He considers that. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, looks back at me. “So I can’t touch plants…but I can touch paper, right?”
I blink at him. Then I shake my head, already exhausted.
“Seriously? Of course you can touch the paper. Just—” I gesture vaguely at the shop, the shelves, the fragile ecosystem I’ve built leaf by leaf. “Try not to be a bull in a china shop. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”
“I was kidding, but of course,” he says quickly. “Absolutely. I will be gentle. Respectful. I’m a man who is very aware of my surroundings.”
He takes one careful step backward, as if to prove this point, and the edge of his exceptionally “gentle” elbow bumps a hanging planter.
I swear on all that is holy that time slows as I watch the plant sway. The ceramic pot it’s in retails for over one hundred dollars. Please, oh please, don’t let it shatter. Not while I’m watching at least.
Sawyer’s eyes go wide. He lunges, more gracefully than I was expecting, and catches the plant mid-swing.
“Got it,” he says triumphantly, holding it steady. “Didn’t even break eye contact.”
I close my eyes and exhale. “How did you…?”
“Don’t know.” He sets the plant back exactly where it was and straightens, hands up again. “But, crisis averted.”
I look at him. Really look at him. The coffee. The effort. The way he caught the plant like it mattered. The way his hair is slightly messed up from the wind and there’s a small scar near his left eyebrow I didn’t notice before.
“Okay,” I say, laying down the stack of paperwork that our new friend Carol brought us, while also giving myself a cease and desist on noticing things about Sawyer. “Let’s start here.”
Sawyer peers at the pages like they might bite. “That’s a lot of paper.”
“Welcome to civic enthusiasm,” I say. “Apparently, Carol does not do subtle.”
I flip to the first page, scanning the neatly bulleted list. “Okay. She’s given us a list of ideas of what to do with you. First suggestion: regular in-store appearances.”
Sawyer brightens immediately. “I could do that.”
I don’t even look up. “Easy there, hero. This is a small shop. We don’t have crowd control, security, or insurance for stampedes.”
“I wouldn’t cause a stampede,” he says, wounded.
I glance at him. He’s sincere. That’s the problem.
“I’m saying people would want photos. Autographs. A moment to chat.” I gesture at the surrounding greenery. “This is not an arena. This is a jungle with a cash register.”
“But I could meet your customers,” he says. “Say hi. Smile. Make people want to come in. People like my autograph.”
I pause. Blink. Look at him. Blink again.
“Make people want to come in,” I repeat slowly.
He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. That’s kind of the point, right? Visibility for the shop. More foot traffic.”
My brain does the math before I can stop it. More foot traffic means more sales. More sales means I can pay the supplier invoice. Maybe even have enough left over for Theo’s birthday.
“You’d bring people in,” I say carefully.
“I mean, probably?” He looks almost embarrassed. “Not tosound like an ass, but...yeah. The team’s pretty popular right now.”
I glance at the invoice still sitting on the counter. $847. Four days.
I arch an eyebrow, recovering. “You think people would want your autograph that much?”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Historically? Yes.”
