Coming Up Daffy (2 page)

 

 

Mark pulled up at
Francesville Bait and Tackle
ten minutes later, but even though he'd gotten there right at opening, a customer had beat him to it. A woman with a long, blonde ponytail sat on the sun-bleached bench outside the building. She stared at him as he exited his truck with his travel mug of coffee and kept on staring while he walked up the gravel drive and followed the wooden walkway until he reached the bench.

“Morning. Are you here for bait?” He tried to ignore the way his ears heated.
Of course she's here for bait, dummy. It's not like I'm running a bakery.

“Worms.” When she stood, the streaks of dirt and smudges of grass were more apparent on her jeans.

Recognition sparked his memory. “You're Daffy… er, I mean Alice Attler, right?” Way to make a first impression by calling her that stupid teasing nickname. Mark fumbled with the lock, juggling his key ring and coffee mug, and finally the key turned. He pushed open the door, used a foot to hold it still before pulling the key free. The bells hanging on the doorknob tinkled into the silence. “Come on in.”

“Thanks, and yeah, I'm Alice.” She came into the store while Mark retreated behind the scarred wooden counter. “I'm in need of earthworms.”

Mark set down his travel mug and then turned on the ancient cash register. “Are you going fishing later?”

“No.” She wandered around the small shop, stopping before each aquarium, presumably to inspect the various varieties of crickets, night crawlers, live fish, and everything else an avid fisherman or fisherwoman might enjoy.

By the time she wandered through the displays of brightly colored fishing lures, bobbers, hooks, lines, and fishing poles, the register had finished its start-up process. He watched her while he unlocked the display counter behind the register — not that anyone would try and steal electronic fish detectors or heavy duty flashlights. It was just something to do, plus it gave him something to do with his hands. For whatever reason, he felt awkward with Alice in the store. Her petite height — probably not more than five foot, three inches — made him feel gangly. It wasn't often he had female customers.

“Uh, you might want to tell me what you need the worms for so I can figure out what species would be best.” The constant chirp from the crickets provided background noise for the heavy silence. Why was it so hard to talk to her? He'd seen her around town a few times, and since she was the florist and chief gardener for Francesville, she and her work always showed up everywhere in some fashion.

Alice turned and headed toward the counter. “Oh, I need them to aerate a flowerbed. I think that's why Mel's daffodils didn't bloom this year.”

“Gotcha.” Mark couldn't remember who Mel was when all he could concentrate on was the sway of Alice's hips and the bounce of her curly, blonde ponytail. He cleared his throat. “Indiana soil tends to have clay in it. I suggest Alabama Jumpers. They're the best worms for any soil, no matter if it's sandy or clay heavy.”

“Okay.” She propped an elbow on his counter and tapped dirt-stained fingernails on the wood. “Anything else?”

He couldn't take his gaze from her hands. She had such pretty, shapely fingers. “Well, you can get red worms if you don't want the Jumpers. Depending on what you want out of the soil, the reds will aerate and fertilize, plus let the water get down into the soil real good from their burrows.” At the last second, he stopped himself from rolling his eyes. The first chance he'd had to talk to a nice-looking woman and he could do nothing except babble about worms.

“Give me twenty-five Jumpers and fifty reds. It's a fairly large flowerbed. Runs the length of Mel's house.” She met his gaze and her blue eyes twinkled. “Plus, I have to assume some will escape.”

“Will do.” On the top of her head, marring the golden strands of her hair was a big dollop of bird poop. “Are you aware you've been pooped on by a bird?”

“What?” She patted around her head, and when her fingers came away smeared with the avian defecation, she stared at the mess as if mystified. “Sweet fancy Moses. I wonder how long ago that happened. Must have been right after I took off my hat.”

A chuckle escaped him at her form of exclamation. He'd never heard anyone say that before. When she shot him an annoyed glance, he shook his head. “I'm not laughing at your bird situation, just at your saying.”

“Oh.” She touched her head with her other hand then held both the dirty appendages out with a frown. “I picked it up from an old uncle back from my childhood. I guess it stuck.”

Mark grabbed an old rag from beneath the counter and handed it to her. “Here. You can wash your hands in the back room if you want. I need to package your worms anyway.” Even mopping at bird poop, she was easily the cutest woman he'd ever seen. Her eyes were so crystalline blueberry-blue they were like jewels, and combined with a kissable mouth, the curly hair and a curvy figure, she had him seconds from having a meltdown of cartoon character proportions.

“That would be great.” When she flashed a thousand-watt smile, Mark swore he heard angels sing.

Good grief, I need to get a grip.
He gestured behind him. “It's crowded back there so just be careful.” As he moved to open the door for her and she passed into the room, he caught a floral scent. Was it her perfume or did her working with flowers make her smell so nice? His conscience prodded him to find out more. “How long have you lived in Francesville?”

“Long enough to know it's almost too small, but it's got enough heart I'm not looking to leave.” She turned on the water then lathered up.

Mark glanced around the storeroom-slash-office-slash-workroom before remembering he needed to package her requested worms. Grabbing a couple of foam, quart-sized containers, he said, “Yeah, me too.”

“You like it here?” She peered into the small mirror above the sink while scrubbing at her hair with a damp paper towel.

“It's okay. I run this shop with my grandma, but sometimes I think I want… more out of life.” Why in the world would he just blurt out something like that? He didn't know her.

“In what? Your job, your life?”

He shrugged. “Maybe both. My brother, Matthew, got married recently and now I'm being more or less forced out of my home so the newlyweds can set up housekeeping.” He lifted the lid on a large, dark-sided container and used a plastic scoop to measure out the required amount of red worms. He'd done the same thing so often he knew approximately how many worms each scoop would net. Once the scoop came away with a writhing mass of dirt-covered worms, he dropped the contents into a container then repeated the steps for the second.

“I heard about his whirlwind romance. Something about a kissing booth, right?” Alice continued to scrub at her hair but watched him in the mirror.

“Yeah.” Mark popped lids on both containers. “So, if you know of anyone renting a place, let me know. Maybe living in town would be a good change of pace.”
Of course, Grandma will throw a hissy fit.
“If there's nothing, I'll have to try my luck in Indianapolis, which means I'd need to give up the bait shop.”
For which Grandma will also throw a hissy fit.

“I'll ask around.”

He nodded and crossed to a larger container. Inside, he removed a small box, already containing the required number of Jumpers. These guys came pre-packaged and were a bestseller. “I don't really want to move, but it's necessary. Plus, the bait gig, while interesting, isn't what I want to do forever.”
Great, just great, I'm rambling.

Finally, Alice dried her hands on another paper towel, dropped everything in a nearby waste basket then turned to face him. She rested her backside against the sink. “What do you want to be in life?”

“A hero.” When he realized he'd said that aloud, heat rushed up the back of his neck and into his ears. “I mean, I want to do something heroic, maybe help people. I don't know. Maybe I'll just always be the bait guy.”

“There are worse things.” She treated him to another grin. “I'm a fan of superheroes, myself. Of course, I have my favorites and can't say whether I like the ones who fly or have some other power.”

Mark gaped at her while she kept on talking about the various superheroes she admired and the ones she didn't. Then she launched into a whole thing about penguins — the animal — and their eating habits. Her penchant for changing into barely related subjects left him breathless. When she theorized about penguin mating rituals, he grabbed onto the opening. “So, what's your story? Are you dating anyone?” He hadn't seen a ring on her finger.

Her eyes went wide and her kissable lips formed a soft “o” of surprise. “Um, no, I'm not attached.”

An awkward silence sprang up between them. She didn't elaborate on her statement, and Mark's tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. His pulse thundered through his veins, while heat seeped into every inch of his body. He mentally berated himself for not having the gift of gab — him, the guy who teased his short-on-words brother for not liking to converse on anything. “Well,” he cleared his throat then thrust the containers and box of worms into her hands. “Here ya go.”

Way to go, Mark, you big freak show.
He shot out of the storeroom and breathed a sigh of relief once he was safely behind his cash register. By the time Alice had followed him out and put the counter between them, his heart rate had settled into normal. “That'll be twenty bucks.”

“Thanks.” She dug a twenty from the front pocket of her jeans and handed it over.

He grabbed the very edge of the bill to avoid touching her hand. If he had such a reaction to her just by talking, he didn't want to know what would happen if they had contact. Well, he did, but he didn't want to look like a bigger dork than he probably already was. “I guess I'll see you around town, huh? If you need more worms, you know where to find me.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” She rolled her eyes as she hefted her purchases and left the shop.

After she drove away, Mark slapped a palm against the counter.
I can't believe I'm such a chicken I didn't ask her out.
No guy ever became a hero by letting a pretty girl get the better of him. He might seem outwardly confident and had made use of joking around in the past to cover his shy attitude, but in reality, when it came to actually interacting with women — especially women he really liked — he had no clue about what to say or do. It sucked at his veneer of confident bravado and left him trembling like a teen at his first prom.

Where does a guy go to get an injection of bravery?