Author: Kristan Higgins

At the thought of Nicky, she glanced at the calendar. Thirteen more days.

The house was shaping up, as James had predicted. A week and a half, and he had on a new roof. Chimney fixed, most of the old shingles off the side. He worked like an ox, she’d give him that.

But it was still…uncomfortable, being around him. There were definitely moments where she really, really liked Thing One. And then she’d remember how he’d known she and Nicky were about to be financially ruined. How he’d known they’d have to move. How he’d taken care of his own interests and not said a word to her, even knowing that she and Nicky were completely dependent on that stupid family trust. Well, Nicky had Ethan to support him. There was that.

But even as those things seemed to matter less, there were those phone calls from Harry. Oh, yes. She’d overheard them. The easy camaraderie between the two men. Practically father and son. BFFs till the end of time.

Harry hadn’t called her once. She made her own dutiful weekly call, but they never talked for more than three minutes.

“It’s the old wound,” she said, quoting the dying Lancelot. Paternal rejection left a mark on a girl. A woman. Bugger and damn, she was thirty-five. Hardly a girl anymore. Half a decade older than Thing One. Ethan, too for that matter, which had never seemed to be an issue. He had an old soul. James did not.

Time to whip out Mr. Clean, her favorite male these days. Lavinia didn’t really seem to care much about where things were in the flower shop, but Parker had been itching to rearrange. It was a tiny little space, jammed with all the detritus of the business. Not that there was a lot of business. Maggie and Malone’s wedding was coming up. Otherwise, there’d been a couple of get-well arrangements, one sheepish-looking husband in for a bouquet, two new babies. So far, if Parker was at the shop, Lavinia let her handle every job. Vin seemed oddly detached from the flower arranging. The only thing she really seemed to care about was the small greenhouse that housed the orchids, where she spent hours each day, misting, watering, checking soil pH. Parker had offered to help and was immediately waved off.

“You like doing the flowers? Run with it,” she’d told Parker. “This back here is my baby.”

And Parker loved doing the flowers. She’d spent a summer down at a finishing school of sorts, where she’d learned helpful things like how to pour tea, make conversation without expressing an actual opinion and yes, walk with a book on her head. The flower arranging had been the only thing she’d really enjoyed. At night, there had been other lessons—how to buy drugs, water down your parents’ alcohol so they wouldn’t realize you were drinking, give a blow job, demonstrated on a banana by Caitlynn Swann, whose father owned most of North Carolina. Obviously, these nighttime lessons weren’t on the curriculum, but the older girls had taken it upon themselves to share. Parker had been fourteen at the time.

At any rate, she’d always liked flowers. Back in her Grayhurst days, she’d cut a bunch every Monday from the vast garden and put together something for the kitchen table, her nightstand, Nicky’s room—though he had a tendency to pick off any red petals and glue them on his Star Wars figurines to represent blood. She’d even put an arrangement in the bathroom. It always felt nice, flowers in the loo. Made brushing your teeth seem much more pleasant.

Four hours later, Parker was dusty, sweaty and more than pleased with her efforts. She’d dragged the card display to be near the cash register and rearranged the shelves with all the little tchotchkes. The shop was now much easier to navigate, the dusty porcelain figurines and candles wiped clean and placed in the corner. She put the houseplants on the wide shelf in the front window—Lavinia had them against the back wall, for some reason—and made a gorgeous arrangement of gerbera daisies, larkspur, irises and ferns for the counter, the colors all in shades of pink and purple. Beautiful.

She hoped Lavinia would let her do Maggie’s wedding bouquet. Maggie had been so nice to her, so welcoming. Parker had gotten an invitation to the wedding, even. And Malone had smiled at her the other night. Maybe. It was sort of hard to tell, but Parker had a bit of a soft spot for him, as he was the first resident she’d met. She liked looking out for his boat each night, knowing he was safely back home and on his way to Nice Maggie.

“You’d think I’d be cynical,” Parker said aloud to Beauty as she swept the floor. “But I’m not. I love love. Gross, huh?”

Beauty’s tail swished in agreement, her eyes never leaving Parker.

It was too bad they couldn’t keep the cottage as a summer place. It was hard not to fall in love with this town.

Well. Maybe someday.

The bell over the door rang, and Parker looked up to see who it was. An older man in a suit, not someone she’d met before. Beauty fled to her hiding spot under the worktable behind the counter.

“Hello,” Parker said. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like a potted plant for my mother,” he answered.

“Sure. Take a look around. Is it a special occasion?”

“Well, we had to put her in a nursing home, poor thing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And I don’t make it up here too often.” He gave her a once-over. “I live in Winter Haven. Ever been?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

He reminded her of Harry; his suit was expensive, and his leather briefcase gleamed. Parker would bet he drove a German car and lived in a house on the water. He glanced dismissively at the Boston ferns and African violets, the jade plant and the cheerful yellow primrose. “Got anything else? Something a bit more…”

“Exotic?” Parker supplied.

“Exactly,” he answered, smiling. “You read my mind.” Another glance at her chest. In a way, flattering that he was checking her out, as she was filthy from cleaning and dressed in a once-white T-shirt and jeans. On the other hand, he exuded that entitled vibe—I can look at your boobs because I’m rich, and you’re a serving wench as far as I’m concerned.

“Well, what you see is pretty much it,” she said.

“What’s in the greenhouse?”

“Right. Um, we have some rare plants back there.”

“Would you mind showing me those?”

Parker hesitated; it really was Vinnie’s domain. Then again, her cousin grew them to sell, ostensibly.

“I don’t mind paying extra,” the guy said. “My mom deserves the best.”

And Vin could use the money. “Sure. Let me get the key. We have some orchids. Does your mom like those?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he answered. “They’re almost as pretty as you. Dan Jacobs, by the way.”

Yep. A Harry. Dan Jacobs had to be sixty-five if he was a day, complete with wedding ring, but it seemed that once a man passed forty, he suffered some kind of acute stroke that affected his mathematical abilities, encouraging him to hit on women young enough to be his daughter. The Hugh Hefner School of Nasty.

“And you are?” he asked.

“Parker. Nice to meet you.”

“Very nice to meet you.”

Beauty growled, very softly. Indeed, sweetie. “Let’s see what we have,” Parker said, her voice brisk. She took Vin’s key from the drawer, opened the padlocked door and pushed it open.

She hadn’t been in here yet. There were orchids, all right. About ten of them were in rather sparse bloom, a couple of blossoms here and there, but nothing really striking. More of the orchids were dormant—unremarkable, rubbery green leaves in pots. But the other plants, maybe fifty in all, looked like houseplants—densely growing, delicate leaves, almost like a miniature green Japanese maple. Some of them had fluffy white flowers akin to something Dr. Seuss might’ve drawn. They were very pretty, though Parker had no idea what they were.

“I like those,” Dan Jacobs said. “Are they orchids, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Parker said. She checked one or two of the pots for an identifying plastic stick. Nothing. No sticker on the bottom, either.

“Well, I’ll take one,” the guy said. “Wrap it up with some pretty foil, if you would.”

“Sure.” Parker could find no price tag…well, she’d charge him seventy-five dollars. Looked as if he could afford it.

As she wrapped the pot and tied some ribbon around it, Dan Jacobs leaned forward, the thick smell of his cologne enveloping her. “So I wonder if a beautiful woman like you would like to have dinner with me,” he said, showing a whitened grin.

“I’m pretty sure your wife wouldn’t like that,” Parker answered, smiling to soften the blow.

“My wife has nothing to do with this,” he said.

The guy was just like her dad. Hey, what did marriage mean when you could bang a younger woman, right?

“No thank you,” Parker answered. “You’re a few decades too old for me. That’ll be seventy-five dollars, please.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, very softly. He put down four twenties and walked out of the store without waiting for change.

“You’re disgusting,” Parker sang out once he was out of sight. Well, at least it was a good sale. Vin would be pleased; the African violets were six bucks apiece.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. By two o’clock, Parker found herself wondering what James was doing. If he was doing it without his shirt. No, no, that’s right. He wasn’t at the house today. She’d given him the day off. Ordered him to take the day off, more like it.

They’d been skirting each other the past few days…polite, pleasant, but not intimate. Not since that first dinner on the dock, when he’d taken her hand. Since he’d almost kissed her, and she’d almost let him.

But there was something about James. The memory of his hard, naked body against hers at Esme’s wedding—that tawdry, smokin’-hot, porno memory, yes, that was something indeed. He’d done incredible things with the cottage—that was for sure—a steady and hard worker, completely uncomplaining about the amount there was to do. But there was something else. Something quiet. Something a little bit sad, maybe.

Today was the first day they’d been apart since he arrived. And let’s face it. It wasn’t because he deserved a day off—which he absolutely did. It was because if she had to keep seeing him shirtless, her thin resolve not to climb him like a tree might crumble, after all.

Just then, the bells rang out in alarm as the door was jerked open, and there he was, Dan Jacobs, her customer du jour. “That’s her,” he said, his face florid.

“Is there a problem?” Parker said. Holy crap, was that a cop with him? It was.

Dan pointed. “She’s the one. The one who sold me the drugs.”

“What?” she yelped, getting an answering yelp from Beauty. “I did not!”

“Ma’am, you have the right to remain silent,” the cop began.

“What? Why? What did I do?”

The Harry-clone jammed his fists on his hips. “You sold me a marijuana plant! For my mother, no less!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I DIDN’T KNOW it was marijuana!” Parker protested for the fifth time as the cop led her inside the police station.

“You probably don’t want to say anything till your lawyer gets here,” the cop said. His nameplate said Bottoms.

“Are you related to Billy Bottoms?” Parker asked, her voice a little tremulous. Because hell, she was handcuffed! And she was being processed! Holy halos, they were pressing her fingers into ink! For fingerprinting!

“He’s my father,” the cop replied. “I’m Young Billy.”

She took the wipe he offered and cleaned her hands. “He’s nice. Your dad.” Please let that show that I’m a good person!