I have to rub my lips together to keep from smiling and blowing my cover. It’s just so funny to see her look at him in wonder, knowing that his skin is probably crawling at the fact the attention is on him. “He’s a very, very kind man,” I lie.
Camden Hunter isn’t kind. He’s a man of power, a man who will do anything to get what he wants, including creating a gallery that goes against all of the small-town values of keeping things local in Sutten.
Miss Mary is completely unaware of the type of man Camden is. She seems to be mesmerized by his charm already, and he hasn’t even said anything. It must be nice to have a face so perfect that you don’t have to say a word for people to fall at your feet.
“Pippa here is the sweetest girl,” Miss Mary admonishes. Now, her bright eyes are pinned on me. “She’s as sweet as they come. I’ve known her since she was in diapers, running around church trying to get naked while Pastor Mark gave a sermon.”
My eyes go wide because she’s supposed to be on my side. No one except for the people in the church should know about me running around at two without any clothes on in the middle of a service. I blame it on my mom. Dad still to this day loves to tell everyone that my mom found it hilarious and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed by my antics. That was my mom. She was vivid and full of life. She could make a joke out of anything, and there are just days that I wish she wasn’t ripped out of my life without warning.
“Pippa sure is sweet,” Camden drawls. He flashes his straight, white teeth, his incisors slightly sharper than the rest of his teeth. “Kind of reminds me—” He pauses as if he’s having to think through his next words. “—of shortcake…”
My eyes turn to slits. His smirk tells me he thinks he’s funny, but I don’t find it amusing in the slightest.
Meanwhile, Miss Mary is eating up every second of it. She stares at Camden with stars in her eyes. Like she just said, she’s known me since I was an infant, and Camden says one complete sentence and she’s clearly head over heels for him.
“Shortcake is my least favorite dessert.”
Miss Mary whips her head in my direction. I didn’t know she could move that fast. “You’ve won awards with your strawberry shortcakes. I thought you loved it.”
She’s betrayed me. Camden snickers while my face heats with embarrassment. I’m going to go home and toss out every single one of Miss Mary’s soaps because she’s supposed to be on my side. She wasn’t supposed to tell him that the little nickname he’s given me isn’t as bad as I make it out to be.
“Well, we’ve got to get going,” I lie, pulling on the sleeve of Camden’s button-up. “So many vendors to see, so little time.”
“Oh, why don’t you just get one bar of soap, honey? Or lotion? In the spirit of strawberry shortcake, I do have a few bottles left of my sugar strawberry lotion.”
“I’m really o—”
“She’ll take it,” Camden interrupts. He pulls his wallet from his pocket and thumbs through hundred-dollar bills. I want to laugh when he pulls out two of them, as if one single little bottle of lotion would ever cost that much.
“I hate strawberries,” I argue, watching Miss Mary wrap the pink bottle of lotion in white tissue paper.
“Lying is a sin, darling,” Miss Mary scolds, looking at me with slight disappointment. “You’ve bought this lotion from me before.”
My cheeks puff out in frustration because I’ve been caught in a lie. Worse, in front of Camden, who beams so wide I might actually find it charming if I didn’t know the smile was at my expense.
Miss Mary gets us all packaged up, and Camden listens to her talk about her five grandchildren. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who does small talk with strangers. In fact, his harsh, rude personality strikes me as quite the opposite. I always thought he came off as entitled, meaning he thought he was better than everyone else. Instead, he’s showing little glimpses of himself that make me question what I really do and don’t know about him.
I reach to grab the little bag from his hand as we walk by a few more additional booths, but he pulls it from my reach. “I’ll carry it.” His tone makes it seem like there’s no further room for discussion.
“I can carry my own bag.”
He stops in his tracks, disrupting the flow of traffic for a minute. Shoppers funnel around us as Camden looks down at me. “You can do a lot of things. It doesn’t mean you should have to.” And with that, he begins to lead the way toward something that’s caught his eye.
15
CAMDEN
I’ve come to the conclusion that all the stereotypes about small towns are true. Starting with the idea that everyone knows everyone.
Pippa is the perfect example of that. We can’t walk a few steps without someone stopping to talk to her. Whether it’s someone begging for her to finally share her buttercream icing recipe or someone asking how her family is doing, she’s always talking with somebody else about something. Some people ask who I am, some of them don’t. Most of them don’t seem to care who I am; they just want to speak with her.
I don’t know if Pippa realizes it or not, but the people in this town love her. Their faces get brighter, their smiles get wider, and they seem captivated by every word she says to them. I was put off by the idea of coming here when she first told me what we were doing, but now I’m almost grateful she brought me. I’m fascinated by how much everyone seems to love her in this town. I’m really just fascinated by her.
She talks to every single person like she genuinely cares what they’re saying. There was the woman who was telling her that her four-month-old was going through a sleep regression and she felt like she hadn’t slept for days, so Pippa offered to come watch the baby sometime so the mom could sleep. Or the old lady who complained about her printer not working, so Pippa offered to come over and fix it. There are countless different instances of this, and as she speaks with yet another person, I focus on one of the questions that keeps being asked.
In one way or another, she keeps getting asked how her family is doing. But it doesn’t seem like a polite question in passing conversation. They all seem concerned while asking it. Or that the question is taboo. And her answers give me no clues on what they could be talking about.
And I want to know. I wish I knew. I’ve never cared about being an outsider, but for the first time, I just wish I knew what everyone else knows when it comes to her.
“Yay!” Pippa claps her hands together before she pulls me to a booth with black draping and the words “Tommy Does Art” on a banner across the front of the table. “Camden, you have to meet Tommy.”
The guy sitting at the table looks like he hasn’t even graduated high school yet. Or if he has, it wasn’t too long ago. He’s got brown hair that’s buzzed to the scalp, and he watches me with brown eyes almost the same color as his hair. “Did you bring a friend or something today?” the kid asks, his voice confirming my first thought that he may not even be out of high school yet.
“Or something,” Pippa begins, pulling me closer to the table so I stand right next to her. “Tommy, I’d like for you to meet Camden Hunter.”
His chair falls backward and hits the gym floor with a loud thump. He wipes his hands on the front of his paint-stained jeans. “Camden Hunter,” he rushes out, his words jumbling together making my full name sound like one long name. “Like the Camden Hunter?” His tone goes up an octave as he repeatedly wipes his hands on his clothes.
“I don’t know how many Camden Hunters there are, but it is my name.” I hold out my hand to shake his, but he just stares at my waiting hand in awe.
I freeze, not knowing what I’m supposed to do in this situation. Do I stop the handshake? Wait for this kid to get it together and just look awkward while doing it?
Lucky for me, the kid finally puts his hand in mine and shakes it. “I can’t believe I’m meeting Camden Hunter,” he breathes.