Chapter 11
The market smells like cinnamon and apple candles. I’ve already got pumpkins, pinecones, and apples back at the farm. What I need now is paint, few decorations, and some crates. Simple enough—though the fall section is already overcrowded with Christmas decorations.
Amidst the aisle full of plastic Santas and glittery ornaments are some scarecrows and plastic turkeys.
I’m comparing two signs when a voice cuts in.
“Hi. Can I help you find something?”
I turn; there she is. Alex Rhodes. Burgundy blouse tucked neatly into a dark grey fitted skirt, black tights, heels clicking against the floor. Her hair spills over her shoulder, catching the light like rose gold. For a moment too long, I catch myself staring.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
Her mouth tips into a smile. “Are you sure? Because you look very out of place.”
I huff, tossing a scarecrow into my cart. “I’m just getting items for the photo setup for the event this weekend.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, Finley, taking photos? No way.”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. “I’m not taking the photos. Michelle is—” The words stall, the realization hitting me. “Oh, shit.”
She tilts her head. “What?”
“My neighbor is a photographer; she takes the photos every year. She won’t make it this year.”
“Well… I took photography in high school. I even have a nice camera. I could do it.”
I blink at her. “I didn’t know you were invited.”
Her brows lift as she holds up the flyer. “I thought the whole town was.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t need your help.”
Alex tilts her head. “Really? Who’s going to take the photos then?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter, grabbing a bundle of fake leaves and tossing them into the cart.
She follows me a few steps, “I have the camera, I’ll be there this weekend anyhow.”
I stare down at her, trying to summon a reason to say no.
“Fine,” I bite out. “But stay out of the way.”
A smile spreads across her annoyingly beautiful face. “Deal.”
She turns toward the shelf of overcrowded decorations and tosses a couple of signs into my cart without asking.
She looks up at me, smug and radiant. “See you Saturday,” she says, her voice light, before flashing a quick smile and walking away.
I watch her go, my eyes following the sway of her hips, the graceful line of her shoulders. Her movements are so elegant, so lithe. Not fit for a farm.