Hilary Fields - Bliss

After that, the plans went smoothly. Less than a half hour later, they were rolling up their drawings and Sera had sealed up Big Mama for the trip to her temporary storage at Pauline’s. She felt fairly confident she’d gotten her ideas across to the irascible Scot, and Asher appeared on board. Her heart lifted and a thrill of excitement raised goose bumps on her skin. It’s really starting to happen, she thought. Her heart did a happy dance.

“So what’s next?” she asked, stuffing her notes back in the messenger bag that served as her purse.

“What’s next is ye make yourself scarce, ” Malcolm said, already turning back to his graph paper and pencil stub, measuring tape in one hand.

“Excuse me?”

“Ye heard me. Get out. Come back in six weeks, and I’ll have something to show ye.” He scratched his thick mane of hair with the blunt end of the pencil stub. “More’n like, I’ll have finished the whole works by then. But don’t ye be bothering me before then.”

Sera stiffened. “You want me to leave.”

“Ye slow, lass? Be gone. Vamoose. Take a hike. Literally. Yer surrounded by mountains and trails here, so why don’t ye get lost along some of them, and find yer way back here ’round the first week of November, like. I won’t have ye hovering over me like a hen with only one egg the whole time I’m working in here. I don’t work well around persnickety women.”

Persnickety? Sera thought. Is he kidding with that shit? “And I should—what, just leave the store to your tender mercies during that time?”

“Something like that, aye.” Seeing her ire, Malcolm sighed. “Look, lass. Ye just got to our fair city a wee bit ago. Ye probably haven’t had much time to sniff around; get to know what she’s all about. But ye need to understand this place to become a part of it. Ye need to feel it in yer bones and yer heart. Ye can’t do that while yer breathing plaster dust and getting in my way.”

“Wow, that was… unexpectedly poetic, McLeod,” Sera said with a grudging grin. “But I’m guessing you’re a lot more concerned about me being underfoot than fearful for my spiritual welfare.”

“Believe as ye will,” Malcolm grumbled. “Just don’t be blundering about whilst I’m working.”

“And you?” Sera asked, looking over at her landlord. He stood slightly to the side, with his arms crossed over his chest, making his knit shirt pull indecently across his corded arms and pecs. “What do you think about all this?”

“I think Malcolm has a point, actually,” Asher said mildly. “This may be your best chance to acquaint yourself with your new home before you become too busy to take advantage of its offerings. Besides, there’s little you can do to help with the renovations, Bliss—unless you’re adept with power tools or drywall?”

Sera had to admit she wasn’t.

“Then I suggest you go explore our fair city. I’ll happily keep an eye on our contractor friend, since I’m just next door. And of course, I’m sure you’ll be stopping in frequently to check on Malcolm’s progress. Malcolm, surely you have no objection to that?”

“I suppose not,” he grumbled. “So long as the lass ain’t planning on telling me how to install my own ovens.”

Sera stopped to consider. She’d pictured herself wading knee-deep in the renovations, maybe wielding a hammer or painting walls—at the very least, supervising the contractor and his assistants daily. But she had to admit, she’d probably be more in the way than helpful, considering her utter incompetence with power tools. Maybe her pie Nazi did have a point. Maybe she could afford to take a small step back here, just for a little while. Once the bakery opened, Sera would be on her feet night and day, baking and serving from 4 a.m. ’til 4 p.m., then handling shop business until she collapsed. She was more than willing to put in the hours to make her dream come true. But Malcolm was right. She knew less than nothing about drywall, nail guns, and electrical engineering. If she hovered over the construction like a hen with just one chick, she’d only get in the way. For sure, she didn’t intend to traipse off on a Caribbean cruise for the next month and a half while her half-crazed contractor bashed down walls willy-nilly, but he was right—better take advantage of this last hurrah to see some sights and get to know her new home.

“You’ll really help me keep this wild man on a short leash?” she asked Asher.

“I will—if you’ll promise to take his advice and go explore Santa Fe while you have the chance.” He drifted closer, until Sera could smell a hint of that special Asher scent—clean cotton, hot metal, and man, man, man. “Perhaps you’ll let me show you some of my favorite spots,” he offered. “It would be my pleasure, Bliss.”

Sera’s face warmed. Oh, she’d like to explore some of Asher’s favorite spots, that was for sure. And maybe she could introduce him to a few of her own…

Focus, fool, she told herself sternly. You’re here to start your life over, not blow it all to hell again over a guy who’d be way out of your league even if you didn’t have that pesky no-O problem.

Sera slung her messenger bag more securely across her body and hoisted Big Mama onto her hip. She turned away from the men, heading for the door.

“I’m gonna need some wheels,” was what she said.

There are times in life, Pauline, when a woman just needs a man.”

Hortencia had been arguing as much to her lover for the last twenty minutes. It wasn’t going over well. If they hadn’t had an audience, as a matter of fact, Sera feared it might have come to blows. Fortunately, they were at Hortencia’s place of business, and even Pauline had enough decorum to keep her outrage at a simmer within the hushed confines of the yarn shop.

As Hortencia and Pauline bickered, Sera busied herself examining a ball of something that looked remarkably like one of the Tribbles from Star Trek . Orange, fluffy, and incredibly soft, the mohair puffball perched on the top of Hortencia’s counter among dozens of its friends in a rainbow array of colors. She wondered if it would start cooing if she petted it, as she was tempted to do. All around her, similar poofs in all shapes and sizes crowded bins and shelves, threatening to tumble forth in an avalanche of crafty softness.

Hortencia was one of three employees at Knit-Fit, all comfortable-looking women in the fifty-plus age bracket who took their art with deadly seriousness. Today, Hortencia was sporting one of her own creations: a cable-knit Aran sweater of astonishingly intricate design in a soft salmon shade Sera wouldn’t personally have chosen. She also had a little crocheted flower brooch in a slightly rosier hue pinned to her bosom, and her homemade socks, peeking out of her sage green Merrell mules, were an alpaca blend in complementary tea rose ripples. She looked utterly at home in the shop.

She also looked pretty pissed off.

“We need a man,” she was insisting to Pauline. “I’ve been buying my family’s cars for decades, and I’m telling you, you get a better deal if you go with a caballero. ”

“I am physically nauseated that you would suggest such a thing, Hortencia Alvarez.” Pauline made a gagging sound, grabbing up a ball of yarn and squeezing the fiber until it bulged out between her fingers. “What did our sisters march for, what did we sacrifice and fight for all these years if, here and now in the twenty-first century, we’re still depending on men to do our haggling?”

“Which do you think Sera cares more about? Her principles or her bank balance?” Hortencia shot back.