Chapter Eight

Carter

“Monsieur, look! Zee fruit is tres bon.” Claude grabs my arm and pulls me closer to the nearest stand, brimming with lots of different varieties. I do have to admit the display catches my eye. In the heat of the Las Vegas farmer’s market, it’s nice to see a big splash of color.

“It is. Why not go over and find a couple of watermelons? I want you to try a new dessert, for summer. Who doesn’t love watermelon?”

Claude nods as if I’ve given him the world’s most important task. I half-expect him to salute me before he waddles over to the fruit, tears in his eyes.

Great. Now that I’ve gotten rid of him, I can get what I came here to find.

The market teems with people – it’s like pushing through the current of a river as I make my way over to the best stall.

“Hey, Carter!” A smiling woman grins at me. “What’re you here for today?”

“Anything you’ve got,” I say, looking over her wares. In front of me are large, vacuum-sealed packs of meat on giant coolers of ice. Glorious raw, local, ethically-farmed meat.

Red as fuck.

“We’ve got some great venison,” she says. “And some lamb.”

I nod, fingering the packages. “Both of those sound excellent, and I’ll take my usual order of fifty chickens and forty pounds of beef.”

The woman nods as she pulls out a clipboard and passes it over. After filling out the information for Steakhouse’s delivery, I pass it back over. I have a standing order with this organic farm, so they already have a line of credit with the Armónico.

“We appreciate your business so much,” the woman says, smiling and nodding. “You know, my niece came into town the other week. She ate at Steakhouse, and she kept gushing about the pork loin all night. When I told her it was from my farm, she couldn’t believe it. You’re really putting us on the map, Carter. As you know, it’s my life’s work to open diners’ eyes about ethically raised meat and organic produce. It’s nice to have you as one of my partners in crime.”

I grin. To me, the best thing in the world is hearing praise of my restaurant. And she’s right, people need to pay more attention to the swill that’s going in their mouths and coursing through their bodies. Processed food is toxic as shit. Hell, you might as well go out into your backyard, grab a pile of dog shit, and eat it instead.

“I’m glad she had a good time, but you should’ve called me. I would’ve loved to really put on a big spread for her. If nothing else, she could have sat at the chef’s table and gotten a bird’s eye view of your meat and produce from the bowels of the actual kitchen.”

The woman laughs, then catches my eye with a saucy wink. “My niece is married,” she adds. “So, don’t go getting any ideas, player.”

I shrug it off. As crazy as it sounds, I’m not really interested in the idea of dating. Sure, I like women. Who doesn’t? But no date could feel as good as listening to a gorgeous girl gush about my culinary prowess. Even when her flustered husband sits right beside her.

Unbidden, the gorgeous face of the mystery woman flits across my mind, hardening my body. I can’t sweep her away no matter how hard I try. Or how many times I choke my own chicken. Her constant starring roles in my brain are annoying.

After I complete my order with Nevada’s Prime Cuts, I wander back over to the fruit stand. Claude stands there, hovering. I can’t hear him, but I can sure as hell see him. He’s gesturing and bickering with the owner, using wide, sweeping gestures. Almost like he’s dancing.

I roll my eyes and step forward to close the gap between us.

And that’s when I see her.

The object of all of my X-rated masturbation fantasies. The girl from the Helping Hearts & Hands banquet. She’s shopping with a woven bag over her shoulder and big sunglasses perched on her nose that don’t quite cover the smattering of freckles on her sculpted cheeks. Even though she’s only wearing denim shorts and a loose shirt, she looks like a goddess. Her dark blonde hair is twisted into a messy bun, exposing her elegant neck. My cock twitches in my pants as my hungry gaze drinks her in.

Ah, fantasy girl. Where have you been all my life? Or at least for the past twenty-four hours?

Grinning, I stride forward. I’m not going to miss out on this opportunity to close this deal. My straining cock thanks me in advance.

“Hey there,” I said, catching up to her in a few strides of my long legs. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The girl glances up at me. To my surprise, she frowns. If I expected the welcome wagon to be pulling in to the station, I’m met instead with the ice-covered dog sled.

“I live here,” she says, rancor dripping from every syllable.

I chuckle, overcome with unusual nerves. Never being openly hated by a woman in my life, I’m not sure how to handle this alien situation. What the hell could have happened between our lip lock and this moment? “You live at the farmer’s market? But I’ve never seen you here before.”

The girl spears me with a lethal glare, her tiny nostrils flaring with irritation. “No,” she says, hissing the words through clenched teeth. “In Vegas. I live in Vegas.”

“Oh, well, so do I,” I say, choosing to ignore her ‘get the fuck away from me’ look. I’ll warm her back up. I have to. Carter Caldwell does not take no for an answer. And I’m in possession of nine inches of steely heat. “Man, it’s good to see you. I can’t believe I never got your name the other night.”

That pert nose turns up, and she glances away. Like she can’t stand the sight of me. “That wasn’t a mistake,” she says, frostier than an Icee machine. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of shopping to do.”

“Come on,” I say, reaching for her arm. To my surprise, the girl darts to the side before I can take her elbow. “I don’t understand. What did I do?”

Her face turns red, and she glares at me over the rims of her sunglasses.

“Why not go out with me,” I say, shrugging and reaching into my pocket for a business card. “Everyone deserves a second chance – it’ll be fun.”

Instead, she stares at me like I suggested we take a trip to Mars together. On the Challenger.

For the first time in my life while talking to a female, anxiety courses through my body. I’m unsure of the outcome. “What’s with you?” I ask. “You liked me enough at the fundraiser.”

The girl gnaws her lower lip, probably trying to keep herself from ripping me a new one. I’ve never seen a woman so mad without a valid reason. Her creamy white teeth tempt me as my mind wanders to what else she could do with them, and my cock twitches again at the thought of pulling her close and pressing my mouth to hers.

Just as she opens her mouth to reply, a loud screech fills the air. A French screech. Whirling around, I groan when I spot Claude. He’s still standing by the fruit stand, but he’s got his arms around an enormous watermelon.

“Sir, that melon is not for sale. It’s for display only.” A disgruntled man behind the stand yells. “Give that back.”

“Non!” Claude screams as he shakes his head from side to side. His black beret almost flies off his head into the oranges. “Zis ees my melon, les parfait! Monsieur wants everything parfait.”

“It’s display only!” the farmer argues. “Give it back!”

“Non, s’il vous plait!” Claude screeches. He steps back, holding the watermelon against his massive chest as if it’s a newborn baby. It’s a huge watermelon, and it’s perfectly green – in fact, it looks as beautiful as a stock image. I can see why he wants it.

The owner raises a fist in the air and steps closer.

“I think there might be an issue that I need to attend to,” I say to the girl, jerking my head toward the fruit stand. But instead of looking, she glares at me with venom in her eyes.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she says with one final haughty glare before turning on her heel and stalking off.

“What the hell!” I yell as her slender frame disappears into the crowd. “What the fuck did I do? You could at least tell me.”

As loud as my voice is, it’s no match for Claude and the angry fruit farmer.

“Give me that melon!” the farmer yells. “I’m using it in the new brochure for my organic farm. I’m using it online too.”

“Non!” Claude yells back. He takes another shaky step backward. His large arms, hugging the watermelon in a vice grip, tremble underneath the strain.

“I’m only telling you one more time, buddy. Give it back, or I’m calling the cops.”

I rush to Claude’s side, momentarily forgetting about the mysteriously angry dark blonde goddess.

“Claude, maybe you should hand it over,” I say, smiling at the farmer. This is nothing a little charm and grace under pressure can’t solve. Luckily, I excel at both.

Both the vendor and Claude ignore me, caught in the battle of wills that neither one of them is going to walk away from unscathed.

“That’s it,” he snarls, palming his iPhone and hitting the emergency button. “You’re going to get arrested, Napoleon. Explain your thievery to Vegas’ finest.”

“Mon watermelon!” Claude says, narrowing his eyes and taking another step backward. By the time I see him trip over an exposed brick edge, it’s too late. He goes down like a sack of potatoes and the prize-winning melon flies into the air like a thirty-pound missile of pink flesh.

The entire farmer’s market holds their collective breath, praying for a soft landing and not a fruit explosion. Like a slow-motion blooper reel, we watch the melon fly through the air. The edible cannon ball rockets sky high, gaining speed as it falls. In the few seconds it takes for it to land on the perfectly organized fruit stand, it’s gained so much velocity that explosion isn’t a serious enough word to describe it. Chaos, in the form of watermelon chunks, juice, rind, as well as every other in-season fruit, erupts. In a matter of seconds, we’re covered in sticky, sugary goo.

“You idiot!” the fruit vendor yells at Claude. “You ruined my whole display! I’ll have your ass for this.”

I look from Claude to the farmer and back again. All the charm in the world isn’t going to get me out of this one. Reaching into my wallet, I withdraw a cool thousand. Holding up the bills in a fan of Benjamins, I try to garner the farmer’s attention with my bribe.

“Monsieur,” Claude says to me, reaching for my arm and digging his meaty fingers into my flesh. “I did not mean to do eet! Par hasard!”

“I know, I know,” I say, groaning as I wave the bills back and forth. In fascination, I watch as a droplet of watermelon slime falls off the fabric awning of the farmer’s booth and lands on the wad of cash.

The vendor stomps his foot a few times, sending more droplets airborne. After a few tense seconds, he snatches the money out of my hand and shoves it in his pocket.

“That’ll do for now, Caldwell,” he snaps. “But that watermelon’s irreplaceable. I don’t want to ever see this bumbling idiot near my stand again. If it comes down to it, you won’t be serving any fruit based desserts at Steakhouse ever again.”

I nod, totally understanding his acrimony. Grabbing Claude by the arm, I lead him back toward my vehicle. Sexless.

And fruitless.