Page 43 of Middle Ground

I nod. “I am, thank you. That sounds perfect. I’ll join you.”

“Great,” she mumbles under her breath, but the fact that she doesn’t argue is a win in my book.

Hands in my pockets, I scan the stalls full of fruits and vegetables and various kinds of jam as we walk. She doesn’t talk, and neither do I, my mind too caught up in thinking about that damn spray paint.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Meyer looking at me. It takes another minute before she steps in my path, stopping me in my tracks.

“Okay, Hotshot,” she says, “if you're going to insist on following me around, you need to lose the murderous look. You’re scaring the children.”

I turn my unintentional scowl on Meyer. “I don’t look murderous.”

She crosses her arms. “Could have fooled me.”

I sigh, making a point to loosen my jaw and roll my shoulders. “Aren’t you angry?”

“About what? The artisanal soaps? Hardly something to get your panties in a twist over.”

“The spray paint,” I reply, as if it should be obvious. “Doesn’t it bug you?”

The siding has already been fixed. If you didn’t know what had happened, you wouldn’t guess that there had been an issue. But we know.Iknow, and that knowledge has tainted everything, even weeks later.

“Of course it bugs me.” Meyer shrugs. “I’ll never forgive Reggie for doing that. But dwelling on it won’t get me anywhere.”

My brows jump in mild shock. “That’s a surprising response from a woman who seems predisposed to holding grudges.”

“You know what they say about making assumptions,” she counters. “Maybe I’m just predisposed to holding grudges againstyou.”

I let a smirk cross my lips. “So you admit that you think I’m special.”

She rolls her eyes, and a spark of something like desire shoots through my chest. “What are you doing here anyway?” she asks, redirecting the conversation. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”

My smirk turns into a grin. “Doing what you said.” I gesture to the market. “Furthering my quest to get to know the town you think I’m out to destroy.”

Meyer’s nose turns up as she saunters away. “If the shoe fits,Hotshot.”

“Or maybe you’re just making the shoe fit,” I argue as I match her pace. “But I’m not wearing it.”

“Okay, we can drop the shoe analogy. It’s getting old.”

“You started it.”

“And now you sound like a child.”

I laugh, which elicits another eye roll from her. I haven’t gone a day without receiving one of those. I think I’d miss them if I did.

I let the conversation drop, and we walk in silence through the market. Despite what Meyer thinks, I do appreciate the town and what it has to offer. I’ve come to enjoy my early morning trips to the café and the quirky town gossip I hear while I wait for my order. It’s a far cry from the fast-paced life I used to live in the city.

As we walk, random people stop and say hello to Meyer. Which means I’ve had to introduce myself no less than a dozen times. I don’t mind it, though. It’s nice to put names to some of the faces I’ve seen in town or at the restaurant. Even if they all grow wary as soon as they find out who I am.

If the glares from before weren’t an indication, this only solidifies the fact that Meyer’s dislike of me has spread through Fraisier Creek like a wildfire.

So far, neither one of us has bought anything, but I slow when Meyer does. She pauses at a table full of handmade jewellery. There are necklaces, bracelets and earrings, and all the charms are made of clay.

“These are so cute,” Meyer says, almost to herself. She points to a pair of earrings in the shape of strawberries. They look similar to her tattoo. “I’ll take them.”

The woman behind the table smiles and begins to tuck the earrings into a box. Meyer fishes in her wallet for the cash.

“Thank you,” the woman says as she hands over the box.