Chapter One
Elliott
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My feet pound the ground. The impact vibrates up my calves and thighs. Each mile I add to my jog washes away the hellish week I had at work. If only I had the balls to keep on running and never look back. But for now, that’s only a wish. I can’t walk away yet. Not when my father still has me under his thumb. But soon. I have to hold out for two more years. And then he won’t be able to control me anymore. But until then, I’ll be his plaything and do as he pleases. I shake my head, banishing the thoughts away. The whole point of jogging is to release the stress and focus on the now. On what I can control. One foot in front of the other.
My T-shirt sticks to me, drenched with every mile I’ve pushed through. The thought of stripping it off tempts me, but I’ve got a stop to make before I head home. The flower shop is a few blocks away.
I weave through the crowded sidewalk, dodging people walking dogs and kids who’ve claimed the sunlit street as their playground. I run to the soundtrack of the city: the rumble of cars, music playing somewhere, a dog barking from inside someone’s home, people talking on their cell phones, police sirens, and angry beeping. A skateboarder rockets past, almost taking me out. I stumble, catch myself, and keep moving. Join a game of hopscotch as I jump through the chalk-drawn squares on the ground while one of the kids yells “hey” at me and then laughs. The entire neighborhood has erupted into life, soaking up the unexpectedly warm Friday April day after a week of relentless rain.
Slowing to a walk, I press two fingers to my neck against the pulsing thud beneath my skin. The second hand on my watch—a gift from Grandma after Grandfather passed—ticks away as I count the beats. I could have replaced the old watch with a modern one that does the work for me, but no modern piece of tech will ever carry the same value as Grandpa’s old watch. By the time I reach the flower shop’s door, my pulse has settled into a steady rhythm, fifty beats per minute.
As many times as I’ve ordered flowers from this place, at least a couple of times a month for years, I’ve never stepped inside. I’ve jogged by it. Driven by it probably thousands of times, but never once even glanced inside the windows.
A faded blue sign with a font in bright pink names the shop—Scent of Love. The corner building extends up into an apartment. A narrow wrought iron and glass door leads to the second floor. This building is classic old New York. It must be nearly a hundred years old.
I open the shop door and step inside. A bell above the door announces my presence with a metallic, out of tune chime, but there’s no one to greet me. Cool air sends a shiver across my still damp skin. The sweet scent of flowers hangs heavy in the air, and a riot of colors competes for my attention.
Giant sunflowers stand against delicate orchids. Roses in every color are displayed like a living rainbow. There are potted plants and small trees too. The sound of rain and some kind of new age music plays softly. It’s as if I’m no longer in New York City. I’ve stepped into some kind of chaotic indoor jungle.
As I approach the back of the store, a loud squawk makes me jump. A parrot stares at me from a perch hanging from the ceiling. Her head tilted and beak slightly open. Still, there’s no one here.
“Hello? Anyone back there?”
No answer. The bird squawks again.
I approach the counter and find a sign next to the cash register.
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PRESS BUZZER FOR SERVICE
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I press the button next to the sign, and a low hum sounds in the back.
“I’ll be right there,” a feminine voice calls.
The bird and I watch each other. She looks like she’s plotting something. There’s intelligence in those eyes. Like she’s taking my measure and calculating the best way to either bite a finger off or maybe con me into giving her some treats. Not sure which.
I peer over the counter, trying to get a glimpse of whoever is back there. “Ouch!”
Something hits my leg and I look down to find a small boy on a tricycle—the kind without pedals. Blond eyebrows slash into an angry V over sky-blue eyes, and the boy reverses the tricycle on the balls of his feet, stops, forges full speed ahead as fast as his little feet can carry him, and slams into my legs again. A devious little smile twists the corner of his mouth and again he backs up, readying himself for another attack. I face him, now fully aware of his intentions. “Nope. You’re not gonna get me again, buddy.”
The bird squawks louder and flaps its wings.
“Hi, I’m sorry. I needed one more minute to finish an arrangement. How can I help you?”
I turn to the woman behind the counter, prepared to tell her to leash the brat attacking my legs and freeze. She’s breathtaking. She smiles, waiting for my response, but the words don’t come. My throat is like sandpaper, and I can’t look away. She’s beautiful in a way that catches me off guard. Her blue eyes have this soft sadness, her lips are full and warm, and a few loose strands of light brown hair have slipped out of her ponytail. Freckles scatter lightly across her nose, and she’s wearing overalls patterned with flowers over a loose T-shirt. Somehow, the whole look works—like she belongs here among the blooms, grounded and real.
Her smile fades and a guarded expression crosses her face. She steps back a few inches, shoulders rigid.
Hidden by the counter separating the woman and me, the kid slams into my leg again. I press my lips together and hold back a curse. That hurt. The pain wakes me up, and I find my voice again.
“Hi. Sorry. I’m trying to remember what arrangement I usually get.” The lie slips out silky-smooth.
Her shoulders relax. “Oh, I can help you with that.” She steps to a computer. “If you have purchased flowers from me before, I can search for it. What’s your name?”
“Foster. Elliott Foster.”
I catch a movement near the floor and step back just in time. The kid misses me and hits a flowerpot instead. The woman looks up and leans over the counter. “Jamie! What are you doing?” Her voice is gentle but firm. “You know better than riding your bike inside the store. Please go in the back.”
The kid frowns at me as if it was my fault he got into trouble and wheels himself to the back of the store.
Her smile returns. “Sorry about that. He’s bored, and bored little boys tend to find trouble.”
“Big boys too.” I give her my best smile. The smile that never fails at charming women and clients alike.
Except for now. She doesn’t even notice it and continues to tap away on the keyboard. She pauses, her eyebrows scrunching as she stares at the screen. She glances at me and back at the computer.
“Okay. I found you.” She clicks a few keys, her tone dipping a bit. “You have a few different orders, but it looks like your preferred arrangement is a dozen pink, long-stemmed roses. And Monday deliveries.” Her voice cools as she glances at the screen. “Would you like the same arrangement to be delivered this Monday?”
“Yes, please, Miss . . .” I leave it hanging, hoping she’ll fill in the blank.
“Jillian Heart.” Her voice is steady, polite—but there’s an edge there.
“Thank you, Jillian. I’m Elliott, but I guess you already know that.” I say it deliberately, trying to soften the air between us. Her eyes flick to mine, unimpressed, before turning back to the screen. Great start, Elliott.
“And what should the card say? Your standard message?”
I blink, caught off guard. “My standard message?”
She reads from the screen, the corner of her lips turning slightly downward. “‘I enjoyed our time together. E.’”
Ouch. It’s like a punch to the gut, hearing it out loud. Detached, almost dismissive. Could that sound any colder? No wonder she’s looking at me like that. She probably thinks I’m some kind of unfeeling jerk. I nod, my mind a frustrating blank, and let the silence stretch awkwardly between us. She raises an eyebrow, waiting for something, anything, and all I’ve got is a painfully hollow nod.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Recipient name and address, please.”
I fish for my cell phone, find the contact, and put the phone on the counter facing her. She touches the corner of the phone and tilts it her way to better read the screen. I check her finger for a wedding ring. No ring, but I find a fresh scratch on the back of her hand instead, and before I know what I’m doing, I reach across the counter but stop myself before crossing the line and touching her. “You’re hurt.”
She pulls her hand away. “Oh, that’s nothing. A rose got me. It happens.”
“Does it happen often?”
“Roses are beautiful, but they bite. Scratches come with the job, but it’s a small price to pay when I’m surrounded by this every day.” She waves at the plants all around us and goes back to the computer.
I nod. “I guess it beats being stuck in an office. And it smells better for sure.”
Jillian shifts and looks at me. “It sure does. Being a florist was not what I imagined myself doing after college, but here I am. I love it.”
Before I can ask her what she imagined herself doing after college, the sound of flapping wings grabs my attention. I catch a green blur in my peripheral vision and lift my arms to protect my face. The parrot lands on the counter, tilts her head to one side and then another, and walks toward me. I take a step back.
Jillian laughs. “Don’t worry. Daisy is harmless.”
“Daisy?”
“Yes, that’s her name.” Jillian runs a finger through the green feathers.
The bird stops at the edge of the counter, bobs its head. “You so pretty.”
“Excuse me?” And now I’m talking to a bird.
The bird whistles, like a catcalling sound. “You so pretty.” The parrot bobs her head again. “Yes, you are.”
Jillian’s eyes meet mine. She blushes the same color as the carnations behind her. A pink that starts soft and intensifies with each passing second my gaze is on her.
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Chapter Two
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Jillian
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He smiles and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “I think Daisy is flirting with me.”
My face burns. Sometimes Daisy has the uncanny ability to speak what’s on my mind. Because that’s exactly what I was thinking. He’s a flirt, maybe even a player, and I may have a distaste for men like him, who think a smile is all that’s needed and panties drop, but I can’t deny how handsome he is, with his strong, chiseled features and classic, rugged looks. Defined jawline, high cheekbones, lips that are full but firm, and intense gray-blue eyes that contrast with his dark eyebrows, adding intensity to his gaze.
He’s tall, six-two or maybe six-three, with a solid, muscular build and broad shoulders. The damp white tee clinging to his skin does nothing to hide his pecs and abs. All that complemented by muscular, runner legs. It’s obvious he jogged here.
When was the last time I found myself drawn to a man? And today of all days? Guilt pierces my chest like the sharp claws of an invisible beast. Finding another man attractive is not cheating. Grandma used to say, guilt is a monster that devours you from the inside. I know all too well how painful those bites are.
“Come, Daisy.” I place my hand next to her and she climbs on my wrist. I prop her on one of her many perches scattered around the store and return to my customer. “You’re all set. I’ll have the flowers delivered on Monday unless you prefer them to be delivered on a different date.”
His biceps flex when he runs a hand through his damp hair, the overhead lights making the brown look like burnished gold. I resist the urge to fan my face.
“Monday is good.”
I enter delivery instructions into the computer and close the program.
His eyes linger on my face and then flit behind me.
A tug at my wide neck T-shirt makes it slip over my shoulder, along with the strap of my overalls. I look down at Jamie and he pulls at my shirt harder. I take his hand in mine. Why is he acting like this? “What is it, Jamie?”
He points at his mouth and rubs his belly in a clear sign he’s hungry. Bending to meet his eyes, I smile at my child. “I’m almost done. Go wash your hands. I’ll be right there.”
Jamie walks away, his feet shuffling on the floor.
I turn to the man still watching me. “I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
His eyes are fixed on my exposed shoulder. And on the tattoo there. I pull my shirt and strap up and cover the blue flowers inked on my skin. A smattering of tiny Forget Me-Nots. Twenty-eight, to be exact, and his initials.
He blinks, and his gaze finds my face again. The charming and friendly smile is back, too. “How old is your little brother?”
“He turned six a couple of weeks ago, and he’s my son, not my brother.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended. I’m tired of people assuming Jamie is my brother and then giving me disapproving looks when I correct them because they assume I had him as a teenager.
His smile falters. He glances at the back of the store as if expecting someone else to show up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make assumptions. You have a beautiful boy. I’m sure you and your husband are very proud of him.”
Husband. The word still hurts. Two years today. There is no husband. Not anymore. “It’s Jamie and me.” Jesus! Why did I say that? I never volunteer that kind of information. It can be dangerous. He’s a stranger. Well, a stranger who’s been buying flowers from me for years, yes, but I don’t know him.
His eyebrows rise. “Well, his father is a fool, then. If you two were mine, I’d never leave you.”
Fire lights up inside of me. It roars and crawls up my chest and throat, but when the words spew out of my mouth, they’re like ice. “My husband isn’t a fool. He’s dead.” Two years today. Two years without my husband, my best friend, the only man I’ve ever been with. But I don’t tell him any of it. I’ll break apart if I say anything else.
He pales. His lips move, but it takes several seconds before he can stammer a response. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean . . .”
He didn’t mean what? To fish for information about my marital status? To try to win me over with a cheap compliment?
I stare at him, my shoulders pulling back. My posture is a picture of control and defiance. But my white-knuckle grip on the edge of the counter betrays me.
I say nothing. My silence is enough of a response. I want him gone. He should leave and yet he doesn’t. His feet are anchored to the floor. Why can’t he just go? Didn’t he hurt me enough? He couldn’t know . . . a voice in my head pleads.
My cold gaze is fixed on him and he’s the first to look away. His chin drops to his chest, and he closes his eyes as if it could erase the last few minutes. It can’t.
He leaves then, without saying another word.