Page 48 of The One You Want

Chapter 12

Almost a full week passed before I saw Grant again. I called him twice, leaving messages where I stumbled over my words, apologizing again and again. He never called me back. And he never answered any of mytexts.

As the weekend approached, I knew I would see him at the market. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. On one hand, I’d be able to apologize in person. On the other, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it if he was still too angry to look atme.

I had all my things packed up in the wagon I used to transport my jewelry off the island. My table and banner were stored on the mainland, since it would be way too difficult to carry them back and forth. Since Grant had moved to Lilac Bay, we usually headed over and got set up together. But I highly doubted that would be the case today. Still, I fixed an extra thermos of coffee for him, the same way I always did, just incase.

I was shocked when I stepped out of the condo building into the dim early morning light and saw Grant standing on the sidewalk, waiting for me the way he had a dozen times before. A swell of relief went through me—maybe I hadn’t ruined our friendship completely afterall.

I rushed down the steps toward him. “Grant, I’mso—”

He held up a hand. “Let’s just forget it,okay?”

I stared at him. “Are you stillmad?”

He shook his head but the movement seemed tight andunconvincing.

“I really amsorry.”

He let out a breath and his face softened a little. “We should get going. Don’t want to belate.”

I held up the thermos. “I brought you somecoffee.”

That got me a real smile, even though it was small. I would take it. “Good. You oweme.”

I really, reallydid.

Grant had his flower cart all loaded up and he pulled it behind him as we walked the short distance to the marina. I knew he had already made a few trips from his workshop to his boat this morning—his flower supplies took up a lot more room than my jewelry. Sure enough, the boat was already overflowing with boxes of blossoms and wreaths when we got to the dock. It smelled likeheaven.

“Days are getting shorter,” Grant muttered while I helped him load up the last set of boxes. “Pretty soon we’ll be doing this in thedark.”

“And pretty soon after that, the market will shut down for thewinter.”

It was a depressing thought. What would I do to occupy my time when I didn’t have the weekly market to look forward to? Maybe I would have a real job by then. Even without Grant’s help, that was still the goal. If I ever had a hope of being independent from my grandparents, I had to start making some realmoney.

Grant was still a little more quiet than usual as we headed out of the marina and began the trek across the bay to the mainland. “Did anything new come in this week?” I asked, nodding my chin towards theflowers.

His face lit up. “Nothing new, but my potentilla are still going strong. They’ve usually died out by now, I think it’s all that warm weather we got at the beginning go themonth. ”

Getting Grant going on the subject of his flowers had definitely been the right call. There was nothing on earth that could cheer him up more. I found myself watching his face while he talked, the expressive way he threw his hands around, even while driving the boat. He really was a handsomeguy.

My stomach swooped in sudden disappointment. Any girl would be lucky to date him for real. What in the hell had I been thinking, coming to him with that stupidplan?

Once at the dock on the mainland, we made quick work of transferring everything to Grant’s truck, which he stored at the marina lot. It was a rumbly old Ford, the paint chipped and rusted, perpetually covered in a thin coating of dirt. I lovedit.

The Artisan Market rotated between several different towns throughout the summer and autumn months. Today we were in Irven, a little farming community about twenty minutes inland. The market was held in the township park, a sprawling two hundred acre property filled with vast green spaces, wooded areas, and a picturesque reedy creek right down the center. It was one of the biggest venues to hold the market, and by far myfavorite.

This week’s market was made up of a combination of artisan booths and farmer stalls, and as Grant and I began our set-up, more and more of our friends started streaming through, stopping by or shouting quickhellos.

Kyle Yang went by carting bushels filled with the last of his tomato crop, waving hello. There was Miss Simone, a white haired lady who sold refurbished antique furniture pieces, too laden down with a bookshelf to do more than grunt out a greeting. Lilith Gibbons with her French macarons and Sue Hunt with her knitted felt pieces both stopped at my booth to catch up for a few seconds before hurrying off to finish their own set-up. And when Mr. Slocum walked past with the first basket of his early apple crop, he tossed us both a perfect PaulaRed.

“Pretty soon he’ll be bringing in cider and donuts,” I said happily, munching on the tartfruit.

Grant groaned from his booth next to mine. “God, I love thosedonuts.”

The first guests were let in around seven a.m., most of them making a beeline for the farmers’ booths on the far east side of the park to get their hands on the best selection of fruit and veggies. But plenty of people stopped by my table, too, and by midday I was well into the swing of things, having sold more than a third of my stock. The consistent line at my station kept me busy enough that I barely noticed how much time had passed—or how tired my feet weregetting.

I loved this. I truly did. Standing behind a table of my jewelry was pretty much the only time in my life when I didn’t feel self-conscious. There was something about knowing that I did this work—that I was familiar with every twist of metal and every carefully chosen bead or gemstone. I made these things with my own hands, drawing on my own creativity and ideas. No one helped me. No one did it for me. It had nothing to do with my grandparents or our money or our familyreputation.