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Yes, I permed my blonde locks. My mom got perms back in the ‘90s. There’s nothing wrong with a girl trying to recreate the perfect spiral curl.
Except for when your virgin hair doesn’t take to the perming solution very well and you end up with a half straight, half bendy, frizzy mess.
It’s fine. I’m dealing with it. I just wonder why I had to meet the most handsome man I’ve ever seen while my hair looks like I’m four years old, just waking up from a nap.
In front of me in line is a family with three small kids, and I laugh as I watch the parents try to entertain them before their promised treat. Thinking of treats makes me think of my three-year-old dog, a Havanese named Destiny’s Child. Maybe I should pick up some chewies for her to help her with the transition of moving.
When it’s my turn to order, I choose the double milk chocolate chip and set off with my cup and spoon to wander the Farmer’s Market. Even though my circumstances for being here aren’t what I would have chosen, this seems like a nice enough town. Plus, the foliage is just starting to turn—random leaves here and there spring a splashy red or a toasted orange. I’m downright giddy over it.
Still, I was sad to leave Dana Point, California. Heartbroken that the theater company I worked for had to cut most of its staff after the stage was deemed unsafe. It’s a historical property on Capistrano Beach—perfectly imperfect. But it’s going to take over a hundred thousand dollars to repair the damaged foundation. In the meantime, the show must go on, and they’re still operating at a limited capacity at the local high school. I’ve been writing and submitting grants, trying to save the theater I love.
My plan is to work here for my brother’s friend for a while, save as much money as I can, and get enough grants for the theater’s renovations. Then I’ll go back home.
My cookie dough is nearly half gone when I see him again—Tristan.
He stops at a vendor booth selling pumpkins and gourds, tucking his new book under his arm. I keep walking. I need to forget all about him. I have more important things to do with my time than engage in a love-hate relationship with Mr. I Pretend to Like Shakespeare and I’m Too Pretty for my Own Good.
The gal at the stand shouts to me. “Pumpkin clearance! All pumpkins are half off!”
It’s so obvious she’s talking specifically to me that I can’t keep walking past. That would just be rude.
I cringe as I swing to face her, grabbing and pulling on one of the long tendrils of hair that’s escaped my clip.
“That’s a great deal,” I agree. I let go of my hair and run my hand along the pumpkins. It might be fun to decorate my little fourplex stoop with one or two.
I hazard a glance at the guy, and he’s looking at me. Thatzingfrom before has not returned, but still, I can’t help opening my mouth.
“Come here often?” I joke and go back to tendril pulling.
“No. I was supporting a friend.”
“You a Shakespeare fan?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the book still so carelessly smashed under his arm.
“Not really. I just needed to choose something quickly.”
Oh. Ouch. “Well, I would love to buy it from you, seeing as how you don’t care too much about it.”
“I better keep it. To support my friend.”
I start to say something about how flawed his logic is, but I change my mind. I stick out a thumb in the general direction of the book sale. “She seems really nice.”
He nods. “She’s my brother’s fiancée.”
We lock gazes, and goosebumps break out across my shoulders and neck. His eyes are large and dark, with a fringe of thick lashes. Maybe the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen. There are all sorts of crispy sizzles happening between us.
I have to snap out of this. Gorgeous man as he is, he’s callously cavalier with something as sacred as a Shakespearean text, and that will not do.
I engage in my default setting—the one where strange things come forth from my mouth that don’t make a lick of sense. I’m thinking it’s a protective mechanism. Whatever it is, I’m powerless to stop it.
“Ever eaten frog’s legs?” I ask him, blinking to uncoil myself from the snare of his dark, stormy eyes.
Why I’m asking him about frog’s legs, I’ll never know. All I know is, I get weird when I’m at war with myself. Self-sabotage so that there’s no chance for complicated feelings? Sign me up!
“Uh. I can’t say that I have.” He glances down at the ground and then reaches for the brown paper sack the pumpkin stand lady has handed to him.
He thanks her for the gourds and then rolls the top down on the bag and moves the book from under his arm to his other hand. I like the way his muscles move under that starchy, stiff, but close-fitting shirt of his.
“Well, I figured you’d eaten gourmet food since you seem to be that kind of a guy. Wearing a white shirt and tie to a Farmer’s Market in small-town USA? That’s fancy.”
