SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,28
items from them without it either.”
Her mom glanced over, then glanced back at the two girls. “That’s true.” Her hand went into the front pocket of the canvas apron she wore. “But I will buy a few myself to take home.”
The girls seemed somewhat satisfied and Harper stepped back as the transaction commenced.
She scanned the crowd wandering the aisles, then straightened. Was that Mad in the distance? A thrill shot up her spine and she found herself smoothing her own apron and then brushing her hair away from her face. She glanced around, trying to find an attractive spot to pose near. By those zucchinis? The pile of bright lemons?
Determined to appear casual, she gave her attention to the meager supply of basil bunches, arranging them and then rearranging them. Yet no Mad tapped her on the shoulder or called her name in that deep, sexy voice.
She tamped down her irritation. Was he going to ignore her then? Come to the farmers market yet skip the Sunnybird Farm space? Had he already forgotten their connection the night before? Surely he must have felt the way the air in the truck’s cab pulsed with the old chemistry, that dangerous, bubbling, sensation that advocated abandoning adult sensibilities to give herself up to uncontrolled passion.
After a few more seconds, she stole a glance over her shoulder.
Oh. The Mad-guy in the distance, now closer, was not Mad at all, but some wannabe Mad. This man was less tall, less built, less…him. Disappointment sluiced through her.
She felt silly. First-boyfriend silly. Teenage silly.
The girls with the wagon finished their business with Harper’s mother and trundled away. That’s who she’d been when she’d first met Mad. A girl with shiny hair and no idea of the way the world worked. That love could turn into an empty, lonely pining that scooped out your soul.
She was older and wiser now.
Mature.
Mature enough to know not to play in any rekindled fires.
Mad found his father in the backyard, frowning at the pile of just-delivered split seasoned oak logs as he picked out one to measure with his metal tape. “Did Randy fail in his task to deliver exactly as ordered, Dad?”
Since his parents, Peter and Gwen, had taken a trip to Switzerland a few years back, his father had become obsessed with the idea of creating an orderly woodpile as he’d seen all over that country. Randy, of Randy’s Wood in the foothills of Sawyer’s Beach, had taken the specificity of his dad’s wishes in stride. Each fall, he supplied a winter’s worth and Mad helped his father achieve the stack of his dreams.
“It looks fine,” his dad said with a satisfied nod, then tossed the piece into the waiting wheelbarrow. From there they’d take it to the firewood rack on the other side of the house.
A professor of mathematics at the nearby university, Peter Kelly was a quiet man who usually kept his thoughts and passions to himself. His artistic streak—at least as it came to woodpiles—had come as quite a surprise to everyone.
Familiar with the process by now, Mad and his father worked in silence until they’d transported enough of the oak to get started on building the precise arrangement already constructed in the older man’s head. Until it was time to bring another load in the wheelbarrow, Mad’s job consisted of playing nurse to the surgeon—handing pieces over when his dad reached out a hand—and making echoing grunts of appreciation.
Really, the whole endeavor was relaxing, and he settled in, experiencing a peace he hadn’t felt in days.
His dad reached back for another log that Mad placed in his palm. “So Harper Hill is back in town?”
Mad’s eyes widened, surprised his dad would mention it. Or knew about it. “How did you hear?”
“Your mother told me.”
Mad stole a quick look at the house. “Where is mom?” Now she would have heard right away and it was only a matter of time before she probed him about it.
“With your sister.”
“Inside?” If so, neither would stay there for long. Could he make up some excuse and run for his SUV?
“Shopping, I think they said.” His dad reached for more wood.
Then thankfully lapsed back into silence.
Mad breathed easily again.
“I always liked her.”
He refused to twitch. “She’s likeable.”
“But she left town.”
“That’s right. Six years ago.”
Peter Kelly adjusted the last log, taking it out, then nestling it against another. “I remember six years ago.”
Okay. Mad grimaced. His dad’s way of testing the waters? Because while his dad wasn’t a loud man, he wasn’t