Page 2 of Blood and Buttercups

“Do you need help?” a male voice asks from behind me.

I whip around, blinking quickly and pretending I have something in my eye…but I’m not a great actress. Unless he’s blind, he knows I’m crying.

The man has shoulder-length, dark blond hair that he wears in a smooth tail at his neck. His eyes are the darkest brown imaginable, and his skin is so smooth, he could be a model for men’s face cream.

He stands in front of me, hands casually jabbed into the front pockets of his expensive jeans, with a sympathetic, knowing expression on his face.

I’ve had a stand at this evening farmer’s market every Friday for the last two summers, and this guy is here each week without fail. He buys a dozen flowers with cash, and he always pays me a little extra because that week’s flowers are “especially lovely.”

He’s nice.

“That’s all right.” I look down at the buckets. “My friend is bringing the cart. Thank you, though.”

He shifts a little, clearing his throat. “Are you…okay?”

“Hmm?” I blink again in an exaggerated manner. “Oh, yeah, I got dirt or something in my eye. I’m fine now.”

He frowns like he doesn’t believe me, but then he turns his eyes to the flowers. “You have zinnias early this year.”

“I started them in January.” I heave another bucket out of the truck. “They outgrew their flats twice. I thought they were going to take over my house before I could get them into the ground.”

The man smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself. I’m Ethan.”

I sniff, feeling a second wave of tears trying to spill over. “I’m Piper.”

“You sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m good. Will you stop by when we’re set up, though?”

He nods, taking that as his cue to leave. After flashing me another smile, he walks down the sidewalk and into the section of the street that’s blocked off for the market.

It’s an overcast, moody sort of evening, but that doesn’t hinder the festival vibe. Music drifts from the stage further down as the band begins to warm up. It’s bluegrass tonight. Other nights, it’s rock, and sometimes, it’s country. I don’t tend to pay much attention, but it’s a major source of aggravation for Olivia.

“Not again,” my friend groans as she wheels the cart to a stop at the back of the truck. “Who can stand that banjo twang?”

I smile at her predictability and begin to load up the flowers.

“I saw you talking to Ponytail Guy.” She hefts a bucket of purple irises from the ground and sets them next to a bunch of pale pink peonies.

This will just about be the last of my spring flowers. Soon, I’ll have gladiolus and lilies.

“He offered to help take things to the stand,” I tell her.

“That might be what he said, but I’m pretty sure he was offering something else.”

Olivia’s been hounding me about the man since he started visiting.

“He buys flowers for his girlfriend every week.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I would bet good money he tosses those flowers in the trash before he leaves the market. He comes so he can talk to you.”

“Don’t listen to her,” I say to a ranunculus, covering the flower’s nonexistent ears. “She’s just cranky because she hasn’t had sugar for five days.”

Olivia groans. “Don’t remind me. Can you smell that kettle corn? I’m gonna die.”

I laugh, dangerously close to bursting into tears again.

“Hey,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do this tonight. We can go back to my house, throw darts at Kevin’s picture, eat way too much ice cream, and binge a K-Drama.”

---