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“I’m good to take this, Erin?” Chloe – Dr. Tarkin – stood ready to go.
“You bet. It’s ready to hang.” Walking around to the back of my display, I grabbed the waiting envelope I had and handed it over. “Your receipt is tucked inside, and there are mounting instructions as well. A paper fold-out to place on your wall that will match up with the holders.”
“Wow, you thought of everything. Thank you.”
I beamed. A happy customer was a great gift since they told their friends and families, and word travelled by mouth. That was the best kind of advertising, and I couldn’t pay for that. Trust me, I’d tried.
Putting on my friendliest smile, I thanked her for choosing Erin’s Woodworking, but it wasn’t catchy like some of the other names in the Cheshire Bay town. Using my personal name was boring in comparison, however, having my woodworking pay the bills was a new one for me. So much better than waitressing and whatever odd job I could find. Wood carving was my passion, and it allowed me to be home with my daughter, aside from market days when she hung out with my energetic younger sister and did fun aunty-niece activities.
I turned my attention back to the handsome guy standing in front of my table. There was an assessing expression chiseled onto his face, and it didn’t seem like it was my work he was checking out. As the slight possibility of it being me he was judging, my heart beat a little bit faster.
“So, how can I help you, Sir?”
He was older than me, maybe mid to late thirties, perhaps even beyond that. No signs of greying temples, but there was a certain wisdom to the wrinkles around his eyes that alluded to not being so fresh off the farm, something we likely had in common.
“I really liked that piece. Can you make another like it?” There was a twinkle to the browns of his eyes, which were like a fresh coat of polish over a mahogany stain. They were mesmerizing to stare into.
“I would be very happy to custom design something similar for you.” I wrapped my hands around the edge of the table, tapping a finger underneath in an effort to control my suddenly rapid breathing. “Were you thinking trees on the horizon? Or would there be something different I can create?”
“You really do custom?” He leaned a little closer, bridging the already narrow distance between us.
“All the time. If you tell me a little about the space you’re looking for, I can throw out some ideas.” For good measure, I put my brag book front and centre of the table and opened to the first page. “These are the carvings I’ve done.” I rifled through the page-protected photos with my unadorned left hand, as if to show him I wasn’t attached. At all. “And after this tab, these are some of the ideas I’m sketching out to recreate in my workshop.”
“She’s amazing and uber-talented.” Libby, a trusted friend, piped up like she always did, while she leaned on her own table next to mine. “Have you ever seen her work?”
“Just that last piece.” His focus bounced from the brag book to Libby – who always managed to catch everyone’s eyes with her short skirt and thigh-high stockings, with beautiful blonde hair in two long braids; the ends which looked like they’d been dipped in ink and spread up half the length of her hair – and back over to plain-Jane me.
My gaze settled like a fog on the ocean, making everything just a little bit fuzzy.
My friend cleared her throat. “Well, you should check out Pita Pete’s. He’s got a whale tail on display near the register. Incredible detail. And the Knitter’s Knot sells the bowls that she can’t keep in stock here.” Libby looked the man up and down. “But I don’t think you’re a knitting kind of guy.”
He chuckled, a low throaty melodic sound; one I could listen to forever if given the chance. Cute guy never removed his connection from me, all the while running his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “No, can’t say that I am.”
“Well,” Libby carried on, pointing to the carvings on display. “She also has these smaller pieces available. Perfect for a desk or workspace.”
Who needed a marketer? Libby was a fantastic salesperson, and she didn’t even focus solely on her own items. Seriously, she could sell wool to a sheep farmer and convince him what she was selling was far superior to his own.
“I’ll take a look, thanks.”
The guy picked up a smaller whale tail carving on my table. It was the perfect souvenir as whale watching season was in full swing, and I typically had none left by the end of the market. He ran a finger over the markings on the tail. Each was unique, just like the whales in the real were.
“You do this yourself? Is it a family business?”
I forced myself to tear my gaze away from his intensity. Was he interested in what I was selling, or was it more? More often than not, guys did a quick look and moved on, preferring the infectious bubbly nature Libby had in spades, and yet with this guy, it was different.
Bobbing my head in response to his question, I swallowed before answering. “No, just me. Sole proprietor and owner and long-term employee.” I shook my head. He didn’t need to know that. “But the carving doesn’t take me too long. I find it quite soothing to work the wood into what I vision.”
“And this is all you have left?”
The table was half full of smaller pieces as, lucky for me, I’d sold out of the larger pieces I’d worked on all week. Tourists were a gold mine and hit the market early to cherry-pick everyone’s tables. I loved it.
“Fraid so.” I pointed to the book again, a natural smile bubbling to my lips as I glanced up at him. “But, seriously, I’m happy to make you anything you’d like in the book.”
“And if I wanted a full wall mural, or a giant artwork?”
“That can totally be arranged.” I swallowed down a buildup of excitement and kept my toe-tapping to a minimum. What he was talking about would be bank for me. Desperately needed bank.
I tucked a strand of my dark, wavy hair behind my ear, and broke eye contact with him.
