“Just…give me a moment.”
“No, Ruth-Ann,” he groans. “We don’t have to go by the cart every day?—”
“I’ll just be a moment.” I ignore his protests and the large saw-thing in his arms with all the cords. He’s totally built for carrying things, and it’s not like I’m going to be long. I’m not going to get close enough that her carinoux growls. I just want to see what Simone has for sale today.
So I can judge silently.
A woman walks away with a bag of pastries, and Simone turns her cheery smile to the next customer in line. Her gaze flicks over to me and then she just as quickly looks away again. That’s fine. She can ignore me all she likes. It’s not like I’m trying to buy any of her food.
“What can I get you, Mel?” She beams a mega-watt smile at the woman in front of the cart. “The thumbprint cookies were made just this morning.”
“Ooh.” Mel leans in, eyeing the baked goods. I slide in beside her so I can get a look, too. Thumbprint cookies are supposed to be dainty little things, a white sugar cookie with a dollop of jam in the center. These, I’m unsurprised to see, are large andflat, with a huge wad of jam in the center. She’s shaped it like a clumsy heart, which would be cute if she was a toddler. But she’s not, and all I can see are the flaws.
“Those are huge,” I point out helpfully. “Not really a thumbprint. Unless you’re using your carinoux’s thumbs.”
Simone’s gaze shoots daggers at me. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No rush. I’m not buying anything.” I smirk at her and walk away, feeling satisfied. At least she knows what she’s done wrong now. She can fix it for the future.
Really, I’m just doing her a favor.
“Can we please keffing go now,” Zaemen asks, juggling the bulky saw in his arms. The cords are trailing down on the ground around him, and he looks highly annoyed. “Are you done with your flirting?”
I shoot him a furious look, speeding up as I do. “Shut up! I am not flirting!”
“If you say so,” he mutters. “Just grab the cords, will you?”
CHAPTER
THREE
SIMONE
Restless,I clack the tongs in my hand as Mel tries to decide what she wants from my cart. I fight back a sneeze, grabbing a napkin and wiping my nose. I deliberately ignore Ruth-Ann’s retreating form because she doesn’t deserve my attention.
“You okay? You seem off today,” Melody comments, leaning over to eye the cookies.
“Allergies,” I say with a sniffle. I hope it’s allergies. I can’t afford to catch a cold.
“No, I meant you seem agitated. Uneasy.”
Am I? I can usually tell by looking down at Pluto. Sure enough, the carinoux’s cute kitten face seems worried as he watches me closely. I’ll have to give him extra treats and love when we get home. Until then…I clack the tongs once more. “If I am, it’s because of you-know-who.”
It’s not Melody that’s making me crazy. It’s the judgmental woman named Ruth-Ann who insists on coming by my business every day and sneering. She ruins my day every time I see her. There’s something so perfect and controlled about her appearance, from the perfect skin and even features, her cat-likeeyes and the smooth fall of her straight jet-black hair that just barely brushes her shoulders. Her clothing is always crisp and functional, and I’ve never seen her smile.
She doesn’t look like a fun time. She looks like she’s all business.
Maybe that’s why she hatesmybusiness. Is my cart a little haphazard? Sure. Is my baking more instinct than science? Absolutely. But my customers walk away happy, and I work hard every day, so why does she care? I’m not bothering her. I’m not seeking her out.
But every day, like clockwork, she shows up in town, eyes my baked goods for the day, makes some judgy little comments, and then leaves.
She’s somean.
Melody points at one of the little pies. “What’s in these?”
I focus on the customer in front of me and not Ruth-Ann’s slim, retreating form. “Oh. Uh, shredded beef with a bit of gravy in it.”
“Yum. I’ll take all of them. My husband loves beef.” Her eyes are bright with enthusiasm.
