SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,60
waiting until tonight, but if you insist…”
A tingle started low in her belly. “Um…are we going there?” she asked, the tingle joined by a new tightness in her throat. Then her heart began knocking against her ribs as he nodded.
She gave caution one last try. “Mad, are you sure about this?”
“Would we really manage to stay away from each other while you’re here?”
Shaking her head, she smiled, then it widened when he reached for her fingers and kissed them. Upon their release, she surreptitiously slid her hand beneath the tabletop and laid the other over it, as if pressing the kiss like a flower. Enjoy yourself, came the echo of her mother’s voice. We don’t know how much time we have on earth or with each other.
After he paid the bill, they walked to the farmers market, where five blocks of the downtown streets had been designated as pedestrian-only for the afternoon. He took her hand.
She pretended to breathe.
Harper led the way, towing him into stalls with handmade baby clothes, honey from local bees, and buckets of flowers offered by nearby growers. Though the weekly event was only a month old, people seemed to have embraced it already, and Harper noted the many shopping totes that got fuller as the afternoon progressed. There were cheeses, artisan breads, and plenty of produce, but none of it looked as beautiful as that from Sunnybird Farm. Some of it wasn’t even certified organic.
She stood in the center of the street, running her gaze over both sides, calculating a prime spot for a Sunnybird stall. “I wonder who I need to talk to about applying?” she murmured.
“Hmm?” Mad bent his head, his mouth close to her ear.
A shiver rolled down her neck. She turned to look at him. “You did that on pur—”
He kissed the rest of her comment off her mouth.
She came up for air with a giggle. A giggle!
This is happiness, she thought, beaming at him.
He leaned in again, his intention obvious, then they broke apart as someone hailed her man. They turned to see Rafael Rodriguez, one of Mad’s poker crew, striding toward them. The two guys shook hands, then Raf sent Harper a rakish grin. “Good to see you, too,” he said, bending to kiss her cheek. Then he moved as if to kiss the other, very European.
Mad gave his friend a good-natured shove. “Back off, Romeo.”
Feigning hurt, Raf looked at his buddy. “It was just a courtesy. I’m not trying to move in.”
“You don’t have to be trying, it’s just second nature,” Mad said dryly.
While the two men continued their conversation, Harper’s attention was caught by the sun glinting off some boho-styled earrings displayed in a nearby booth.
“I’m going over there,” she told Mad, and he acknowledged it with a lift of his chin. After a brief investigation, she was lured to the next stall, where she admired hand-knit throws, the strands of yarn as thick as her thumb. The seafoam one would look nice across the dark quilt bedspread that covered Mad’s mattress.
A clattering sound intruded on her consciousness next and she pulled her attention away from the beautiful items to glance toward the noise. A little red wagon rattled by, dragged by a teenager and her companion, both girls wearing cropped jeans and delicate white blouses. Those indie tomato marketers she’d run into before, Harper thought, then turned back to the beautiful throws, wondering if she could get away with leaving Mad a goodbye gift. Too I’m hung up on you and please don’t ever forget me?
But the seafoam throw was just that tempting.
As she fingered it again, a cool breeze tickled her cheek and she glanced over her shoulder once more, a disquiet suddenly intruding on her happy day. Those pretty white blouses the girls wore were quite special and while fetching with the denim, they didn’t look modern at all. And not just in their design.
They were definitely vintage, she decided.
Antique.
Remembering the garments that had been stolen from a clothesline in the area of Sunnybird Farm, Harper strode out of the booth and, putting her hand at her brows to shade her eyes, looked in the direction she’d last seen the girls. They were turning down another aisle, that little red wagon lumbering behind them, greenery filling its bed.
Greenery that looked to be tied with yellow ribbon, just like they used at Sunnybird Farm.
Just like those herb bundles that had gone missing the day before.
“You’re not forgetting anything, Mom,” she murmured, then started after them.