Page 11 of That Conflicted Feeling

Thefarmers who said they’d come are all stuck at home for some animal-birthing or equipment failure reason or other.Theflorist has a sick dog, the baker needs to help her kid with a homework emergency, and now the coffee twins have a bean-related catastrophe.

Thetown hall is set back from the road, behind benches and raised planters.Ilug the placards from the van two at a time and prop them up against the wall beside the entrance.Idon’t have enough arms to hold them all up, butIcan definitely make a good display.Andthey’re pretty eye-catching.MomandIpainted the words, andCarlyadded the illustrations.

Myfavorite is the cartoon face on the verge of vomiting above the slogan, “YellowBarnPutsTheGrossInGrocery.”

Ilock up the van.It’sten to six.Thecorporate monster will be here soon.

Shamethere’s only me here.I’dwanted this guy—I’massuming it’s a guy, it’s always a guy—to see how muchWarmSpringspeople value the personal touch of local businesses and that we’re not a bunch of small-town pushovers.

Igrab the vomit sign, and the one that says “CheapFood.ButAtWhatCost?” along withCarly’sdrawing of a giant boot crushing a tiny clapboard shop, and pace up and down in front of the row of the other placards.

Ishould have come up with a chant.Ifthe others were here, we’d definitely have a chant by now.

Ah, here we go.

Agleaming black car slows down and stops right in front of my bus.

Itlooks a bit familiar.Butwhy wouldIrecognize a flashy car?

Theback door opens.

Atall, dark-haired man in a suit tailored to perfectly fit his ridiculously well-proportioned body unfolds himself and steps out.

Oh, well, shit.

Shitit all.

Shitit all to high heaven.

Andback again.

Mystomach drops.Andflips.Andwobbles.Andadds a few somersaults in case that wasn’t enough acrobatics for one internal organ.

Ifit isn’tMr.Twinkleshimself.

Hedoes up the middle button of his jacket, pulls down his white shirt cuffs, and looks up toward the building.

Thenat me.

Ican almost see the glint in his eyes from here.

Hecasts a sideways glance at my bus.Oneside of his mouth curls up as he strides toward me.

Myplacard-holding arms have accidentally drooped to my sides.Ithrust them high in the air as he stops in front of me and smirks in a not unattractive way.

“Helloagain,Polly.”Heraises an eyebrow at my signs. “Itlooks like you’re protesting against something.”

Jesus, that face.

Iwaggle my placards at it. “Ithink it might be you.”

“Surelynot.I’mthe charming gentleman who unhooked you from your doorway.Myname’sMaxby the way.”

Heoffers me a hand to shake.Butthere’s no wayI’mputting down one of these signs.Ortouching him.

Helets it hang for a second before casually pushing it into his pants pocket. “Sorry, you seem to have your hands full.Whyon earth would you want to protest against me?”

Hismock-innocent face is particularly annoying.Butno less handsome.Whichis even more annoying.