His question snaps me out of my reverie. Blinking away the haziness, I’m finally able to get a clear picture of him, and what a beautiful image it is. Somehow, he’s even more attractive than the day we met.
Everything from his dark-gray Oxford to the perfect cut of his black jeans and hairstyle looks expensive. The way his sleeves are rolled up, exposing his perfect forearms, and the new scruff that covers his jaw makes my limbs feel weak. But there’s something different about the expression in his striking green eyes.
I squirm under the intensity of his gaze. “You dipped.”
The words surprise both of us as they come out of my mouth.
His chest expands as he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “I fucked up.”
The discomfort I remember seeing in his eyes on the day we met seems to have morphed into something darker. I feel the need to lighten the mood. Like I should reassure him that what we shared was just a one-night stand. Even if it felt like more.
I shake my head. “No, you didn’t. But you certainly left an impression.”
This brings a guarded smile to his face as he looks around the booth. “You took my advice about the beekeeping thing?”
“How did you find me?” I ask, feeling more certain now that this meeting was planned.
“I come here almost every Thursday. I bought some honey from Chelsea last week. She—”
“So, you know Chelsea?”
The note of jealousy in my voice makes him smile.
“Only since last week.”
“You knew I’d be here today?”
He stares at me for a moment as he seems to consider his response carefully.
“I kept telling myself this was a stupid idea, but I—” He stops short as he finally notices Gary lying on the ground behind me. “Is that your dog?”
I glance at Gary and sigh. “Yeah, he’s my old man. I adopted him last month.”
“He looks like a good boy,” he says as he looks around at the empty crates scattered about the booth. “Do you need some help?”
I look up and down the aisle as the vendors are busy packing up their wares. “Actually, yeah, I could use some help. Do you have a car or, hopefully, a truck?”
He flashes me a sexy half-smile. “I’ll get my truck.”
My stomach does a backflip as he walks away.
Like a knight in shining armor, he’s back to rescue me again. Though I mentally gave up on Max the moment I found out he quit his job, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly hoping we’d run into each other now that I’m living in Seattle. On one drunk occasion, Dahlia and Anissa almost convinced me to call the bar to ask if they could give me his last name, so we could google him, but I resisted the temptation.
What did he say a moment ago?
He said he kept telling himself that coming to see me at the farmers’ market was a bad idea. Why would he think that? Because I’m working?
Somehow, knowing he was out there contemplating whether he should get in touch makes me feel better about the months I spent agonizing over why he sneaked away in the middle of the night.
Quickly, before he returns, I shoot off a text to Dahlia to get her take.
Me: I’m closing down the booth at the farmers’ market when guess who shows up? Him.
Dahlia: Does he still have a caretaker fetish?
Me: He just left to pull his truck around so he can help me pack up the booth. I forgot to pick up the company truck before I came.
Dahlia: Uh… What? I’m confused.
Me: Long story. What matters is he’ll be back any second. He said he kept telling himself it would be a bad idea to come here. And he looks different. Even better. And he seems glad to see me.
Dahlia: And? Are you thinking of fucking him? Is that the purpose of this text?
I begin typing a response with just the word “no” in all capital letters followed by a few exclamation points, then I delete it. Dahlia would see straight through that lie. The truth is, I haven’t stopped thinking about him, though I gave up talking about him months ago.
But I’m painfully aware that, aside from this new job, I’ve been basically just surviving for the past few months without Elle. Dahlia and Anissa are my rocks, and listening to their romantic woes provides some distraction, but it also makes me feel so fucking lonely.
Besides, it’s not like he’s offering to get us a hotel room. He’s offering to help me do my job; to make my life easier. Other than leaving in the middle of the night, he’s done nothing but treat me with care and respect.
Me: Would that be wrong?
Dahlia: Only you can answer that, babe. I have no business telling you who you should and shouldn’t fuck.
The rolling ellipses icon comes up as Dahlia starts typing another reply. But when I look up from my phone, Max is standing there, so I’m forced to tuck it away in my pocket before I can read her response.
“I’m parked just behind the booth across from you,” he says, pointing at the shiny dark-gray pickup behind the baked goods stall across the way. “You can pack, and I’ll start loading everything up.”
I stare at him for a moment, unblinking, as I contemplate my next move. I can let him help me take the stuff to the farm, then send him on his way. Or I can tell him I no longer need his help and ask Dahlia to come instead.
But if I go that route, I’m relying on the assumption that Dahlia isn’t working tonight. Even if she’s at home, I’d still have to wait at least forty minutes for her to get dressed and drive to Bellevue from her apartment in Capitol Hill.
“Is everything okay?” Max asks.
I nod before I can change my mind.
“Yeah, I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of this.” I glance around at the various crates strewn about. “I need to take this stuff to Wallingford. Is that okay?”
A warm smile lights up his face. “I know a good place to eat close by there in Woodland. You hungry?”
His gaze flits to my breasts for just a fleeting moment. I roll my eyes, but not at him; at the sensation of butterflies tickling my insides.
“I’ll let you know if I’m hungry after we take this stuff to the farm.”
He chuckles as he grabs a full crate of honey and lifts it as if it weighs nothing at all. “I’ll take what I can get.”
As he carries the crate to the bed of his truck, I wonder if he thinks I’m playing hard-to-get. I huff at this thought. He’ll find out soon enough. I’m not playing games; especially not with a guy who plays by a different set of rules.
Once we’ve broken down the canopy and loaded everything into the bed of the truck, I realize I forgot to check my text messages for Dahlia’s response.
Dahlia: This is black-and-white thinking. You have more choices than just fucking him and not fucking him. He’s not all good or all bad. Just hear him out, but keep your guard up.
I purse my lips together as I type my reply, only vaguely aware that Max is watching me. I recall Dahlia telling me, on multiple occasions, that black-and-white thinking is a sign of trauma.