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“Yes?” he replies slowly, like he’s not familiar with the technology at all. “She keeps telling me to go in a different direction.”
“Yeah, you can’t trust those things,” I remark with humor. “I call mine Rhonda, and she’s wrong a lot.”
“Was I supposed to give mine a name?” Ellister questions seriously, looking so befuddled that I have to fight the urge to laugh.
It’s a nice urge to have.
I can barely remember the last time I laughed.
“Maybe that’s what pissed her off,” I deadpan with a straight face. “Most ladies don’t like it if you can’t remember their names.”
I’m totally flirting with him now. Openly.
Facing death has made me bolder. If the circumstances of my life were different, maybe I’d care more about socially awkward moments, looking like absolute shit, or possible rejection, but I’ve had a crash course on what’s important recently.
I’ve learned what matters, and it’s not an ill-timed stretch of silence or a guy who isn’t interested in me.
Propping my chin on my hand, I purposely push my boobs together. With this scoop-neck T-shirt, my cleavage is definitely visible, and satisfaction flows through me when Ellister’s gaze drops there.
And stays there.
“Well, I won’t forget your name, Hannah Wildwood.” Ellister’s eyes lift to mine.
Aaaand he’s flirting back.
Score one for Hannah.
“You know what? My dad’s supposed to come help me pack all this up in about ten minutes, but you can do it since we’re going to the same place.” I point at the crate. “Can you get that?”
“Er, sure.” When Ellister picks it up, some of the chalk from the sign gets onto his shirt sleeve. He squints at it, his attention going back and forth from his arm to the smeared writing. “I ruined it.”
“Don’t worry about it. I have more chalk at home.”
“Chalk.” Shifting the weight of the crate to one arm, he wipes at the white powder before rubbing the dust between his thumb and forefinger.
Why does he seem so fascinated?
With curious questions running through my head, I watch as he paces over to the car and gets into a fight with the door handle on the passenger side. He keeps yanking on it, but it won’t budge.
“Uhh,” I start gently, trying to figure out how I can phrase this without offending him. “I think it’s locked.”
Stopping his attempt to break off the handle, Ellister looks over his shoulder at me. “Oh.”
I think I know what’s going on here. I have a teenage cousin with autism. There are times when Cody doesn’t seem to understand simple things. Other times, he comprehends certain complexities that I could never grasp. Like websites. Although he’s only fourteen, we’ve hired Cody to manage all our web design and social media for the farm. He’s a pro at it.
Ellister’s mannerisms remind me a bit of Cody’s, and I decide his outfit of choice might make sense after all. Maybe he’s just unique, and I like unique people.
“You’ll need to unlock it from the other side. Here, I’ll help.” Heaving out an unattractive sound, I push myself out of my chair while slinging my purse strap over my shoulder.
When I grab my cane, I use my other arm to juggle the mason jar and the money box, making a racket when the remnants of the ice cubes clink inside the glass and some loose change jingles around in the metal container.
I only had four drive-by customers since I came out here. All of them were on their way to the farm, and I had to tell them we were closed for the day and that they should come back tonight for the fundraiser, so it wasn’t the most profitable afternoon. But I’m still leaving with more cash than what I started with.
As I unsteadily shuffle around the table to the road, Ellister’s expression goes from bewildered, to shocked, to horrified. “You’re a cripple?”
The word hits a nerve, and I grit my teeth. “Please don’t call me that.”
At my firm request, he stares at me blankly, like he can’t understand why I’m insulted. “Why not?”
