Well Met(40)

Chris pushed at one corner of the bookcase until it stood a little more at an angle away from the wall and nodded in satisfaction. “We can put the cookbooks and self-help back on this shelf, I think. Do you want to grab those?” As I went to retrieve the boxes she asked for, she raised her voice so it would carry to the other side of the shop. “Stacey’s a great girl. She’s fantastic in character, and she’s so good at mingling with guests and being part of the whole Faire atmosphere. But she’s less than fantastic at organization.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” I stacked two boxes on the metal dolly and wheeled them back to the empty bookcase.

“So I have a feeling she didn’t put it together that fewer wenches means short staff. Cookbooks on this side, self-help over there.” She took the top box off the dolly and started unloading books. “I’ll talk to someone this week. Maybe if they can move a few more volunteers over there, you’ll be able to breathe more easily.”

I wanted to make a breathing-in-a-corset joke, but I was too tired, and the offer made me too grateful. “That would be fantastic.” I stretched up onto tiptoe to place books, but even then I was too short to reach the top shelf. I needed a stool. “Anything that gets Simon off my back would be very much appreciated.”

Chris laughed from the other side of the bookcase. “Trouble in handfasted paradise already? I thought you two crazy kids were going to make a go of it.”

“Ha.” I slapped two more books onto the shelf. “He dislikes me as much as I dislike him.”

Chris hummed, a noncommittal sound. “I’m sure he doesn’t dislike you. He’s just . . .”

“An asshole?” But it was an automatic response. I was used to my knee-jerk reaction to Simon being irritation, but it had been a while since I’d truly felt that way about him.

The hum became a choked laugh. “Intense. Sometimes. Sean was the outgoing one, so Simon’s always been a little quieter. I’ve known him for most of his life, so I’m used to him. He wasn’t always this . . .”

“Intense?” I supplied her own word this time. She was right. That was a much better descriptor for Simon.

“Exactly. Especially when it comes to Faire. He’s so protective of it . . .”

“Because of his brother.” I finished the sentence for her.

“In any case,” Chris continued. “Simon can be an acquired taste. Like strong espresso.”

I liked strong espresso. It was dark. Rich. It exploded on your tongue and flooded your senses, waking everything up. Then I remembered Simon’s kiss, the staged one at the handfasting. Followed by the kiss on my hand, when his eyes had shared unspoken secrets with me. The thought of espresso mixed in my mind with Simon, and I wondered how he would taste against my tongue instead. What would a real kiss with him be like? Would his touch flood my senses? Could a buttoned-down guy like that overwhelm, overpower?

I suppressed a shiver and grabbed more books. But I blew out a long, slow breath as I stacked them, willing my body to calm down. My thoughts had gone in a completely inappropriate direction, and I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t have time to wonder about the Ren Faire Killjoy and what his kiss might taste like.



* * *



? ? ?

The next Saturday morning I rounded the corner to the tavern and stopped in my tracks.

Stacey stopped alongside me. “What the hell?”

What the hell, indeed. Instead of only Jamie as our red-shirt volunteer, we had two more. Three people in red shirts, setting up the bar and getting ready for the day. The tavern had gotten an upgrade.

“Chris.” A wave of relief washed over me as I said her name.

Stacey looked behind us, around us. “No, I don’t see her.”

“I mean Chris did this.” I gestured to the additional volunteers. “I told her this week how insane everything was, and she said you had a lot more wenches last year, and so we needed more volunteers to make up the difference.”

“Oh, yeaahhh.” Stacey drew out the last word for about five seconds. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“She said she’d talk to someone, and I guess she did!” By this time we’d remembered to keep walking and made it the rest of the way to the tavern, stowing our baskets and introducing ourselves to our new staff.

Staff. We had staff. The idea was so delicious I didn’t know what to do.

“Where do you want us?” One of our new volunteers, Janet, was all smiles, the stereotypical soccer-mom type with a blond ponytail anchored by a baseball cap. I could tell by looking at her that she made cupcakes for her kids’ class and was damn good at it. And now she was ready to be damn good at serving beer to semidrunken Renaissance faire guests too.

“Well . . .” I cast a quick eye over the whole setup, remembering how busy we’d gotten, and where the logjams had happened. It didn’t take long for me to assign everyone to duties that would streamline everything, keeping Stacey and me front and center, maybe even out from behind the bar if all went to plan. If anyone had a problem with me taking charge, no one said anything. In fact, Stacey looked relieved that I’d put a plan into place. After what Chris had said about Stacey not being too organized I felt bad for her. Since she’d been guiding me all this time, choosing my outfit and educating me in all things Faire, I’d assumed she was in charge. But that wasn’t her personality. That wasn’t the kind of person she was.