It felt...
Rosie glanced over, catching me staring. Her smile was instant, warm.
My chest did something complicated.
I looked away before she could see what I was thinking.
That was the problem with sunshine. It made you forget you'd been surviving just fine in the dark.
ChapterNine
Rosalie
“—andthat's when I told him, Harold, if you want dinner at six, you better learn to cook, because I'm watching my shows.”
I handed the older woman her bag of lettuce and chard, grinning. “Good for you!”
“At seventy-two, I've earned the right to make unreasonable demands.” She winked, counting out exact change. “Besides, he likes to complain. Gives him purpose.”
“Men do seem to enjoy a good grumble,” I agreed, glancing over at Cal, who was chatting with a family.
She tucked the greens into her canvas tote, then glanced over in Cal's direction. “Your husband has the same look my Harold gets when I drag him shopping. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.”
I choked on air. “Oh, he's not—we're not?—”
“But he shows up anyway.” Her eyes twinkled. “That's how you know they're keepers, dear.”
She wandered off before I could correct her, leaving me staring after her in mortified silence.
Married. To Cal Sterling.
I busied myself rearranging the already-perfect flower display, sneaking a glance back toward the adoption area. Cal was crouched beside a little girl, who was cautiously petting Daisy while her parents filled out paperwork. His expression had softened—not quite a smile, but close.
Sure, he'd been helpful today. Packed some orders when the lunch rush hit. Helped me rearrange the booth after two kids racing through the market knocked over my entire herb display. Kept Daisy from stealing someone's breakfast burrito when they set it down to dig through their wallet.
But that didn't mean we weretogether.
The woman clearly needed her vision checked. Or maybe she'd been sampling too much of the craft beer from the brewery tent.
Because Cal was just... helpful.
I turned back to my booth, determined to forget that conversation ever happened.
Thirty minutes until closing. I surveyed what was left—a dozen eggs, two bunches of chard, some lettuce that was starting to look tired, and the flower bouquets nobody had bought.
The flowers were my problem. I'd made too many, convinced they'd fly off the table. Turns out people preferred baked goods and the fancy cheese from the dairy farm two booths down.
I did the mental math I'd been avoiding all day. Twenty-eight dollars in egg sales. Forty-three for vegetables. Sixteen for flowers. The herbs had done well—fifty-two dollars there.
One hundred thirty-nine dollars total. It wasn't terrible for a first market solo. Right?
Except it would barely cover groceries, feed for the animals, fixing whatever inevitably broke next, let alone rebuilding the farm account after the tax payment.
I plastered on my best smile as a woman wandered past, eyeing the chards. I pounced. “Fresh chard! Perfect for sautéing or adding to soups!”
The woman picked up a bunch, examining the dark green leaves. “How much?”
“Four dollars.”
