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He pulled out a chair and sat. “I replaced your range.”
“Why did you replace the range? It worked fine.”
“It was gas,” he said, as if that explained it.
“I know it was gas. I like having a gas stove.”
He shook his head. “A new study came out saying you shouldn’t have gas ranges. Causes asthma or allergies or something.”
“I don’t have asthma or allergies.”
“Yet.”
I stared at my dad for a moment. My parents had a key to my house—I’d given it to them for emergencies—and this wasn’t the first time he’d taken it upon himself to complete a home repair that may or may not have been necessary. Without telling me first.
“Dad, you didn’t have to replace my range. If I decided I needed an electric one, I would have done it myself.”
“Flower,” he said and booped me on the nose, “I don’t want my little girl to have to worry about these things.”
I sighed. I appreciated my dad and his willingness to help. I really did. But he had a way of making me feel like I couldn’t take care of myself. Like he couldn’t accept I was a grown woman. Or that he didn’t trust me to handle my own life.
But I didn’t have time to convince him of that. I had to get back to the salon.
“Sorry, but I have to get back to work.” I took my mug to the sink and rinsed it. “Mom, thanks for the tea and I’m glad your wrist is okay.”
“Oh yes.” She looked at the brace on her wrist as if she’d forgotten it was there. “Thank you, flower.”
“Bye, Dad. Love you.”
“Love you too,” he said absently, already fussing over Mom’s wrist.
I drove back to the salon, parking in the lot next to the building. The sky was gray with clouds threatening rain and the breeze was cold.
“Hey, Marigold!”
That voice. It reached inside me and made my heart flutter. My stomach tingled at the sight of Zachary Haven, dressed in a black coat and jeans, his hair a little messy from the wind, jogging down the sidewalk toward me.
Breathe, Marigold. Breathe.
Why did he have to be so cute? His blue eyes were like the sky on a sunny day and his lips always seemed to be on the brink of a mischievous smirk.
As usual, my tongue decided to stop working and all I could do was blink at him.
He stopped. And then he did the strangest thing. He looked at me.
Zachary Haven never looked at me.
In the rare instances he was forced to actually interact with me, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He’d look away, say what needed to be said as quickly as possible, and brush by me.
This time, he didn’t. He stood still on the sidewalk and looked me in the eyes, subjecting me to the full force of those gorgeous blues.
The intensity of his gaze made my heart race. What did he want? Why wasn’t he saying anything?
Several awkward seconds later, he finally said, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again before muttering, “Sorry, um…”
