But never beefcake.
“Maybe I should tell Cage to put that on my next fight card? Gunnar Beefcake Erickson… it has a nice ring to it, huh?” Waggling my eyebrows, I earn another smile from Frankie and I decide I’m keeping every single one. I wish there was a way I could literally collect them and save them up for a rainy day.
She stiffens a little at the mention of fighting and I make a mental note to steer clear of that subject, leaving it for another day. “Care to point me in the direction of . . . Mr. Henson’s blueberries?” I ask, glancing at the first order of business. “And make sure you put a jar of your mom’s honey aside for me. Well, for Tempest. She also wanted me to pass on that the mint honey she made last year was ‘to die for’.” I add in my own impersonation of Tempest Cassidy and thankfully Frankie relaxes, laughing at my antics.
“She just told me last week that she has herbs harvested and saved up for the winter. When it’s cold and not much is growing, she loves to make her infused honeys and jams from the fruit and herbs she’s frozen during the year.”
The way she talks about her mother makes me wonder how close they are and if Frankie has any other family around. With her mom basically living in the woods and Frankie going once a week to check on her and take her groceries, who’s there for Frankie when she needs someone?
Or does someone like Frankie never need anybody?
That thought doesn’t settle well.
“Mr. Henson’s booth is over there,” Frankie says, pointing across the lot. “He should have a few boxes of blueberries left. I stopped by and bought some for my mother earlier and he had a lot.”
When she looks back up at me, I see so much in those deep brown eyes—questions, indecision, curiosity, and yet she’s so guarded. What is your story, Frankie Reeves?
“Do you want to go with?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder. “Maybe you could sweet talk Mr. Henson into giving me a deal on what he’s got left?” I’m teasing about the deal. I’ll pay whatever the man asks, but I’m not teasing about wanting her to come with me.
I want her, in every sense of the word.
“Uh,” Frankie hesitates, glancing around. “I better stay here.”
“Would someone seriously steal your honey?”
I almost say honey pot, but that makes me think of her honey pot and that’s a downward spiral I can’t afford at a family-friendly farmer’s market.
She gives me a small, knowing smile. “No.”
“Then you should come with me. It can be a second date,” I say conspiratorially. “And I know you haven’t been on one of those . . .”
She huffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes before groaning and reaching under the table. Placing an empty mason jar in front of me, she pulls a small sign out and sets it in front of the jar.
Honey $5
Jam $3
Candles $4
We operate on the honor system.
It’s an old American tradition.
Don’t screw it up.
“Nice,” I tell her, nodding my approval.
“It’s effective,” she says with a shrug, walking around the table to stand beside me. Her scent is stronger today and not diluted with the sterility that usually lingers on her from the hospital. It’s just pure, unadulterated Frankie—fresh, citrusy, and delicious.
As we begin to walk, she shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, making me notice every part of her: ass, legs, the way she walks. There’s an overwhelming urge inside me to wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me. I need more. I want to know what she feels like and if it’s as good as I’ve imagined. But I don’t.
Slow and steady.
Pace yourself.
Chapter 8
Frankie
On my drive into Maryville on Wednesday morning, I’m all smiles.
When I pulled up to Daisy’s this morning for my Wednesday coffee and donut, lo and behold, who was waiting for me? Gunnar Beefcake Erickson. It wasn’t a date, per se. We didn’t plan it, but he was there and I was there . . . and we sat for over half an hour talking about mundane, random things. It was awesome.
He bought my coffee and donut again, sending a dozen with me to give to Helen and whoever else might want one at the shelter. It was a sweet gesture, and quite honestly, made me feel like a loser for never thinking of doing it myself.
Gunnar is definitely a charmer. But my inner skeptic wonders if it’s a mask for something sinister. Or maybe that’s the company I keep. There are several of the Iron Wraiths who seem nice, but deep down, they’re just as horrid as the rest.
In my life experience, people always have their own agenda, and I wonder what Gunnar’s is.
Does he truly want to get to know me?
Or am I a game? Someone who turned him down and he can’t give up until he’s conquered me?
Well, that kind of ruins my buzz.
As I drive a little more, thoughts of Gunnar revolve through my mind, just like they always do lately. And there is one thing I know about him: he’s a man of his word. He said he wanted to take me on a date. He did. He told me he was going to come to the farmer’s market. He did. He volunteered to help with the benefit at the shelter, and according to our conversation this morning, he is doing just that.
We never finished discussing the details, but he told me he spoke with Helen last week and everything is in motion, happening sooner than I ever would’ve been able to pull it off. Whatever they’re planning is taking place in three weeks.
When I arrive at the shelter, I park my car in my usual spot and grab the box of donuts. Walking in, Helen is the first person I see.
“Good morning,” she says, her smile is unusually broad. “Have a nice weekend?”
I frown at the small talk. Helen and I don’t typically have a lot of small talk. We just get to work and get stuff done. Sure, we talk business when we need to, but neither of us require more than that.
“It was,” I tell her. The best weekend I’ve had in a long time, I think, but don’t say. That would lead to other details I don’t feel like sharing, namely Gunnar.
“Your friend called me last week,” she says, cracking the lid of the box and raising an eyebrow at the contents.
“From my friend,” I say with a shrug, testing out her label for Gunnar.
Helen’s brows go up in an unspoken question and I give her a roll of my eyes that says “don’t ask.”
“He’s a nice man.” Helen has never been one to reprimand me but she does let me know in her own way when she thinks I’m being too hard on someone or unreasonable. It’s in her tone, and I’m hearing it loud and clear. As not to harp on the subject, she changes direction. “I think he’s going to raise a lot of money for the shelter.”
Setting the box of donuts down on the table, I fold my arms across my chest. “What exactly did he suggest?”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes widening with something that resembles amusement with a hint of mischief. Helen might work in a church, but she’s no saint. “He didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head. “No, he didn’t. All he said was the two of you spoke and came up with a plan. Then he changed the subject.” Now that I think about it, he did get kind of tight-lipped when I asked, like he was avoiding telling me, but I wouldn’t know why. If it’s going to make money for the shelter, I’m all for it.