars, saying she is sensitive to palm oil, so I steer her towards the ones that are palm-oil free and skin-friendly.
Once she pays and they exit the booth, Hunter approaches. “You’re fantastic with people, Pheebs.”
“Thanks. Good to know, as I interact with people all the time.”
“We were interrupted before.” He glances around, possibly looking for potential interruptions. “What do you do now?”
“I own a home decor, personal accessories, and bath goods boutique downtown.”
“Oh, yeah? Which building?”
“It’s at the corner of Main and Peoria streets. It’s the building my grandparents owned when we were kids.”
“Oh, the one that used to be a design-your-own T-shirt shop a few years back?”
“That’s the one.”
“I’ll have to stop by sometime.”
“How long are you staying?”
No way he’ll be here past Sunday. He’s never been one to linger, as far as I’ve heard. He blows in for family obligations and then quickly retreats.
His eyes drop to the ground, and he shrugs. “Undetermined. ”
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to figure out what’s going on with Hunter. “Well, stop by if you get a chance. I sell a lot of stuff. Not your sister’s soaps though.”
That gets a laugh out of him. His eyes meet mine, and he shakes his head. “You’re as funny as I remembered.”
“That’s me—the life of the party.”
My life is more pressure than party these days: the unexpected repair, others relying on my business to help them pay their bills, the feeling that I’m the town’s spinster, since I’m thirty-one with two broken engagements.
A couple strolls into Hunter’s booth. I tilt my head towards them, and he walks over to help.
I watch their interaction. He’s polite but shakes his head when they ask specific questions about technique.
He explains that his sister is the soap-maker, and he points to me.
“She could answer your more technical questions.”
The man laughs. “No competition here. I love small towns.”
If he only knew the thoughts running through my head today about my competition. They’ve not been small-town friendly. So far, I’ve melted at Hunter’s touch, wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and admired the lusciousness of his hair, wanting to run my fingers through it.
Stop it, Phoebe! He is either your enemy or your friend. He’s flip-flopped between the two over the years, but he’s never been more.
The lady with blonde hair picks up a soap from Hunter’s booth and comes over. “I like the lavender smell of this one, but do you know what kind of base it contains? ”
I glance at the display cards. Joy labeled them with the scents, but not the ingredients. “I’m sorry. There is a variety of different bases. I wouldn’t want to guess and be wrong. Hunter, does your sister have a recipe book or other literature with her materials?”
He shrugs. “She didn’t point one out. I could text her?”
“Oh, don’t bother,” the woman replies. Glancing around my booth, she asks, “Do you have a lavender-scented bar?”
“Absolutely. It’s over here.”
She turns around and hands Hunter the soap in her hand. “Sorry. That won’t work.”
“I understand,” he says, grinning at me.
The man asks Hunter what he knows about soap, and I hear Hunter say, “Not to eat it, even if it smells like pumpkin pie.”
I smile as I tell the lady that my lavender soap contains coconut and olive oils.
She selects two bars. Before paying, she spots an avocado moisturizing bar—a bestseller at a spring craft fair, though it hasn’t been moving this morning. She adds two of these to her pile.
After I bag the soap bars, Hunter comes over to use my credit card gadget for his latest sale. He diligently notes his charge in the notebook, just under mine.
“I think the lunch crowd is on the loose again. It’s getting busy,” he says as he hands me the credit card reader.
He’s right; the rest of the afternoon flies by.
By the time four o’clock rolls around, I’m ready to drop. I’d almost forgotten about the softball game, but Mr. Curtis strolls by before closing to remind me .
I groan. “Mr. Curtis! I’m tired. I can’t possibly play tonight. Could Hunter play instead?”
Hunter’s used my credit card reader at least eighty-seven times today. He owes me!
Mr. Curtis shakes his head. “Sadly, no. It’s a coed game, and I can’t let any more men play tonight. I was lucky to have found you. If I hadn’t gotten another female, we would have had to forfeit the game. Hunter can watch, though.”
Hunter strolls over. “I’d be happy to watch. When and where?”
“Field three,” Mr. Curtis answers. “Seven o’clock. Be there or be a puddle.”
“Ha.” Hunter chuckles. “Lichtenburg Lightning. Don’t be a puddle. I get it.”
Hunter gets it. If only he could get in it. The game, not a puddle.
“Please don’t come,” I say. I can only imagine the humiliation, and I’ll have to work beside him for the next two days. If I catch a fly ball between my eyes, I’ll never hear the end of it.
“Oh, I’m coming all right. I’ll be your biggest cheerleader,” he says.
I don’t feel good about this.