Sandy
“Mister?”
He didn’t respond. Nervous that he was perhaps having a heart attack, Sandy reached out and waved her hand back and forth in front of his face. Fingers like steel closed around her wrist. Though he held her arm tight, it didn’t hurt. Then something weird happened. He leaned in and…sniffed the back of her hand.
Almost immediately after that he let go. Confusion reigned supreme on his face, like he couldn’t understand something. His lips were moving, talking to himself, though the words weren’t audible.
Great. Typical that a crazy person would come stand at her booth. She looked around him to either side, desperate to see someone she knew. Anyone. Even Rusty would probably be an improvement at that point, much as she didn’t want to see her neighbor. Like, ever.
“Look, mister. I don’t want any trouble. Please, just, go somewhere else.”
The word “trouble” seemed to flare some sort of intelligence in the odd-looking green eyes, banishing the vacant stare. Eyelids blinked rapidly and he sort of shook himself awake.
“Trouble?” he asked, peering past her into the depths of her tent before turning to survey the slow-moving crowd of weekend marketgoers. “Where?”
“Uh.” She hesitated, unsure of what to say next. Not that staring way, way up at him was much better.
It was a shame that someone so attractive was crazy. Sandy wasn’t interested in men in her life anymore, but she’d never stopped looking. Looking wasn’t what was dangerous. It was touching that always ended up with trouble.
“What’s the trouble? How can I help?”
Whatever had happened to him was gone, and now he seemed to be perfectly normal once more. How odd.
“The only trouble is you blocking the view of my booth to everyone,” she muttered. “I can’t sell anything if nobody can see me. And I need to sell everything.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why do you need to sell everything?”
Sandy, peering around him to try and let people know she was there, eyed the height-blessed stranger carefully. “Because I need to make money. To make money, I have to sell my harvest. To sell my harvest, I need people to come over to my tent. For people to come over to my tent, they have to see it first. You and your freeway-sized shoulders don’t leave much viewing room.
The man looked around, taking inventory of what she had. “Is this everything?”
“Pardon?’
“Your harvest. Is what I see everything?”
“Mostly,” she said cautiously. “I have two or three more bins in the truck, but this is the majority.”
He looked it over once more, flicked a few fingers up in the air while talking to himself, then nodded. “I’ll take it.”
“Great!” She was eager to get rid of him. The fact that he was going to buy something was even better. “What do you want? I have broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, kale, celery, and of course apples.” There were a few other things mixed in, but in the fall that was the majority of what she had.
“All.”
“One of each? Sure.” She reached for a plastic bag to begin putting his order together. “That’ll be—”
He reached out to stop her, his hand dwarfing hers as he covered it, stilling her movement. “No.”
“No what?”
“I want it all,” he said, gesturing at everything she had on display. “I’ll bring my truck over.”
“You want everything?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yes. Including the other bins.”
Sandy shook her head. “You can’t be serious.”
“I never lie,” he rumbled, his eyes with their bright green irises and exotic black flecks boring into her, holding her still while he got his point across.
His hand was still on hers she noticed, swallowing hard with the realization. She should be trembling. The rest of her was. But somehow her right arm remained calm and still from his touch.
“So you want everything there is?”
“Yes. My name is Palin, by the way.”
“R-Right.” She finally pulled her hand out from under his, expecting to feel relief. Instead she felt…disappointed?
There was no time to dwell on rogue feelings, however. This Palin had just said he would buy everything she had. Without even negotiating. She was going to sell it all at full price and make a killing! This would go a long way toward her next property-tax bill.
Excitement made her nerves flare up, but she managed to tell him the price without stuttering. He didn’t even blink. Instead he simply dug through his wallet, pulled out several crisp bills, and gave them to her.
“I’ll be back with the truck. I’ll pull in behind you.”
“Right.” She was too busy stuffing the bills away to focus on him.
“Don’t go selling it again while I’m gone.”
Sandy laughed. “I’m not like that. You paid for it, it’s yours, mister.”
“My name’s Palin,” he repeated, drawing it out just a little at the end.
He wanted to know her name. Sandy didn’t normally give her name out to strangers, but then most people didn’t buy everything she had for sale, let alone for full price. Perhaps she could extend him some courtesy. After his initial approach he seemed to be proving himself to be a perfectly normal person.
Not that she would trust him farther than she could throw him. Which, considering his towering height, door-busting frame, and the fact that she was pretty positive that his muscles had muscles of their own, was not very far at all. Sandy didn’t trust anyone. But giving out her first name wasn’t going to hurt.
“Sandy,” she said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Sandy.” He stuck out his hand.
She took it after the barest of hesitation, struck once again by how warm and soft his hands felt against her callused working skin. Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way? She was supposed to be soft and delicate while a man’s hands felt rough and well worked?
Not bloody likely with me. My hands are never going to recover.
Palin disappeared, but she couldn’t strike the image of him from her mind. Tall, with a bald head and dark black goatee over skin that she couldn’t decide if it was natural or faked tan, he was really something pleasant to look at.
So why was he so interested in buying all her crops?
Does it matter? You can go and spend the rest of the day relaxing at home. Relaxing! Think about that.
It would certainly be nice. She rarely got any time off. Never, really. This was going to be a major holiday. She might even have a glass of wine.
A pickup rolled across the dirt behind her tent, coming to a stop. Palin came back around and started grabbing crates and hauling them into the truck. She offered to help, but he waved her down. So instead she just sat back and watched his muscles bulge under the black T-shirt. His biceps flexed, but the crates seemed to pose no actual challenge to him.
“What the hell are you going to do with all this, Palin?”
Sandy leaned back as she heard voices coming from the truck, a pair of them, both harassing Palin for his purchase. She listened through the tent walls at the back and forth each time Palin grabbed a new crate.
“Shut up,” he muttered. “She can hear you.”
Muted laughter reached her.
“You hate vegetables. Unless there are steaks hidden in here. Are you going on a diet? Worried you’re getting fat?”
Sandy covered her mouth to stop from giggling.
“I told you to shut up. I spent my money, not yours.”
“It’s all going to rot. Nobody is going to eat that stuff.”
“I bet she’s cute. He’s probably smitten. Trying to impress her.”
“I said shut up,” Palin snarled defensively.
Sandy didn’t really care why he had bought her crops, all she cared about was that she had the money for them. Patting her pocket, she confirmed the bills were still there.
“When is the next farmers market?”
Palin reappeared in front of her, picking up the last of her little crates.
“Uh, every weekend,” she said.
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” A green eye flashed as he winked at her, and then just like that, he was gone.
Sandy got up a second later and went after him, but the truck was already pulling out from the parking lot. “Wait!” she called, but he didn’t hear her.
“You forgot the crates from my truck.”