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“Mornin’ girlfriend,” he says as he pulls back. “What can I do to support you and your charity?”
I run my hand over the spot on my head where his lips left a tingling sensation. Then I run my hand down my hair.
“Do you want to be a runner or man a table? Or you could just stand around being the face of the event, which I’m sure whatever camera crew you have meeting you here will love.”
“Cass.” He draws out my name. “You wound me.”
“I don’t and you know it.”
“I don’t have a camera crew coming. I’m here to support you and this event.”
“Kate hasn’t arranged media coverage?”
“She might’ve. I’m not sure what Kate’s got going on most days. But I came out of the goodness of my heart.”
He winks and I glance away. He’s too charming for this early hour.
The other players join us and I assign them all as runners except Marcus. I want him at a table. He needs to be contained. That sack actually wasn’t such a bad idea.
Neighbors start to filter in. We’ve got a few volunteers in the parking area, waving people into “spots” and sending them to the signup tables.
People head toward Marcus’s table regardless of where they’re told to go. Within a half hour of the event starting, his table has a somewhat unruly crowd gathered. The other volunteers are dealing with one or two neighbors at a time.
I walk over to where Marcus is being swarmed.
“Hey, babe,” he says.
The nickname throws me off for a beat.
“Babe …” The word comes out of my mouth a little more awkwardly than I expected. “... I need to thin out the crowd here.”
“I’ve got it,” he tells me.
“Babe,” I say, using the word again almost like a warning. “I’ve got this. It’s my charity.”
He raises his hand. It reaches high above the crowd.
“Everyone!” His voice booms out.
The commotion stills. The great Marcus Delaney has spoken. It’s simultaneously impressive and unnerving.
“We need everyone to head to the table with the first initial of your last name,” he says.
People start hunting for their place. Lines form. A few people linger in an attempt to get near Marcus.
“I’ll make the rounds, A to Z,” he tells everyone.
“Good grief,” I mutter under my breath. “You’d think it was the second coming.”
He laughs. “Get used to it, babe.” This time, he emphasizes the pet name so it feels more like a man making a point than someone’s term of endearment.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you, babe,” I say babe as if I’m saying big pain in my patootie.
True to his word, Marcus starts strutting up and down behind the tables, greeting people and even coming around in front of the tables to drop low to squat so he can talk to children.
When he does that for the fourth or fifth time, I remember Daisy mentioning his visit to Moss and Maple, how he stayed late and bent low to be at eye level with each child.
I shake my head and get back to business.
