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TWO
Laia
So, this is Fern Bay Farmer’s Market?
Rubbing my shoulder, I glare at the truck door. Five full minutes and a whole lot of brute force it took me to get that thing to cooperate. I walk past the hood, and my almost-road-kill’s furious blue stare flashes behind my eyes. That could have been so much worse. So, so much worse.
But it wasn’t. He’s fine. I’m fine. It’s fine.
I shove down the guilt and the embarrassment over my less than stellar attempt to stick up for myself and force myself to move away from the truck.
Dust puffs up from my feet with every step I take towards the big wooden arch that covers the entrance to the market. And with every step my mood lifts a tiny bit more. It’s not even ten but the place is buzzing with life, a spicy sweetness mingling with salty ocean air. Delicious and exotic and mouth-wateringly invigorating.
In a sea of people who seem to know exactly where they’re going and what they’re doing, I can’t help but feel like I have a massive neon tourist sign above my head, but I can’t even bring myself to care. There’s a man carrying a basket of mangos. Freshmangos. I mentally flick through a dozen different flavors that would work amazingly with fresh mango and pick up my pace.
Today may still end up being a good day after all.
Stepping under the hand-painted arch is like stepping into another world. I’ve been to many, many farmer’s markets in my time. It was one of my mom’s favorite weekend adventures. But this place is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.
Each stall boasts its own canopy of intricately patterned material in a rainbow of colors.
I spin slowly, mouth open, tourist sign flashing in all its glory. I’m in love.
Not far in the distance, I spot the wicker basket of mangos held high above the heads of the meandering crowd. My face breaks into a grin as I let myself be pulled along by the other shoppers.
A couple of little girls spinning atop a low wall stop me before I get far. They giggle and spin faster, their colorfully embroidered skirts flowing around them before their mom catches them, laughing as she helps them off the wall, talking to them in a language I can only assume is the local dialect. It’s almost as beautiful as they are, with curling R’s and a melodic sing-song rhythm.
Everything about Clua is beautiful. Even its history.
I breathe in the salt-infused, floral air and wander a little further. The island was briefly a US territory according to Mrs. Devon. That’s probably the reason everyone speaks English, luckily for me. A melting pot of race and heritage she called it on the drive from the port to the house as she told me about the island’s initial discovery by ships full of people fleeing some war or other many, many years ago. That the locals share a wide range of ancestors, their traditions, and histories a rich blend of many.
I smile at the girl behind a table filled with silver bracelets and cuffs. The designs are similar to the ones decorating the material that’s shading her stall. All swirls and dots. They’re the same as the ones Mrs. Devon was wearing last night. I pick up a slim bangle with the most delicate engraving I’ve ever seen. Damon hated bracelets. Said they were slutty. I glance at my bare wrist then back to the collection of bangles on the girl’s wrist. “How much for two, please?”
Five minutes later, bracelets clinking on my wrist, I head in the direction of the mango man.
I spot the mango stall, shaded by a pink fabric awning with huge white hibiscus.
The sun glints off a blond head before I get there though. Aterrifyingly familiar blond head.
My pulse picks up and I duck down, a cold sweat beading down my back. It can’t be. I’m seeing things. There’s no way.
Gravel digs into my knee as I struggle to get my breathing under control. It’s not him. It’s not him. It’s not him. I’m being paranoid.
My self-chanting almost works. My breathing slows. It’s not him. It can’t be him.
Shade slides over me when I go to stand, and my heart attempts to climb out through my throat. I don’t look up. I can’t.
A pair of white low-rise Converse appear in my line of vision. My pulse stutters. Damon wore loafers.
I lift my gaze warily to a pair of calves, one has black lines and patterns tattooed around it. And just like that my fear eases. Damon would never ever get a tattoo. It’s not him. He’s as strait-laced as they come. On the outside at least.
I blow out a breath and tip my head back. Then instantly wish I hadn’t.
I recognize those eyes. That scowl. Of course. Why not?
“Everything okay down there?” The man from the road cocks his head, brows knitted, hands in the pockets of his board shorts.
“Just … laces.” I pull myself up to stand but can’t resist glancing past him to double check it was just paranoia. Relief has me releasing a long breath.
He twists to look in the same direction then back to me, his frown even deeper when he drops his gaze to my feet. “Were you hiding from someone?”
“Yes.” I blink up at him. “I mean no, of course not. Who would I be hiding from?”
He turns stiffly and looks out of the corner of his eye. The worst impression of sneaky I’ve ever seen. “Another victim of your erratic driving?”
“What? No.” My cheeks blaze, the need to apologize for I don’t even know what almost too strong to resist. “It was nothing … nobody.”
“Right.” He twists to glance behind him again then smirks, the skin around his eyes creasing. “Get your flip flops tied?”
“You stopped hanging out on blind bends?” I counter without thinking.
Something flashes behind his eyes, and he drags his hand over his jaw. “Touché.”
My gaze catches and stays put on the sharp angle of his jawline and the rough stubble that covers it. I force it down to the gravel by his feet. A pretty face doesn’t make him any less dangerous, probably the opposite.
Silence stretches between us like an elastic band. It’s only a matter of time before it snaps back, and I start stress talking. I can feel them building, climbing up my throat. Stupid, random words that will only make this situation one hundred times more awkward.
“If you followed me here to yell at me some more, I should warn you, I’m a crier.” I close my eyes and pray to anyone listening to put me out of my misery. What the hell happened to New Laia?
He clears his throat. “A crier?”
“Snot, tears, the whole shebang. It’s not pretty.” And yet I just keep going. “Trust me, you’ll hate it.”
He scratches his fingers through his mess of black curls, a bemused not-quite-scowl taking over from the glower. “I guess it’s a good job I didn’t follow you here to yell at you then.”
“So, you’re here to…”
“See someone.”
“That’s not me.” I blink up at him.
“That’s not you.” His lips twitch.
“Okay.” I press mine together. I’m still staring. Why am I still staring?
“Okay.” He stares back, the blue of his eyes bright against his tan skin.
I nod, take a step back, attempt a smile and finally remove my stare from his. “I really am sorry, you know, for before.” I glance up into his face one more cringe inducing time then about turn and walk away.
The weight of his stare on my back stays with me even after I’ve slipped into the crowd. That was mortifying—and distracting. I’m heading in the entirely opposite direction of my mangos.
It takes me a full ten minutes and three wrong turns to calm my cheeks down and focus on what I came here to do. To convince myself not to just give up and go home. Fruit. Pies. New Laia. I can do this.
I puff out a steadying breath, tug the neck of my tank from my clammy skin and head back towards the slight slope to my mangos.
And, he’s there. Still there. Not far from where I left him, helping an old lady set up her stand just one stall away from my mangos.
He hasn’t seen me and there’s absolutely no reason for him to. I can be stealthy.
I watch them from the side of my eyes as I pass. He’s smiling at the woman as he arranges the lemons she’s selling into baskets. Waist-length, silver-streaked black hair, and wide dark eyes. She’s beautiful, but old enough to be his mother. Maybe she is his mother. Maybe she’s not. And the fact that I’m even wondering means I should definitely look away.
I don’t. He looks up and his eyebrows raise along with the side of his mouth as he picks up a lemon and smells it.
My flip flop hanks on something, and I stumble a step because apparently life just isn’t on my side today.
I’m pretty sure he laughs. Can’t say for sure, I don’t look back even when my newly awakened baker’s brain pouts over the size of that lemon.
Half an hour later with no more sightings or trip-ups, I’m making my way through the thickening lunch-time crowd towards the hand-painted wooden arch of the exit, clutching a brown paper bag filled with mangos and spices. I’m coming back next week for those lemons. And the week after. And the week after that.
I think I’ve just found New Laia’s happy place, despite the rough start.
I swipe my hair from my face and take the step down to the sandy parking lot, my grin widening even more at the sight of the spectacular beach peeking between the palm trees that line the opposite side of the parking lot. I can taste the salt on the breeze.
Old Laia would ignore it and scuttle back to the bungalow for the rest of the day.
New Laia is going to dump these mangos in the truck, then buy one of the handmade bikinis she spotted by the exit.
The irate scream of a horn stuns me as I turn back to the market.
But before I can even begin to register what’s happening, I’m hauled backwards, my mangos flying into a cloud of dust.
I cough and splutter and bat the sand from my eyes, struggling to twist to see whoever’s sprawled out behind me—and around me—and under me.
“Fucking idiot,” is roared from behind me, warm breath tickling my neck, the rumble of a hard chest vibrating against my back.
I scramble to my feet, cracking my head on a chin, blinking to clear my vision as I turn, my heart thudding against my ribs.
Well, nobody can claim that the universe lacks a sense of humor.
It’s him. Of course, it’s him.
He rubs his chin as he stands, his gaze bouncing from my feet to my knees, to my face like he’s checking for injuries before that trusty old scowl of his returns.
“I thought you weren’t following me,” I whisper when I’m sure my voice won’t wobble.
“Not following. Saving.” He glares up the road toward the long-gone van, dragging his hand down the back of his neck as he turns back to me.
I drop my gaze to the ground, embarrassingly close to tears. My fruit is scattered everywhere and the adrenaline holding me upright is seeping out fast. My shoulders droop. My spice jars are covered with sand, so are my mangos. So is my everything. I attempt to brush at my dusty shorts, the paper bag still crushed to my chest. A big fat mess, that’s all this day’s been.
“I am an idiot.” I drop to my knees, grabbing for a jar of nutmeg. “I should have known better.”
He squats down before I can tell him not to. To go. To leave me alone. “You’re not the idiot?,the guy driving the van is.”
I concentrate on the lilting way his accent wraps around his words and not on the lump in my throat threatening to make this so, so much worse.
“Hey, are you okay?” His hand covers mine.
I flinch so hard I almost land myself back in the sand, because I obviously haven’t made a big enough show of myself as it is. “It’s fine. Really. I’m fine.”
Something between worry and pity creases his forehead beneath the black curls that just about touch his eyebrows.
“You really don’t need to be here.” I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek.
“There are worse places to be.”
My hand stills on the last mango and I blink stupidly at him.
His eyes widen, his mouth opening before he snaps it closed again. “I mean…” He straightens from his crouch, raking his hair back from his face, that frown tickling the corner of his lips again.
I push to my feet, abandoning my shopping and every last drop of hope I woke up this morning with, and I walk away. I just—walk away.
And I don’t look back. Not even when he calls after me. Not even when I make it to my truck.
What the hell is wrong with me? I drag the truck door open on the third attempt almost dislocating my shoulder in the process and climb in. I can’t even make it to a market and back without not one, but two near-death experiences? and a fat dollop of soul-shattering mortification to boot. I drop my head onto the steering wheel with a groan.
And I left my mangos.
There are worse places to be.
He looked about as shocked to have said it as I was to hear it. I shove the key into the ignition and peel my face from the steering wheel. He didn’t mean it. I’m a mess. A paranoid, clumsy mess.
A sharp rap on the window has me jumping over to the other side of the cab, my hand flying to my chest like it can stop the sudden thrashing of my heart.
It’s him. And my mangos.
By the time I’ve managed to creak the window open, I have no other option but to look at him.
His head tilts to the side, eyes scanning my face like he has no idea what to make of me. “You forgot these.” He ducks down to pass the brown paper bag through the window, his big form filling the space. He smells like mint and fresh air and the two giant lemons nestled in there with my mangos.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I keep my stare on the massive lemons. “And those aren’t my lemons.”
“They are now.” He grips the bottom edge of the window, a little line appearing between his brows. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great.” I offer him a tremulous smile. “Just one of those days.” My hand trembles as I reach for the keys dangling from the ignition, my foot shaking on the clutch. “I should go.”
Concern flashes in his narrowed eyes. “You shouldn’t drive if you’re in shock.”
“I’m not in shock.” I force myself to meet his concern with a scowl. “And it’s got nothing to do with you.”
That muscle in his jaw ticks again. “You’re in no state to drive.” He blows a long stream of air through his nose, then just leans right in the window, and plucks the keys from the ignition. “So, don’t.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He turns his face before he pulls himself back out of the window. His nose is just millimeters from mine. “I’m serious.”
My pulse trips over itself, my eyes widening until there’s a very real danger they might just give up the ghost and fall out. “You … you can’t do that.”
His mouth twitches, a hint of a dimple flashing in his cheek. “I just did. Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee.” He stands back and tries to open my door.
It doesn’t budge. Ha. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying here, buddy, but it’s not working.”
He yanks at the door again, the muscles in his forearm cording with effort until it finally opens with a groan. “It’s not only you that uses these roads here. Think of this as an intervention.”
“You cannot be serious.” I repeat, because seriously. He cannot be serious.
The hard line of his mouth tells me he is.
“There are laws against this you know?” I huff but stay put. He’s got at least five inches on me. Still, a punch to the manly bits would probably drop him. The moves from the self-defense class Women’s Aid had me take play out behind my eyes.
I could take him.
Maybe. Probably not. But I could try.
“Speaking as a recent victim of your driving, I’d say it would be classed more as a citizen’s arrest for the safety of the Cluan public.”
There’s no disguising it. The universe hates me. And he’s officially insane.
I curl my lip and attempt to put some menace into my glare. “Give me back my keys.”
He shakes his head and leans a forearm against the roof of the truck. I shift away from his nearness. “One coffee and you’ll get them back.”
Felix
For ten years on this day, my mornings have followed the exact same trajectory. Visit her grave, leave her flowers, then visit her mother.
No deviations, no detours, and definitely no coffees with random women.
Until today. Until this woman apparently.
A dark blonde curl hangs over one of her eyes as she wraps her fingers around a tall glass of iced coffee. It took her ten minutes to finally appear in the shaded terrace of Clua’s Coffees, scowling like—well, like someone just stole her car keys.
Who the fuck steals someone’s car keys?
I do, apparently, and she’s right, there are definitely laws against this sort of thing. I take a gulp of my own black coffee, its bitterness burning down my throat.
She hasn’t looked at me since she sat down, but there’s no disguising her mistrust.
Me staring at her probably isn’t helping matters.
Novelty. She’s just a novelty. A novelty with bad luck when it comes to driving. And walking. And an aversion to people. Or maybe it’s just an aversion to me, she hasn’t exactly seen my best side this morning.
“So.” I place my mug onto its saucer with a clink. “What brings you to Clua?”
She looks up, and along with the wariness in the deep green of her eyes, there’s a healthy dose of suspicion. Understandable. I shouted at her on a country road, man handled her in the car park, then stole her fucking keys, and now I’m actually trying to make small talk.
“Change of scenery?” Her soft voice lifts on the last word. “A … a friend … had a house sitting empty and I needed one, so, here I am.” Her slim shoulder lifts in an awkward shrug, and she drops her gaze back where she’s folding a paper sugar packet into a tiny triangle. “Is this what you do to get women to have coffee with you?” Her nose wrinkles and her already pink cheeks flush to red like the words just fell out of her mouth of their own accord.
I snort and tilt my head up to the tied canes that shade the terrace. I suppose that is probably what this looks like. “It’s not what it looks like.” I scrub my hand over my jaw. “You were shaking. I couldn’t let you drive.”
“Why do you care?” Her brows pinch up, almost meeting in the middle, and her head tips to the side. “You don’t even know me.”
I click my tongue off the roof of my mouth. I could tell her that I know firsthand what can happen when someone loses control behind the wheel, the devastation it can cause, the loss of everything that matters. The hole it leaves behind that can’t ever be filled.
I could, but I won’t.
I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. And there’s no reason for that to change.
“I mean, you seem to be pretty safety conscious for a man that hangs out on blind bends.” She continues when I don’t reply, tucking her hair behind her ears as she glances around the busy little coffee shop from one wooden table to the next for the fifth time since she sat down.
“I was visiting someone.”
“On the side of a country road?” She pushes then freezes, eyes wide at whatever she reads on my face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” She glances down at the sugar packet triangle, her cheeks flushing. “Sorry.”
“You apologize a lot.”
“I say stupid things a lot.” She gnaws her lip but doesn’t look up. “My ex didn’t—” Her gaze jumps up to mine and the color drains from her face. “I mean, it’s a long story.” She sighs and twists the silver bracelets on her wrist, the weight of that long story right there in her eyes.
Seconds pass but I don’t look away, hell I’m not sure I even blink. I’m not usually a curious man. Haven’t been for a long time. Simplicity. I like it. And I’ve no interest in that changing, especially not today. “We’ve all got one,” I finally say, dipping my head to scratch the back of my neck. “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t tell you mine if you don’t tell me yours.”
The puff of laughter that pushes out her lips catches me off guard. “Deal.”
The smile it leaves in its wake is small but it’s there. My chest pulls at the sight of it, a tiny barely there thing, but it’s enough to have my answering smile die before it even makes itself known.
Hers fades just as quickly as it appears, like she’s about as used to doing it as I am. “Thank you … for, you know … saving me from the van back there.”
“You’re welcome.” My lips twitch when hers do. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t.
There are gold flecks in the green of her eyes, a tiny freckle to the left of her slightly fuller top lip, another just below the arch of her right eyebrow. The details pulse in, unexpected, unwanted, but vividly undeniable. I stopped paying attention to the details of women’s faces a decade ago.
Something smashes a table over and she flinches so hard she almost knocks her glass over, shattering the moment or whatever the fuck that was.
“Shit—sorry.” Her voice breaks, her throat contracting with her swallow before she gets to her feet, the iron legs of her chair scraping loudly across the stone paving slabs. “I need my keys back now. Please.”
Zi, my weekend bartender, glances up from counting coins into the register as I pull out one of the tall stools by the bar. It’s not even seven, but the beach terrace is already half full. A mixture of tourists and locals enjoying the last of the day’s sun. It’s busy for a Sunday. Even that isn’t enough to ease the low-grade headache that has me pressing my fingers into my temples.
“Rough day, Fee.” The register drawer clicks closed, and her blue eyes meet mine. She’s not asking. She knows what today is. It’s written in the slight downward pull to her lips. I wasn’t the only person to have their worlds shook up that morning ten years ago.
She bends to open one of the fridges that run beneath the bar, grabs a bottle of Corona, then opens it with the opener attached to her wrist. “Looks like you could use one of these.”
The side of my mouth lifts when she slides it across the gleaming mahogany bar to me.
I spin the cold glass bottle in my hands, and the memory of the woman from this morning doing the same thing with her glass beats me around the head. I shake my head and take a long pull of beer. Today of all days is not the day to be thinking about random women.
“What’s this?”
“What’s what?” I look up and barely suppress my groan.
Arms folded over her chest, Zi tilts her head like she’s reading my thoughts straight from my face. It wouldn’t surprise me if she could. “That look? You look…” she tilts her head to the other side and taps her fingers against her lips. “Like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s nothing.” Elbow on the bar, I rub my hand over my face. “I went to see Rosemary today.”
“I know, she told me.” She tilts her head to the other side. “But there’s something else.” She narrows her eyes and leans closer, her long blond braid hanging over one shoulder. “A little birdy told me that a certain Felix Ashur was spotted in Fern Bay’s Clua Coffees with an unknown woman this morning.” Her brows lift. “Spill.”
“There’s nothing to spill,” I answer honestly. “A van nearly knocked her over, so I took her for coffee to make sure she was okay. I didn’t even get her name.” Something that feels a lot like regret niggles in the back of my mind followed by a sharp sting of what-the-fuck?
