Page 1 of Guarded By a Broody Biker

One

Jem

Ifinally snap on a drizzly Friday morning.

It’s cold and damp outside, and the miserable weather has chased an extra-big crowd through the doors of the old market hall. The new customers mill around the stalls, bumping shoulders and scanning the different wares on sale, and the air is thick with the musty smell of their damp overcoats.

Raindrops drum against the domed glass ceiling high above. The loud buzz of conversation makes my head throb. Folks browse for second hand books and haggle over the cost of handmade soap, pointing at the weirder things for sale on the tables.

Meanwhile, my stall is tucked off in the corner, away from the worst of the crowd. People keep shuffling past, but they’re not packed close together, elbows jabbing in ribs, like they are in the middle of the market.

Normally I’m kinda salty about my stall being on the edge, wishing I could be closer to the action so I could sell morecandles and maybe order from my favorite pizza place in celebration. A big sales day is a big deal for me. But today…

Today I’m relieved to be invisible. I huddle in my cheap metal seat, the rickety leg wobbling beneath me, and draw my scarf up and over my chin. Even though it’s muggy in here with all these bodies, even though I should be on my feet and calling people over to smell my candles, instead I’m trying to fold myself so small that I disappear.

It was a dream,I tell myself over and over.You got stressed and had a bad dream.

There’s no way my ex boyfriend really broke into my apartment last night. That would be insane, and Peter isn’t like that. He’s measured, calculating, cool.

“What are these, then?” A man in his forties asks, stopping by my stall and hitching up his belt. He’s barrel-chested but soft all over, and there’s more gray than brown in his hair. He sniffs and surveys the display of candles on my table, with their handwritten labels and the purple velvet tablecloth, like an emperor surveying his kingdom. A blunt finger prods at a vanilla and beeswax set.

“Candles,” I say dully, burrowing deeper into my scarf. We get people like this in the market all the time—Looky Loos who only want to quiz you, never buy—and I’m in no mood to stroke this guy’s ego by playing along.

“You should light them,” the man declares. “Candles are better when they’re lit. You’ll draw people over here like moths to a…”

He grins, rocking on his heels.

I sigh into my scarf. “Flame?”

The man throws his head back and booms out a laugh, drawing a few curious glances from nearby. When he straightens, he digs in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a lighter. My spine goes stiff.

“I’ll start over here,” he says, going for the vanilla beeswax set again. “You light the ones at the back.”

My metal chair scrapes across the stone floor as I lurch to my feet, snatching the first candle away from his tiny flame. “Hey! You light them, you buy ‘em.”

The man stares at me, lighter still held over the table. A parade of emotions flickers across his weathered face: surprise, offense, mulish irritation. The determination to get his own way.

“I’m doing you a favor,” he says, all stubborn. This is a man who doesn’t like being told no, and lord, I am so tired of those. “If you want to sell these candles, you should light them up.”

“People don’t want to buy used goods,” I explain slowly, trying not to sound like I’m talking to an imbecile. My shoulders are tense with irritation, but even now, squaring off with this jerk, I can’t stop scanning the crowd over his shoulders. I’m on edge and twitchy, looking for Peter. Looking for a sign that I wasn’t dreaming last night. “They want candles where the wick has never been lit.”

The man scoffs, shaking his head. He’s spent all of five minutes at my stall, and now he’s an expert on the handmade candle business.

“This is why your stall’s quiet. Your bad attitude—”

“Oh, whoops.” Leaning down, I pull out the ‘Shop Closed’ sign with a flourish and set it in the middle of the table. “You’ve caught me right as my break starts. That’s too bad.”

He grumbles and shakes his head and still hovers by the table, muttering about silly little girls running their silly little stalls, and I level him a look as I squeeze out from behind the table.

“There’s a camera up there.” I jerk my chin up at the rafters, and thankfully the man doesn’t look. There’s no camera up there, only a whole colony of spiders. “Remember: you light them, you buy them. Have a nice day.”

The crowd brushes me on both sides as I plunge into the tangle of bodies, irritation making my teeth grind. This should be a good sales day for me, what with all these people, and now I’ve let myself get chased away from my stall by an old dude who can’t be told the word no.

Part of me wants to loop back and check he’s not literally setting fire to my stock, but the rest of me keeps pressing forward. To be honest, I was feeling kinda exposed over there, set away from the crowd like that. On display for any unfriendly prying eyes. Blending in with the customers, strolling between stalls and breathing in the delicious scents of the food section—this is better.

My stomach growls beneath my slouchy gray sweater, but I force myself to look at the rows of bagels and pastries and thick brownie squares and not touch. Not until I make a few sales of my own.

“Jemima.”

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