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Chapter Two
Molly
“Is there something you’d like to tell me, Dad?” I say from the entrance of his backyard workshop.
It’s warmer than usual for a mid-February morning, and the scent of raw wood and tangy metal fills the space as I approach the cutting bench he’s working on.
I stare directly into those soft green eyes. The same green I inherited, which is an anomaly rarer than the red wine-colored birthmark splashed across my right eye, temple, and upper back.
He averts his stare to the vise grip he’s slicking with oil.
Yeah, you’ve been busted, buddy.
“Dad.”
Wiping his calloused, worn hands on an old rag, he shrugs. “Nope. Nothing I can think of, sweetheart.”
I narrow my gaze as the foreclosure warning from the bank I found on the kitchen counter this morning burns a hole in the back pocket of my overalls. But his wobbly smile breaks my heart.
It’s not enough to have lost Mom, but now this?
I don’t care that she wouldn’t want us to hang on to things for her sake; her spirit lives in everything she ever touched, and there’s no chance I’m letting us lose my childhood home.
Our home, the one I’ve moved back into, no thanks to my asshole ex-boyfriend.
Dad’s salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, but styled with the same LA gel brand he’s used since 1995, and the pockets of the leather apron around his neck are filled to the brim with various scraps of paper that serve as his version of the notes app on his cell phone.
Then again, with the pens, floral tape, and snack bars stashed in the pockets of my overalls, there’s no wonder where I get it.
Offering me that classic Dan Hart grin—the innocent, but definitely guilty one—he says, “Would you mind moving that stack of two-by-fours against the back wall before you head to the shop? Brody and I have to head out to Mrs. Richards’ place to repair her fence, and I don’t want anyone tripping.”
My gut pinches at the mention of Mom’s flower shop and, not eager to pick a fight with him so early, I let him off the hook. For now.
“Sure. No problem.”
He considers me a moment, and I know what he’s going to ask before the words ever leave his mouth. “Have you given any more thought about selling?”
A few months ago, a woman from Texas came by, expressing interest in buying Hart’s Blooms. I’d been spitting mad at her assumption that it was even for sale, and all but told her to get lost. Little did I know, Dad had gone behind my back and put a for sale post online.
I was crushed, and I’m still not sure I’ve forgiven him entirely, but we both know I can’t stay mad at him for long.
“I already told you, I’m not giving it up, and that’s that.”
His lips thin as the garage-style door on the side of his shop gradually rises. Brody, one of my dad’s contractors, saunters up the drive that wraps around to the front of the house. “Morning, Mr. Hart. Molly.”
He sees me struggling to lift the heavy load and immediately offers a hand.
“Thanks.” I smile at the blond brute, and he flashes the cheeky grin that seems permanently attached to his lips.
“You bet.” He hoists the planks gathered by a red Radley Lumber Co. tag and carries them to the storage area in the back.
“You know, if you’d give the man a chance, you two sure would make a cute couple,” Dad muses.
“And that’s my cue to make like a tree and split.” I roll my eyes before placing a swift kiss on his gray-scruffed cheek. “And as I’ve told you a thousand times, Brody isn’t my type.”
“He’d treat you better than that hoity-toity Garrett fella, that’s for damn sure.”
I wrinkle my nose at the mention of my ex. “Yes, I’m sure he would, but Brody’s the type of guy who wants a woman in the kitchen. Do I look like a Suzy Homemaker to you?”
