Chapter Ten
Even though it was a weekend and she’d been going nonstop for weeks, Marcee forced herself out of bed for a sunrise yoga session in their backyard.
The morning dew and chipper birds were the only witnesses to her moaning and groaning as she assumed downward dog or perched in tree pose, but she needed to do something to remind herself she was taking care of her body.
After they’d thoroughly trashed Alex’s would-be sponsors after a rejection landed in her inbox and come up with a new plan for turning her pro by next summer, Marcee let her run-in with Remy slip. The night spiraled from there.
When she tried to convince Alex to join her that morning, her best friend had a few choice words before disappearing beneath her comforter. Marcee couldn’t blame her; she would annoy the hell out of herself, too.
Alex was still asleep when she got back inside and showered, so she decided to reward her dedication to a healthy lifestyle with a trip to Cliffhanger Smoothies, the best (and only) smoothie cafe in Belle Cliff.
The tinkling dance of wind chimes greeted Marcee as she entered the shop fifteen minutes later and she breathed in the tart deliciousness of strawberry pastry. She really shouldn’t—not after the night before—but apparently her self-control fled the country.
She would do thirty minutes of cardio later, she vowed. And she’d pick up an extra training session to cover the takeout and treats she’d indulged in lately.
“Mornin’, Marcee!” Grant was the weekend smoothie king, a baby-faced high school senior from the local public school who always gave her an extra punch on her rewards card.
She sidled over to the register, eyeing the pastry case. “You must have ESP, Grant, making my favorite treat.”
He grinned and grabbed the tongs underneath the counter. “There’s an eighty percent chance of you coming into the shop on the weekend, so no ESP needed.” The pastry was so soft it almost broke apart as he grasped it and dropped it onto a plate, then slid it across the counter. “Your usual?”
“Of course. Can you put the pastry in a to-go bag, though?” Marcee grabbed a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and handed it over with her punch card, noting with satisfaction the two star-shaped punches when he gave it back. The change that was left she dropped into the tip jar.
“Not a problem. I’ll have this out in a jiffy.”
“No rush. I’ll wait outside.” She slipped out the side door to the patio alongside the building, covered in shade. An obnoxious trill sounded from her purse, so she yanked out her phone. She’d given Remy his own text tone, so she would know whenever he felt like annoying her.
Good run last night, Coach. We should do it again.
As if that had been a planned activity! She snorted and replied.
Simmer down, cowboy. YOU ambushed ME, remember?
The street running beside the cafe was blocked off that morning by tents and tables.
Belle Cliff was one of those quaint small towns that had downtown activities every other day, celebrating the whole know-your-neighborhood vibe.
Marcee was drawn to the bustle like a lullaby, having been raised on the noise and the hum of city life.
“Art and stroll.” Grant appeared at her side, holding out a small white bag that was warm to the touch and a large smoothie. “It’s going to be a busy one for us.”
“Better get back in there, then.” She caught a whiff of her Danish and sighed. “Thanks again.”
She usually went straight home or to practice after a stop at the cafe, but it was impossible to walk past the vendors without looking. Despite everything, she was the daughter of artists. She appreciated creativity, even if her own skills in the area never developed past finger paints.
Maybe her parents would have shown more interest in her life if she’d gone the way of the easel and brush or sketchpad and pastels.
Marcee meandered past the first table, sipping on her drink as she looked over the handcrafted bracelets and earrings.
Even as a small child in public school, coloring and crafts bored her.
She was restless to get up and move, to make things happen.
She never understood how her parents could sit in front of a canvas all day, or hunch over clay and mold it into something beautiful.
Not to mention art supplies really piled up, and when you moved as much as they did growing up, it was easier to pack up a soccer ball than paints.
The Blue Ridge Mountains drew in artists year-round, so Belle Cliff had a blooming artist community that showed up for most of the city events.
As the sun climbed higher, Main Street became inundated with locals and tourists, forcing her to eat her pastry while she weaved between stalls and looked out for early Christmas presents.
Remy texted back.
Would it be so terrible? I seem to remember you enjoying my company quite a bit.
God, he was so full of himself. He had to know there couldn’t and would never be anything more between them.
As much as the next guy, she replied, wincing even as she hit send. What was it about him that made her so irrational? She wasn’t usually this much of a bitch.
A flash of blue and purple lured her halfway down the street as she put away her phone. Tapestries. One in particular caught her eye as she lingered.
“He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” The seller was draped across a fold-out chair behind the table, baseball cap turned backward.
“He is,” Marcee agreed, running a finger along the thread. “My mother adores peacocks.”
“Well, then you should bring her by. I have a few other ones she might like.”
“She lives in New York.” Marcee contemplated buying it, wondering what her parents would make of the skill. “She’s an artist, too. Mostly painting, but some sculpture here and there.”
The weaver nodded enthusiastically. “Right on!”
As she handed over some cash—probably too much—she heard a familiar voice over the chatter of the crowd and the mournful notes of a street corner violinist.
Marcee swiveled around, searching for the owner of the familiar British accent. Was he seriously here? Right now? Things were getting borderline stalkerish.
So why did her stomach fill with the tickle of butterfly wings at the sound?
“Thanks, beautiful. Hope your mom loves it.”
She grabbed the bag with the tapestry wrapped up inside. “Sure,” she replied, distracted as she searched further down the road.
Bullseye.
Remy, chatting up an essential oil vendor.
She could turn around and leave now and he’d be none the wiser.
After their conversation at the community center the day before their entire dynamic felt off balance, and it clearly did for him, too, if he was daydreaming about going on a date.
She’d never wanted to learn anything about him, let alone something that made him seem human.
And she certainly never wanted him to have any details of her life, including having a second job.
Those were things friends discussed, and they were not friends.
They weren’t even cordial, for heaven’s sake. Well, they were yesterday, at least.
Still, something made Marcee walk closer, examining items she had no interest in purchasing so she could eavesdrop on whatever he was telling the woman behind the table. Did he really use oils, or was he flirting? He was always so charming there was no way to tell.
“Would you like a sample?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d been focusing so hard on Remy behind her she hadn’t noticed the cheese seller in front of her.
“Oh, yes, that would be great. Thanks.” It was sharp and tangy, a small cube impaled by a toothpick. Alex would love it. “I’ll take half a block.”
Remy was still at the oil stand after she paid for the cheese.
Marcee debated leaving but was struck with a burst of impetuousness which propelled her next to him.
She didn’t say anything to him or acknowledge his presence at all, although his shoulders stiffened when he realized who was standing beside him.
Interesting.
Marcee picked a bottle at random and start sniffing, ignoring him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him watching as she placed a small dab of eucalyptus on her wrist.
“Are you a runner?” the vendor asked, motioning toward her attire.
“Yes.”
“That’s a good choice, then. It helps with muscle tension. Very soothing.”
The corner of Marcee’s mouth twitched. “I do have a rather large pain in my neck. It’s been reoccurring since the summer.” Very large, in fact. About six foot two and a hundred and ninety pounds.
“How uncomfortable!”
Marcee nodded seriously, fighting back a grin. “You have no idea.”
“What about something with pheromones?” Remy interrupted. “Anything here you would recommend as sensual?” Flirting, then. Definitely flirting with the vendor.
“Ah.” The vendor gulped audibly, staring into Remy’s eyes as a flush crept up her neck. “Smoke and mirrors, perhaps? It’s a combination blend.” She handed a test tube to him, watching with wide eyes as he rolled a small amount onto the inside of his wrist and brought it to his face.
“Interesting,” he murmured, eyes closing briefly. “What do you think?”
For the life of her, Marcee couldn’t explain why there was a tang of disappointment in her gut when he held his wrist up for the girl behind the table.
I want that to be me.
The thought slammed into her with such force she was left reeling and unbalanced.
“Very sensual,” the vendor breathed, eyes fluttering like a damn cartoon character.
She couldn’t stand around to watch.
“Marcee.” His hand wrapped around her wrist as she spun in the opposite direction, ready to get into her car and go straight home. Do not pass go, do not lust after your sworn enemy ever again. “Wait. Please.”
Please.
Marcee sighed, unable to keep walking. His words were so polite, so… genuine.
“What do you think?” he asked, fingers softening around her wrist until it was the lightest brush of fingertips at her pulse, which—fuck her life—was racing.
“Of?”