Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (12 page)

She thought of Thor and Andrea, and realized Rainer asked the impossible. Carefully, she moved toward the door, away from the warmth of his arms. “That’s the problem. I don’t trust you.” His face darkened in anger and she shivered. She had choices to make that didn’t allow her to consider his feelings. She couldn’t even take her own into consideration.

She stared at him. “I won’t play games with you anymore,” she announced. “No more challenges or battles or Norse myths and legends. I want you to leave Cornucopia alone. I want you to leave my uncle alone. But most of all, I want you to leave me alone.”

He didn’t say a word. There were no words left to be said. She opened the car door and escaped, slamming it closed. Only then did she realize she’d left a chunk of her heart in his keeping.

L
ate that night, she walked through the store, restless and filled with an uncharacteristic dread. She glanced around. How would her battle with the Thorsens change things? And what would happen to Cornucopia and Uncle Cletus should she misjudge any phase of this battle? She touched her double-sided nickels. It would take more than a coin trick to beat the Thorsens.

Thor, even more than Rainer, would be a merciless adversary, mainly because he didn’t care about her or Uncle Cletus or, for that matter, Cornucopia. Though why she believed Rainer did she couldn’t say, especially when she suspected his motives for kissing her.

She paused in front of the pictures of her parents and stared at their smiling faces. She’d tried so hard to assume their role. What would they have done in her place? How would they have tackled the Thorsens? Would they have continued to fight, or would they have bowed to the inevitable?

She stopped herself cold. Bowed to the inevitable? Her lips curved into a humorless smile. The Thorsens would be delighted at the success of their tactics. One day in their company and she’d practically given up. The thought infuriated her. A lot.

“Jordan?” Her uncle’s voice came from the far side of the store. “Are you there, honey?”

“Right here, Uncle Cletus.”

He approached, his brows raised in bewilderment. “What are you doing all alone in the dark? Is something wrong?” He frowned. “That Thorsen, did he—”

Jordan crossed to his side and put her arms around his shoulders, hugging him. “No, no. He didn’t say or do anything that hasn’t been said or done already.” She pulled back and met his concerned gaze, giving him a gentle smile. “We need to talk.”

Cletus released a gusty sigh. “I had a feeling you’d say that. Well, are we sunk?”

“Not yet.” She shot him a piercing look. “This morning you said you wouldn’t sell Cornucopia. You need to think about it and be certain that’s what you want before we go any further. I should warn you, they’re very serious about all this.”

“Hmph,” he snorted. “They don’t scare me.”

“They should.” She forced herself to speak dispassionately. “If you were smart, you’d take their money and run as fast and as far as you can. Straight to New Mexico and your chicken ranch.”

“Arizona.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

His eyes glittered with a hint of anger. “Do you honestly believe I’d strip away your heritage and leave you all alone? You know I wouldn’t do that. We’re family. We stand together.”

“We may fall together.”

He put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “You’re so pessimistic this evening. What’s gotten into you?”

She sighed, relaxing into his arms. “It’s not going to be an easy fight. The best I can tell, they have three choices and none of them are pretty. Rainer owns the building going in across the street, did I tell you? One of his choices is to put in a competing market and drive us out of business.”

“You mean he can try,” Uncle Cletus said, “and fail.”

“Another option is to buy us out,” she continued. Her uncle didn’t even dignify that with a reply. “Or finally, they can go around us, putting markets in Queen Anne Hill and Magnolia and Greenlake and Fremont. It would steal a lot of business from us. It might be ages before you could retire.”

“You want me to sell, pumpkin?” he asked gently, using one of his childhood endearments. “If you do, just say the word and we’re out of it.”

Jordan shook her head. “There’s a chance we can win.” Her determination grew, and a slow grin crept across her mouth, banishing the grim lines. “And there’s an even bigger chance we’ll lose. How much of a gambler are you?”

He crushed her against him in a bear hug. “Roll the dice, girl, roll the dice. We haven’t crapped out yet, and with a little peck on the cheek from Lady Luck, we’ll hit us a jackpot.”

“We’re in this together, Uncle Cletus,” Jordan assured him, returning his embrace. “Now we have to make some plans.”

Uncle Cletus planted a kiss on her brow and released her. “Fire when ready.”

“I want to start running weekly spots. We’ll advertise one or two major loss leaders and see if we can’t increase our customer base.”

“Loss leaders?” he asked with a hint of alarm.

“You know,” she quickly explained. “We’ll push strawberries or melons at cost and make it up on all the other goodies customers buy in addition.”

“Well, if you think we should . . .”

“I do. We’ll also push the
family
angle for all it’s worth, the tradition and heritage that makes Cornucopia so special.” She snapped her fingers. “I attended high school with a local newscaster. Maybe I can convince her to run a story about us, go at it from a historical angle.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Jordan rubbed her hands together, warming to her theme. “If we can generate enough attention, it will help spike the Thorsens’ guns when the time comes. I can just see the headlines. ‘Viking marauders pillage and plunder Mom ‘n’ Pop shop.’ How does that grab you?”

Cletus chuckled. “Makes my blood boil. Think it’ll rile up the natives?”

“It’s sure to. Everyone loves an underdog. It’s human nature
and
a great angle. The Thorsens will look worse than . . . than . . .”

“Viking marauders?” he repeated back her words.

“Well, maybe not that bad. But close enough.” She threw her arms around her uncle, giving him another fierce hug. “We can do this, can’t we? We’ll make it work.”

“Was there ever any question?” her uncle asked. “You always figure something out. You’ve got more angles than a . . . than a spiral staircase.”

Jordan blinked. “Uh—aren’t those circular?”

Her uncle waved her comment aside. “You know what I mean. Why, if you set your mind to it, you could sell ovens to the Eskimos.”

She sighed and linked her arm in his. “I suppose that would be easier than refrigerators. Come on. Let’s head to the house and draw up battle plans. The Thorsens won’t know what hit ’em.”

Or if they did, she sincerely hoped they wouldn’t know what to do or how to do 
it.

T
he next morning, Jordan walked into Cornucopia and began her daily inspection. She glanced around and nodded to herself, pleased. Things didn’t appear too bad, considering she’d been gone all of Friday. With Saturday their busiest day, she wanted to be certain the store looked perfect.

She’d missed seeing Rainer at the wholesale market that morning, and it galled her she’d spent most of her time watching for him. Perhaps he didn’t intend to use Constantine’s after all. Not that it mattered. Goodness no. What did she care?

She grimaced.
Why
did she care, came closer to the truth, though she doubted she could handle the answer.

The root table passed inspection and she moved on to the fruits. She paused by the papayas and frowned at the sign advertising the price. That couldn’t be right. She did some rapid math in her head, her frown deepening. The way things stood now, they were selling the papayas below cost.

Jordan closed her eyes. Uncle Cletus. He’d taken the responsibility for changing the prices yesterday. There had only been three, but . . .

She crossed to the cantaloupes and swore beneath her breath. They were mismarked, too. And the corn? To her relief, she found the price correct. Okay, it wasn’t as bad as she’d initially thought. They’d only lost a little money on the mistakes. No serious damage done.

Swiftly she ripped down the signs over the papayas and cantaloupes and picked up the price sheets by each of the registers. Thank goodness she’d caught the errors. Poor Uncle Cletus. She smiled in genuine affection. He sincerely wanted to help. Numbers just weren’t his strong point. Well, numbers were hers, which made for a good balance.

Setup progressed the same as any other day. By nine, things were still in a state of chaos. Andy and Leroy argued over the placement of the strawberries, Walker and Uncle Cletus fought over the zucchini, and the customers hammered at the door. Jordan grinned.

She really loved this business.

The day proved busy and fun and energizing, and by six that evening, with the door closed behind the last customer, Jordan felt pleasantly exhausted. Rainer arrived just as they locked up.

“Come over to the house,” Cletus invited in jovial tones.

Jordan glanced at her uncle, wondering why he’d become so friendly all of a sudden. Without comment, she led the way home and offered to make coffee.

In the kitchen she stood and stared at the gleaming white coffeemaker, her emotions in turmoil. She’d made her decision yesterday afternoon. She wouldn’t allow her personal feelings to interfere in the best interests of Cornucopia, which made her present confusion frustrating. Why wish for the impossible? She didn’t have a hope of a future with Rainer, not while Cornucopia stood between them. Besides, her feelings for him were physical, nothing more. She could control physical, or at the very least, ignore it.

Rainer appeared in the doorway, and she immediately realized her error. Her reaction to this man could neither be controlled nor ignored. “I had to come,” he admitted in a low voice. “Did you miss me?”

Jordan drew a deep, shaky breath, aware she had two choices. She could be honest and tell him she’d missed him more than life itself. That might win her a kiss. Or she could lie through her teeth and save her pride. Jordan thought fast. A kiss . . . or pride. The hell with it. You only live once.

“I missed you,” she admitted with a self-conscious shrug. “A lot. So what do you suggest we do about it?”

His gaze nearly blistered her. “I’ve got an idea or two.”

He crossed to her side and drew her into his arms. He took his time, staring down at her. Then he slowly lowered his head and covered her mouth with his. Intense, searing heat raged through her, and her lips parted beneath the hot demand of his.

She felt the kitchen counter biting into her spine, and as though aware of it, he gripped her around the waist and lifted her onto the counter edge. It put them on a more even level, and she took swift advantage of the fact, sinking into his embrace.

Eventually she came up for air. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. “This has nothing to do with Cornucopia. You understand that, right?”

“I understand precisely what this has to do with,” he growled, and kissed her once again. He cupped her head in a tender hold, and his mouth wandered across her jaw to her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth.

Jordan moaned. This was physical, nothing more, she tried to convince herself, lost in the wonder of his touch. It was a chemical need—man and woman and nature. Just a whole bunch of uncontrollable hormones shaken to a fizz in a cauldron of emotional soda water. End of story.

So why did that knowledge hurt so much? Why did she yearn for something more? And why, for the first time, did she wish Cornucopia would go away and never be heard from again?

“Your uncle,” he muttered, dragging in a breath. “Your uncle’s calling. I think he wants his coffee.”

She groaned. “I want a few things myself.”

“What?”

What was she saying?
“I—I mean, fine. I’ll get it. How do you take yours?”

He buried his face against her neck. “With sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.”