Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

8. Marisa

CHAPTER 8

Marisa

DROPPED AS AN INFANT

D ays pass in a blur. I make some progress unpacking but leave most of my things boxed up, only taking out what I absolutely need. I’m supposed to start working for the Red Mountain Herald on Monday—one of my dad’s conditions until I can find a job— but right now, it feels like I’m in limbo. My dad has extended invitations for dinner and offered up his laundry room as a way to get me to come visit. Like a coward, I’ve lied and said I was busy. Now it’s Saturday, and the last thing I feel like doing is spending the day with him and his family.

His family. Not my family.

But if I spend one more day cooped up in this cottage, feeling sorry for myself and binge watching reality shows about strangers marrying each other, I’ll likely fuse to the couch.

I force myself to take a shower, a good, long everything shower. I put on makeup, something I haven’t done since I lost my job. My mom would probably have a stroke if she knew I’ve been living this way. Rosario Castilla would never be caught dead without a full face of makeup, perfectly curled hair, fresh manicure and pedicure, and just the right amount of jewelry. She raised me to be the same, but with age, I’ve stopped caring as much about what other people think of my appearance. Something I think she puts a little too much emphasis on.

However, I need to crawl out of this slump I’ve allowed myself to fall into before it completely swallows me. And the best way I know to do that is to fake it. I pick out a cute outfit and finish the look with some loose curls. Looking at myself in the mirror, I already feel slightly better. More me. More alive. And I did it purely for my own enjoyment and how it makes me feel, not for anyone else.

The drive to downtown is short, with little traffic, but once I get closer, parking lots are overflowing and cars line the streets. Main Street is blocked off, and I’m forced to park on a random residential street and walk.

The farmers market Jenn mentioned is a lot larger than I imagined. There are vendors showcasing everything—local sugar dot corn, homemade soaps and lotions, various foods on a stick, artisan candles, and an assortment of fresh fruits and vegetables. I weave through the crowd, overwhelmed, my eyes darting about like a squirrel, trying to take it all in at once. I could spend hours walking through, looking at each stand, and still not get to see everything.

Further along, the aroma of coffee wafts through the air, guiding me to a coffee shop adorably named Novel Teas and Coffee. Peeking through the windows, I can see it’s packed, but not more so than the coffee shop I used to frequent back home. Once inside, I’m met with a wall covered in opened books, the pages creating a 3D effect. As an avid reader, I can’t decide if it’s cool as shit or blasphemous. I’m the kind of reader who won’t even dog ear a book, let alone make a whole wall of pages begging to be ruined. It does contribute to the overall atmosphere of the shop, though, which is very Jane Austen, romantic with florals, full bookcases, and curated furniture, that feels like a step back in time. Even the menu is on theme, with drinks named The Author, Blank Page, and Typewriter. Naturally, I go with The Writer, espresso with brown sugar and cinnamon.

“Would you like to try one of our chocolate croissants? They just came out of the oven?” the bright-eyed girl, working the register asks me after I place my order.

I can’t say no to a fresh croissant. “Sure, I could use a chocolate pick me up.”

She smiles, looking pleased with her sale, and grabs a cup and a sharpie. “Name for the order?”

“Marisa.”

She scribbles my name across the cup and hands it off to a worker. While swiping my card, she asks, “Are you in town for a wine tour?”

“No, I’m visiting family. My dad.” I shouldn’t have specified. She doesn’t actually care. She’s only doing that thing that all baristas do, which is to make uncomfortable small talk while your order is being made.

She hands me back the card with a curious look on her face. “Oh, my gosh! You’re Marisa.”

I pause midway through returning the card back to my wallet. “Yes…I just said that.”

She laughs, but I’m not quite sure what’s so funny. “Sorry, what I mean is you’re Marisa, as in Marisa, Sadie’s stepsister. She’s one of my part-timers,” she explains.

Stepsister. That’s the first time I’ve been called that. And now I feel bad that I’ve only spoken to Sadie once.

She hands me over a baggie with the warm croissant. “I’m Ariana Ledger.”

It’s not a common last name, which means she’s likely related to Ethan. Maybe she’s a distant cousin?—

“I heard about my brother’s dog jumping you. He’s honestly such a sweet boy most of the time.”

Brother? It’s becoming more evident that Ethan is the bad seed of his family, because his dad and sister are perfectly nice and normal. He must’ve been dropped as an infant. There’s no other explanation.

I smile tightly, feeling a desperate itch to get away. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

If she senses my discomfort, she ignores it. “Nice meeting you, too.”

The line is long behind me, so I’m safely able to find a seat in a hidden corner while Ariana continues ringing up customers. My eyes nearly roll back in my head when I bite into the croissant. Shit, that’s good .

After devouring the croissant, I decide to stroll through town while I finish my coffee. If I had to guess, I would say Main Street is a mile long, if that. There are numerous tasting rooms and a variety of restaurants, more than I expected for such a small town. The cuisines range from a standard American-style diner, to a French bistro, a Thai restaurant, and a fancy looking brunch spot. There’s even a piano bar that I make a mental note to check out one of these days. Shops catering to tourists sell trinkets and clothing adorned with grapes and wine puns. There’s an art gallery advertising they will be hosting live music this evening. I’m pleasantly surprised there’s plenty of things to do and see in this small stretch.

By now, the farmers market is coming to a close and the vendors are packing up their stations and dismantling their tents. Traffic starts flowing down Main Street again, and parking spots fill up at the storefronts. I catch sight of a tall man wearing a baseball cap in the distance, loading a vendor tent on the bed of an old work truck. He stands out among the crowd due to his imposing height. Even from a distance, I can make out the defined muscles in his arms straining as he pulls down a rope, winding it around his shoulder and elbow. From the way he’s standing, I’ve only been able to get a side profile view, but I’d be willing to bet he’s easy on the eyes. Coffee and a show? Don’t mind if I do. I take claim to a street bench and get comfortable so I can enjoy the arm porn. I’m no better than a man sometimes.

He’s chatting with another vendor who’s loading up his respective tent. In the middle of his conversation, he turns his hat around so it sits backward—a move that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. It’s only after several minutes of gawking that I realize the man I’ve been staring at is Ethan. My coffee goes down the wrong pipe, forcing me to cough loudly, and the sound travels across the street, like I had intended it directly for him. We lock eyes, mine wide and flustered, his narrow and suspicious.

Shit.

Averting my gaze, I tip my chin down and practically jump off the bench. I think that’s enough exploring for today.