Page 14 of The Scent of Happiness

“Didn’t want you to.” Stephen stood to go. “These things will kill you.”

He paused at the chessboard and moved a white knight.

Theo took a brief glance. “Checkmate in four moves.”

Stephen studied the board. “You set it up that way.”

“No,” Theo said, his voice casual. “It’s because I know how to win.”

Stephen leaned on the doorframe, half in and half out of the office. “You ever lose a knight, or even the queen, to protect your king?”

“That’s not losing,” Theo said. “That’s positioning my pieces.”

“How many of them would you sacrifice to win the game?”

“All of them,” Theo said. “Because winning is the point.”

Stephen nodded thoughtfully and pointed to the gift basket. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Throw it away.” Theo lifted it off the desk, hovering above the wastebasket. “It might be toxic.”

“Might be?”

“Probably not. You want it?”

“Sure, why not? Maya and the girls will love it.”

“Go ahead. But understand, it’s your assumption of risk.”

“Thank you, counselor.” Stephen took the basket and headed out the door. “Have a good weekend.”

Theo cracked the office window and took in the cold night air. Now that the soaps were gone, he could breathe more freely.

He was glad that Brooke had left without hiring him, saving him from making the decision. He had no business working with her. His job was to keep his head down, book as many billable hours as possible, and make money for the firm, not cater to the whims of the prom queen.

Even a prom queen who smelled like sunlight and possibilities.

Chapter Seven

Brooke sometimes wondered why she bothered with September craft shows. Summer was barely over and nobody was thinking about Christmas gifts yet. Things got progressively busier as the season went on. At the big November show, she often sold out of stock, but shows in the early fall were dreary affairs. Luckily, Brooke had a secret weapon—her best friend, Emma.

Emma had quit working at the library two months ago to become a professional house organizer. She had a designer’s eye when it came to styling a table and understood how people moved through a space. Soaps that Brooke couldn’t seem to give away in other places would fly into people’s hands when Emma helped at a show.

They were in the basement at First Methodist, with two dozen tables arranged in an L shape. Noise jangled off the tile floor and exposed ceiling as crafters moved merchandise and chatted with each other while setting up.

Brooke smiled and nodded at her fellow vendors. Abby piled sweaters and scarves on the adjoining table while complaining about the overhead fluorescent lights to Jada at the next table down. Across from them, Sharleen’s husband was setting up custom racks while she filled them with her hand-drawn greeting cards.

Last year, Brooke had been in the middle of the room, right next to the church ladies selling coffee, and the clash of scents made everyone miserable. This year, she’d been placed at the table farthest from the door, and the coffee was being served in the parish hall.

Two other crafters had body products, but Brooke didn’t consider them competition. Karla made salt scrubs and face masks with natural ingredients like clay and almonds, while Miss Maxine made children’s soaps with little toys embedded in them.

Brooke was grateful that Dixie had decided to skip this show. Dixie used cheaper oils and cut her bars smaller, selling them for rock-bottom prices, making Brooke’s soaps seem overpriced in comparison. Dixie had no incentive to turn a profit. Soapmaking was a hobby for her, “a fun way to get out of the house,” she’d said more than once. How was Brooke supposed to compete with someone who could afford to sell with razor-thin margins, or even at a loss?

Focus, she told herself. Dixie wasn’t here. Brooke had to concentrate on her own sales to her own customers. She was offering premium soap at a fair price, no matter what Dixie—or anyone else—had to say about it.

Emma was almost done setting up. She moved signs from one side of the table to another and made a little hum of disapproval.

“Problem?” Brooke asked.