SLOW PLAY (7-Stud Club #4) - Christie Ridgway Page 0,61
scurried around the corner they’d taken and ducked into the closest booth. The pair stood in the one alongside it, and through the canvas divider, she could hear them asking a foursome if they were interested in buying some fresh herbs straight off a nearby farm.
“And tied with such pretty ribbons too,” one of the shoppers said. “How much are you charging?”
The amount they named sounded way too much for stolen merchandise, Harper thought, grinding her molars. These little thieves were not going to get away with it. Hauling in a deep breath, she took a moment to steady herself and then marched out to confront them.
But they were already moving down the aisle on their quick-moving teenage legs and in their—probably— purloined blouses.
“Hey!” she yelled, her sandals clacking against the blacktop as she tried to match their pace. “Hey!”
The girls’ shiny hair swung out in identical arcs as they turned their heads.
“Stop! You have my herbs!”
Eyes widening, they faced forward again and started to run.
They wore white sneakers, not clunky-heeled sandals that slapped the soles of her feet as she tried to keep up with them. It wasn’t difficult for the girls to take an impressive lead, but Harper didn’t let it flatten her determination. She continued onward, fueled by anger and the certainty that a couple of kids were not going to get the better of her.
Or get anything from her family’s farm.
The pair made it past the market’s northern barricade, the girls ducking beneath the sawhorses-and-caution-tape barrier.
“Stop!” The repeated command didn’t cause them to pause. The teens kept going, skidding into a large dirt overflow parking area. Following, Harper skidded too, grit finding its way between her soles and sandals. She grimaced as little pebbles poked into her skin, but she continued moving.
Until those evil children shoved the wagon in her direction. Trying to avoid it, she slid on her heels, but the red metal devil caught her in the shins anyway, and with the speed, the slippery surface, and her imbalance in the cute sandals, she went over the metal thing, then down.
Pain bloomed on knee, elbow, face.
Chapter Thirteen
“Why are you here?” Mad asked Raf, glancing around. “Are you escorting some woman?”
“That would be you, Mad. You’ve got the lady of your dreams on one arm and heartache on the other.”
He ignored the statement. “Seriously. What brings you to a farmers market twenty miles from home? You can get this stuff at the one in Sawyer Beach on Sunday or just hit Duffy’s which always does it—”
“Green and local,” Raf finished for him. He glanced to the side, then back at Mad. “I’m looking for this particular vanilla-almond oil, special stuff, that a, uh, friend of mine really likes and hasn’t been able to find in Sawyer Beach. She said a woman up the coast makes it and sells it at some local venues. This seemed like a possibility.”
Mad crossed his arms over his chest. “What friend?”
Raf’s gaze ran away again.
“Not your brother’s friend, please assure me. You’re not pursuing Shane’s girl, are you?”
“I’m pursuing vanilla-almond oil.”
“Raf—”
“Don’t you have your own problems?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mad groused, even as he looked around. “Did you see where Harper took off to?”
“That’s what she’s going to do, isn’t it?” Raf asked. “Take off, I mean. Leaving you with that empty place beside you.”
Mad spun around, barely registering his friend’s pointed words. “Seriously. Did you see where she went?”
“Seriously, Mad. She’s going to leave you again. You get that, right?”
What he got right now was that he couldn’t see her, and for some reason, his gut wasn’t liking the idea at all. He shoved a hand through his hair and took two steps forward, peering around the edge of a booth. Then he reared back, startled by the sight of large gourds carved into life-sized human heads—Clooney, Prince Harry, a clown.
“Christ,” he muttered.
“I’m going to have nightmares,” Raf said at his side, sounding awed. “Do you think people buy those? Do you think people can make a living carving those? If so, why have I spent the best years of my life dangerous feet off the ground nailing shingles? I might have fallen and died in the pursuit of a dollar when I could have been in my backyard recreating the Three Stooges or Richard Nixon or maybe one of those Scream masks.”
Ignoring him, Mad began striding amongst the booths, looking for a green-eyed brunette who’d captured his heart. He stopped at the thought, his abrupt