I curled my toes in my new Merrells, a purchase strong-armed by Manda but one I’d been secretly thrilled to make, not only because I loved the deep blue, but also because I couldn’t bear the thought of footbinding in those heels any more. I had to roll my eyes at my fickle, poser self: it had taken less than a week for me to trade in my New York chic for West Coast comfort.
The market stretched before me, a riot of sound, color, and delicious smells. Live music reached me where I stood, though I couldn’t see where the sitar player was sitting. For being so early in the season, the tables on either side of the street were heavily laden with produce. I could see English peas, asparagus, arugula, several varieties of chard, kale, rhubarb, radishes … My mouth tingled as I walked slowly from booth to booth, drinking in the knowledge that the food I was checking out had not been trucked over the Jersey Turnpike or from a far-flung spot upstate, but from somewhere nearby, where people still felt dirt in their hands and not just in their nostrils after a day of walking in the city.
I paused at the end of a block, and my gaze zeroed in on a mountain of gorgeous strawberries a few stands down. Cutting in and out of the throng, I reached the stand and stood under a banner that read FORSYTHIA FARMS. I crouched to be eye level with the berries, narrowing my eyes at their color, shape, and size. The red was deep, but still bright. Shape: irregular, as they should be, and still shooting delightful stems that poked out the tops like tiny berets. The berries weren’t too small, and best of all, not too large. No Costco mutants, I was pleased to note.
“You’re talking to the strawberries.”
I stood abruptly and, in the process, bumped hard against the table. A mini-avalanche of strawberries bounced out of the crates and onto the concrete below. I scrambled for hand sanitizer in my bag and didn’t even let the gel dry before pushing against the flow to contain the fall of more berries. The man behind the voice had run around the booth and was at my feet, picking up the smattering of berries that had fallen to the concrete. His thick mop of sun-touched blond hair was so close to my bare, pale, New-England-winter legs, the backs of my knees began to sweat.
He stood, holding a big silver bowl of retrieved berries. A slow smile spread over his handsome face. “Sorry. I think I startled you.”
I cleared my throat and tried to look dignified. “You did. But I’m sorry about the berries. Let me buy the ones that fell.” I opened my bag and pulled out a handful of crisp bills. “How much do I owe you?”
“Whoa, hold on there, sister,” he said, hand up and eyes laughing. “We’re talking berries, not gold.” He squinted. “New around here?”
“Maybe,” I said, the New York armor sprouting anew with impressive speed.
He seemed to be enjoying my discomfort. “New York?”
I sucked in a breath. “How did you know that?”
“The shape of the eyebrows.” He nodded, suddenly solemn. “All New Yorkers have very well-manicured eyebrows.”
My hand flew to my right eyebrow and swiped a shaky line along its curve. “Seriously? I’ve never really thought about that. I can’t believe that’s how you knew.”
He laughed, a low rumble. “That, and the fact you’re holding a bag from the Met.” He nodded at my bag. “And your gargantuan sunglasses. People with big-ass sunglasses are typically from the East Coast.”
I frowned. “Bigger frames mean better protection from sun damage.” I took in his tan, ruddy cheeks, broad chest and shoulders. Sure, it looked great now—amazing, actually—but in thirty years, who would be wishing he’d worn some big-ass sunglasses during peak sun times?
He set the bowl of berries on the table and held out his hand. “I’m Kai Malloy.”
His palm was rough and warm in mine. “Charlie Garrett,” I said.
“Fantastic name,” he said, the dark brown in his eyes trained on my face. “It suits you.”
I turned my face away from his open assessment of me and went back to investigating the strawberries.
“What brings you to Seattle, Charlie?” Kai said. He walked around the booth to resume his post. “Business? Pleasure?”
“Oh, you know,” I said airily. “A little of both.” This man was far too friendly, I decided. And too beautiful. Two of my favorite red flags when it came to men. I was not going to give him the pleasure of thinking he had me all figured out. Big sunglasses indeed.
“Great,” he said, a bit more subdued. “What’s your line of work?”
“I work in food, actually,” I said, pushing my sunglasses on top of my head.
“Really?” He smiled. “Are you a cook, then? Because if you are, I know of a new place over on Capitol Hill that’s looking for—”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not a cook. I’m a chef,” I said. “A classically trained pastry chef, actually. High-end dining. Michelin stars. That sort of thing.”
“Wow,” he said, eyebrows up. “Sounds impressive.”
I paused, trying to gauge if there was a touch of irony in his tone. “Well,” I said with a slight shrug, “the pressure is pretty intense. It’s not for the faint of heart.”