Page 4 of Possessive Ink

“Eating in or taking away?” the server asks, glancing around me to see if anyone else is joining me or if I’m planning on eating all of that on my own.

“Take away, please.”

“Any drinks?”

“Can I get a Dr Pepper if you have it, a sweet tea, and the biggest coffee you do.”

Nodding, the server rings me up, tells me it’s going to be twenty minutes, then moves on to the next customer waiting to be served.

Exhaling, I swivel on my stool so I can look out of the huge windows that line the front of the diner facing the sidewalk. Rockhead Point is a cute town, full of tourists all year round, and right now there’s a sea of visitors strolling the streets, deciding where to go for early dinner and peering into the cute boutiques that stay open late in the summer to make the most of the evening guests.

I get why Tori loves it here. This place is the perfect setting for her French-style patisserie, and I’m glad she’s making her dreams of bringing a little bit of France to wherever she is come true. Most rural Montana towns might not appreciate frou-frou cakes and pastries, but she already had the trust of the locals from when she worked in the shop before she bought it, so according to her, her customers have seamlessly moved from buying cookies to macarons without realizing it.

Silently people watching, I see a flash of blonde hair as someone runs past the window with a streak of pale pink following her as her huge skirt billows out behind her. I can’t explain it, but my heart starts to race, beating wildly as I climb down from my seat and make my way to the door. Opening it, I step out onto the sidewalk and see the blonde woman in the pink dress disappear down a side street and out of sight.

I barely got a glimpse of her, but even though she’s gone, my heart doesn’t calm, thudding against my chest in a steady drum.

TWO

LEMON

How could I forget?

My sandals slap against the asphalt as I dart along the sidewalk full of meandering tourists. I weave in and out of families and couples, wishing that I could find the space to sprint, but knowing that if I were to try, I’d probably have to stop and rest in a couple of minutes.

I can feel my face getting redder and redder as my chest heaves from the exertion of running. My body was not intended for this much exercise. I’m built for comfort, not speed, and that has never been more apparent than right now as I try to get to the store I should have gone to two hours ago that is closing in two minutes.

Timekeeping is not my forte. In fact, organization is not really my forte. Truthfully, very little is my forte, except for…dresses. They’re my thing. I’m an aspiring designer. Well, perhaps calling myself an aspiring designer might be untrue. I’m a wannabe aspiring designer. In an ideal world, I’d spend my life spinning around in pretty dresses I designed and not rushing in circles trying to finish the hundred and one things on my to-do list.

Unfortunately, although I have a million ideas for dresses, sewing is super hard, and fabric is super expensive, so instead of being a spinner of dresses, I’m a receptionist come general lackey at a day spa.

I almost sag with relief when I spot the familiar facade of the printing company’s shop front ahead of me. Panting so hard I can’t speak, I burst through the door and clutch the counter with both hands as I suck in gasps of air.

“Jesus, Lemon. I was giving you thirty more seconds before I locked up.”

“I’m here,” I rasp.

“Barely. I told you I can’t cover for you with Wes if you forget again. He’s threatening to start using someone else if we’re late on delivery one more time. I like you, Lem, you know that, but I can’t lose business just because you can’t organize yourself,” Ricky chides, looking at me like I’m a child being brought to the principal’s office.

“I know. I’m here,” I rasp again.

Rolling his eyes, he bends down and starts heaving boxes from the floor up onto the counter. “How are you planning on carrying all this stuff back?” he questions.

“Oh crap,” I hiss, staring at the growing pile of heavy boxes.

Sighing dramatically, Ricky shakes his head. “Help me load this all into my car, and I’ll give you a ride.”

“Really?” I gasp hopefully.

“Well, how the hell are you going to get it back if I don’t?”

“Thank you, Ricky,” I singsong, skipping around the counter and picking up two of the boxes. My arms almost give way under the weight, but I manage not to drop them as I follow Ricky through the print shop and out of the back entrance into the alley behind, where his old station wagon is parked.

Opening his trunk, he slides the four boxes he’s holding into the car, then turns and takes my two from me. “Get in the car,” he tells me.

“Oh, no, I’ll get the rest⁠—”

“Get in the car, Lem. I don’t want you to hurt yourself by carrying them,” he says, his expression gone from chiding to concerned in the blink of an eye.