“And then…” she prompted.
He shifted in his seat. “Is there such a thing as soapmaking school, or are you self-taught?”
The firm set of that tempting mouth had become increasingly familiar to her, and she knew what it meant. If he didn’t want to say more, he wouldn’t.
“Mostly the latter. After graduating from high school, I”—excitedly prepared to attend William and Mary, only to withdraw my acceptance after my parents died terribly while I hid in our attic—“took online classes for business, web design, and chemistry, then started my company.”
Flicking the turn signal, he smoothly braked and went right at the faded stop sign. “You make custom soaps rather than having a set stock, correct?”
Indeed she did, and she’d told him so. Three years ago.
“You remember that?” When he failed to answer her question,again, she sighed and addressed his. “I sell seasonal collections and a few perennial favorites on Etsy, but most of my business in recent years comes from my custom soap work. People contact me via my website, and they can either choose from a gallery of soaps I’ve created before or work with me to create new, one-of-a-kind small-batch soap recipes and designs. They can specify the soap’s shape, along with their preferred oil and liquid mixture, colors, fragrances, internal and external swirls and decorations, botanical toppings, et cetera. Even the packaging.”
“Mmmm.” He tapped his forefingers against the steering wheel. “Is it difficult to make new recipes?”
“Things can get complicated, depending on the customer’s choices.” She tried to steer them toward recipes that would give them the outcome they wanted, but…“I usually have to troubleshoot something. Specific fragrances and additives can cause discoloration or texture problems, like ricing. The design the client wants may not be possible with the oil blend they choose. There’s a certain amount of experimentation and negotiation.”
His lip curled. “You deal with people a lot, then.”
If she’d declared slime molds to be her main customer base, he couldn’t have sounded more disgusted. “Lessdeal withand moreinteract with.”
For her, that was a feature of her work. Not a bug. She loved working at home and working for herself, but she missed people. She missed coworkers and neighbors and family and friends who could visit her house without needing prior permission and a special pass. Friends whowouldvisit her house, full stop.
And speaking of her missing family members, there it was, whooshing by on her right: Brandstrup Arts & Crafts, her parents’ former store. Once thriving and bright and cheerful, now faded and falling apart. Abandoned, like most of the Zone. Left behind, like her.
“What?” Surprisingly attentive to her shift in mood, he slowed the SUV. “What’s wrong?”
She swallowed back the familiar wave of grief and shook her head.
“Did you see something?” They came to a near stop on the deserted road. “Talk to me.”
Oh, sure. When he didn’t want to discuss something, he just changed the subject or sealed those fine lips closed. But was she allowed to keep her own thoughts private? Nope.
“It’s just my parents’ old store.” With a hitch of her thumb, she pointed back to the boarded-up storefront at the end of a sagging strip mall. “Keep moving.”
Something about the sweep of his head as he turned to face her, the graceful twist of his neck, those stylish glasses, the way the light hit the clean, elegant line of his jaw…damn, it was familiar. In fact—
“Wait.” She slapped the dashboard in triumph. “I know who you are.”
His fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel. “What do you mean?”
She laughed in utter glee. “I know why you have that softbox and a ring light setup. I know why I keep picturing you strutting to a chilly European beat, why you were wearing such a bizarre outfit last night, and why you have so much pricy makeup in your bathroom.”
“Do you?” The rumble in his low voice was a threat.
Too bad she wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Maybe she should be, but nope. Once she’d cuddled up to someone and they’d rubbed her back soothingly, her prudent wariness apparently dissipated into the ether.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you before now. I mean, Brad and Tonya are good friends of mine, and I watch all their videos.”
Her head tipped to the side as she considered the matter.
Maybe she was being unfair to herself. Her neighbor Chad—rumpled, harmless, friendly, mouth-breather Chad—might have shared the same basic physical specifications as the nameless, silent founder of the cult favoriteBetter Than You Beauty and Fashionchannel, but the two males looked entirely different in every other respect.
In the sunshine, Chad’s uncombed hair, with its trimmed sides and floppy top, had gleamed golden. In Max’s videos, whatever product he used to slick that hair back from his face had darkened it. His natural eye color hadn’t been clear online either, maybe because of filters or because he wore tinted contacts to cover that distinctive shade of blue.
Her neighbor had favored faded Miller Lite tees with holes in them, either one size too big or one size too small. He’d worn baggy, ragged jeans and a vague smile. In contrast,Better Than You Beauty and FashionGuy had modeled the most cutting-edge fashions and makeup trends, almost all of which would look ridiculous on anyone but him.
His videos had helped popularize bleached eyebrows and thigh-high Uggs and so much more. He either revealed his chosen outfit or demonstrated the application of his chosen makeup to the sound of that inimitable, austere electro-dance music. He never smiled. Never spoke. Didn’t monetize his channel. Didn’t respond to comments. All of it only added to his mystique.
