“Really?” I ask. “I didn’t think she even knew my name.”
Gunnar laughs. “Are you sure you’re from here?” he asks. “Everyone in Green Valley knows everything about, well, everyone.”
“I’m not really from Green Valley,” I tell him, before I even have a chance to think better of it. “My mother and I lived in Maryville most of the time I was growing up. Then, I moved to Knoxville for college. I moved here a few years ago, after I graduated and got a job at the hospital in Maryville.”
“Why not live in Maryville?” His questions are kind of rapid fire and I find myself offering up all the information, telling Gunnar anything he asks.
“My mother lives outside of town and I need to be close enough to check in on her.”
“Is she sick?”
“No, a recluse.”
Next.
Gunnar’s eyes squint, but there’s no judgment there, just curiosity. “Hmm. So, she never leaves her house?”
“Nope.”
“Like, ever?”
“Never.”
He nods and finishes the last bite of his blueberry donut. After he finishes chewing and takes a sip of his coffee, he continues. “So, what do you do at the farmer's market? Isn’t that typically for farmers?”
I laugh, shaking my head at his assumption. “Farmers, gardeners, homemakers, artisans . . . if you have goods or services to offer, you can set up a booth.”
“And what goods or services do you offer?” he asks with a quirk of an eyebrow.
“My mother’s.”
“The recluse?”
Biting back a smile, I nod. “Yeah, she makes beeswax candles and honey, and seasonal jellies and jams. Occasionally, she throws in some pickled vegetables. Basically, whatever is in season.”
“I’m definitely going to have to check out this farmer's market,” he says with all seriousness. “Sounds like it might be the most happening thing in Green Valley.”
“No, that’d be the jam session on Friday nights.”
Gunnar’s deep, throaty laugh fills the diner and I’m entranced by him once again. “How did I know you were going to say something like that?” he finally asks, shaking his head.
“What about you?” I ask, wanting to turn the tables for a while and get the attention off me. But more than that, I want to know more about him. “Where are you from? What do you normally do for fun?”
It dawns on me, I already know what he does for fun and I don’t like the answer, so I’m hoping he says something else I don’t know. I’m enjoying this date too much to have it ruined by the reminder that Gunnar is a fighter.
“Well,” he says, picking at a few crumbs on his napkin. “I’m from Dallas.”
“Big city,” I comment, trying to decide if that fits the picture of Gunnar I’ve been painting in my mind. There are a lot of things about him that seem very urban, like he’s not from around here. He has a bigger-than-life air about him, so I guess it fits.
He smiles and nods. “I guess so.”
“And for fun?” I prompt.
Gunnar shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “Concerts, hanging out with my friends. I just graduated from college back in the spring, so I haven’t had a lot of free time yet.”
“What kind of music do you like?” I ask, glancing at the lone jelly donut sitting on the table.
“A little bit of everything. As long as it has a good beat and good lyrics, I’m a fan.”
I smile, because that’s the same answer I would’ve given. “Me too.”
Gunnar gives me that smile I claimed for my own again and it makes my insides melt a little.
“Wanna split this?” I ask, pointing a plastic knife at the donut. “You have to try the jelly-filled. They’re the best.”
I cut the donut down the middle and pick up half, handing it to Gunnar. When our fingers brush, along with the transfer of fluffy, flaky goodness is a zip of electricity. Kind of like during the winter, when it’s cold and the air is dry and charged and you touch someone, shocking them. Except this didn’t hurt, just caught me off guard, and from the look on Gunnar’s face, he felt it too. The zing traveled through my fingers, up my arm, and all the way to the pit of my stomach, working itself into a ball of unfamiliar desire.
Gunnar immediately takes a large bite of the donut, distracting me with his fervor. I know the second the jelly hits his tongue because his eyes roll and he groans. “Oh, my God,” he declares, looking down at the pastry like he’s holding the holy grail. “I had no idea.”
“I know, right?” I chime in, taking what feels like a decadent bite. I never eat more than one donut. Only one. And since I take it to-go, there’s never a chance of having another. Except for today. I guess it’s a day full of firsts. “You wanna know something else?” I ask, feeling brave and euphoric. Maybe it’s the extra sugar rushing through my veins, or maybe it’s the beefcake with the sea glass eyes sitting across from me, seductively licking jelly off his lip as he inhales the last bite of donut, but when he lifts his brows, encouraging me to continue, I blurt out, “I’ve never been on a date before.”
Gunnar’s hand pauses in midair and his eyes search mine. “Never?”
Shaking my head, I take another bite, filling my mouth so I won’t have to talk. Why did I say that? I doubt it makes me more appealing or bodes well for my likeability. How can a twenty-five-year-old go her entire life without being on a date? The only logical answer is that she's not dating material, which would be true—but only because I’ve chosen not to be.
“Well, I’ve never had a jelly-filled donut,” Gunnar says, like our two confessions are equal. “I’ve also never been to a farmer's market . . . or a jam session.”
Smiling, I swallow the bite I’ve been working on and wrap my hands around my still-warm mug of coffee.
“Hey, Frankie,” he says, drawing my attention back up to him. As he leans across the table, his hands coming dangerously close to mine, I hold my breath, waiting for whatever he’s going to say. “Thanks for letting me take you on your first date.”
The sincerity in his statement is so thick, I have to take a deep breath and let it wash over me. That warmth I felt thawing my insides earlier kicks up a notch.
Acceptance is a funny thing. Sometimes, I don’t even think we realize how much we want it, or need it, until we get it.
Gunnar’s acceptance of my truths I’ve entrusted to him mean more than I’ll probably ever admit.
I want to tell him I’m glad he was my first . . . date, that is.
“What do you do after you eat a donut and get a coffee?” he asks and it takes me a second to realize what he means because I’m so caught up in him.
Clearing my throat, I try to sound unaffected as I answer, “I volunteer at a women’s shelter in Maryville on Wednesdays and Fridays.” Taking the last sip of my coffee, I glance up at the wall, noting that according to the clock hanging there it’s now seven thirty. “Actually, I should probably be heading that way.”
“Already?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “What time do you have to be there?”
“No specific time, really, but we’re having a meeting today about some fundraising possibilities and it’s kind of out of my wheelhouse, so I need to do a little research beforehand.”
“I can help,” he offers, catching me off guard.
I pause, waiting for him to say he’s just kidding, but he doesn’t, and instead, levels me with his serious gaze. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have a degree in marketing or anything, but I’ve been around my brothers long enough to pick up on a few things. We’ve done quite a bit of fundraising at the gym in Dallas. I’d love to try to help.”
My shoulders sag in relief. I didn’t realize how much this has been stressing me out until the thought of someone taking it off my plate makes me feel like I can breathe easier.
Give me patients with gaping wounds.
Give me people to help.
Give me chores to do.
&nbs
p; But don’t give me numbers and money.
I’m good with my own budget, but dealing with someone else’s gives me hives.
“Helen, the coordinator at the shelter . . . well, she runs the place, but that’s her title. She’s everything… CEO, CFO, President, Vice-President, Treasurer . . . you name it, she’s it—”
“What do you do?”
“I check people in, give them an initial exam, treat non-critical wounds . . .”
Gunnar listens thoughtfully, adding, “What you do best.”
“Yes,” I tell him, feeling that warmth spread through my chest. “I guess so.”
“So, what does Helen need help with?”
I sigh, thinking back over our recent conversations. “The funding for the shelter has decreased over the past few years. It’s privately funded and a few of the people who’ve always made large contributions have either fallen on hard times themselves or passed away. We need new donors, but more importantly, we need to recover the money missing from our budget for the year. If we don’t, Helen will be forced to decrease the amount of people we can accept on a weekly basis. It’s the only way to cut costs.”
“So you need quick money . . .” he says, still thinking.
I didn’t expect him to be so . . . I don’t know—easy to talk to? I stare at him for a second, having a moment. How did I, Frankie Reeves, end up sitting across the table from this guy? And am I really going to let him help? When I met him in the ER a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d never see him again.
He’s different. Different from any other guy I’ve ever met, and different from who I thought he was. It’s hard for me to rationalize the nice, normal, thoughtful guy sitting across from me with the violent, testosterone-driven fighter I’d built him up as in my mind.
He’s not fitting into one compartment and that’s hard for someone like me.
“Helen used to do benefit dinners and things like that, but those—”
“Are old news,” he says, cutting me off. “People need something more exciting, more eye-catching.”
Sighing, I lean my elbows on the table. “Basically,” I tell him. “I’ve tried to think of something, but I don’t have a lot of free time to sit around and brainstorm.”
“Let me,” he insists. “I’d love to help.”
“But aren’t you busy… training, or whatever?” I ask.
Gunnar shrugs. “Yeah, but I’m not doing it twenty-four hours a day, even though Cage would like me to.” He smirks and I think back to meeting the two of them in the ER and how Cage worried over Gunnar with every stitch. He was worse than an old mother hen. It was kind of humorous seeing a big, burly guy like him pace the floor over his little brother, who isn’t little, in any sense of the word.
“Okay, then,” I agree. Digging into my bag, I find one of the business cards I keep on hand and pass it over to Gunnar. “This is Helen’s information. I’ll tell her today to expect a call from you.”
Chapter 7
Gunnar
“So, let me get this straight,” Cage says, standing in the middle of the open kitchen as I fill two to-go cups with coffee. “You’re going to the farmer's market?” He says it like I just told him I’m going to Timbuktu.
“Yes,” I confirm, making sure the lids are on tight. The last thing I need is hot coffee spilling all over me before I can even get it to Frankie. I thought about stopping for more of those amazing jelly-filled donuts, but I decided it’s better to leave those for Wednesday mornings.
Yes, I plan on meeting Frankie at Daisy’s Nut House every Wednesday morning.
I’ve thought about driving to Maryville every other day and meeting her at the hospital for lunch or dinner . . . or maybe a midnight snack or whatever she’ll give me, because I’m feeling a little deprived. How did I go my whole life without knowing her?
Now that our paths have crossed, I feel like I have a lot of time to make up for.
“Wait,” Tempest says, jogging into the kitchen. “Did you say you’re going to the farmer's market?”
Now, Cage is looking at her like she’s crazy too.
“What the fuck is up with the farmer's market?” he asks. “Is it code for something?”
Tempest laughs, shaking her head and blowing him off. The way she looks at him—like he’s the best thing since sliced bread, even when he’s being a grumpy dick—is nauseating. “If you’re really going, can I make you a list?”
“Sure,” I tell her. If Cage thinks I’m doing something for Tempest, he’ll stay off my case about being back anytime soon. When it comes to her, he’d rearrange the periodic table, if need be. “But I’m leaving in five.”
She goes to one of the drawers and pulls out a pen and paper. “I’d go with you, but I have to be back at the bakery in just a few minutes. But if you could get me some of Ms. Reeves’ honey, that’d be great.”
“That’s Frankie’s mom,” I tell her, wondering if Tempest knows anything about her.
“Really?” she asks, her head popping up. “I’ve never met her. Jenn usually picks up the things I need since I hardly ever get a chance to go.”
“Apparently, she’s never there either. Frankie picks up whatever she makes and brings it into town and sells it for her.”
Tempest frowns, turning her attention back to her list. I could say more and I know she wouldn’t judge Frankie or her mom about anything I tell her, but I decide not to. What is said between me and Frankie isn’t anyone else’s business, not even Tempest’s. I already feel protective of her and even the simple conversation we’ve shared feels personal, because I don’t think Frankie gives anyone much of herself. So, I plan on cherishing any little bit she’s willing to give me.
“Well, tell Frankie to tell her mom I’d love more of the mint honey she made last year,” Tempest adds. “I used it in some mint chocolate muffins and they were to die for.”
“Mint honey?” Cage and I share a look, but it’s not doubt. We know anything Tempest makes is to die for. Well, Cage knows more about her muffins than me . . . You know what? Never mind.
Thankfully, Tempest gives me her list and I shove it in my pocket, gathering the coffees and heading out the door. I really need a day out of the gym and away from the two of them. Have I mentioned I need my own place? Tempest mentioned the apartment she used to live in down the block is available. I have a little money in savings, and Cage is going to start paying me for teaching a few classes at night.
As soon as I have my first fight, I won’t have to worry about it.
The few contracts Cage has received have me being paid, win or lose. That’s the benefit of having my brother represent me, and of that brother being Cage Erickson. He knows it all and can do it all. There’s also a lot of power packed in his name. Well, the Erickson name in general, but especially his.
Which is why I’m going to be able to pull off this last-minute benefit for the women’s shelter where Frankie volunteers. After our date on Wednesday, I called Helen and she was on-board with my idea. When I hung up with her, I ran it by Cage, who got our brother Vali in on it, and in less than twenty-four hours, a Fight Night benefiting the Women’s Shelter of Maryville was born.
Cage agreed it’s going to be a great way to promote Viking MMA studio, effectively putting his name on the map locally. Vali thinks it’ll also be great for me, since he and Cage are in charge of filling the ticket, they can make sure I’m fighting someone who’ll give me a good fight but who I have a chance of beating. And it’ll be the main event. Twenty-five percent of ticket sales will go to the shelter.
The venue we found in Maryville holds about twenty-five hundred people.
With the Erickson name attached, we should be able to pack it out.
At seventy-five dollars a ticket, which isn’t bad for a benefit fight, we’ll bring in around a hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. It seems like a lot, but when you consider the costs of renting the venue, security, set-up, and tear-down, it’s not. It won’t leave much of a profit, but
it will leave a good forty-five thousand dollars for the shelter—about ten thousand more than they need.
Helen was a little overwhelmed with the numbers, but quickly agreed to the plan. I told her the extra money could be put toward a special event or held over for operating expenses for next year.
Who knows? Maybe this will become a yearly event for Viking MMA and the shelter.
As I approach the community center, I quickly realize the farmer's market is more popular than I’d thought. Cars line the sides of the road leading up to the parking lot where the vendors are set up, and I have to squeeze between two minivans. One has a sticker in the back window that says, “Baby on Board.” The other one has a sticker that says, “If this van’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.”
Alrighty, then.
Still smiling, I cross the street with a coffee in each hand and Tempest’s list in my back pocket.
It’s a bright, sunny morning in Green Valley. The air is fresh. The sky is blue. And there’s a pair of deep brown eyes checking me out as I walk up to a table filled with jars of honey and jams.
“Good morning,” I say, squinting against the sun as I drink in the sight of Frankie.
She’s got the cutest nose I’ve ever seen and it’s kind of scrunched up as she cocks her head, hand going up to her brows. “What are you doing here?”
Looking behind me, I chuckle as I turn back around. “Well, according to the flyer at the Piggly Wiggly, this is the best place to find fresh produce, eggs, handmade soaps, and candles. And honey,” I inform her, placing one of the coffees on the table in front of her.
“You brought me coffee?” she asks, her eyes flitting from me to the coffee and then back to me.
I smile, knowing I’ve earned myself a little bonus with the coffee. Score one for Gunnar Elias Erickson. And the crowd goes wild. Okay, that might be taking it a little too far. She accepted a cup of coffee from me, not a marriage proposal.
Whoa. Slow down there, buddy. We haven’t even had a kiss yet.
Beef Cake (Donner Bakery Book 4) Page 6