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With scissors in hand, I try one more time to find out if I should put these flowers in a vase. Though, I suppose, what I really want to know is if Briar likes flowers. She and Gavin are busy cooking and Hollis is setting the table. Or at least, I thought she was cooking, but the rustle of feet in the grass tells me otherwise.
I catch a glimpse of her walking toward me. “Yes, you can cut them,” she says. “Yes, they look pretty on the table. Yes, you can even cook with them.”
Well, someone is a mind reader. “Are you living rent-free in my head?” Though the answer is—yes.
“No,” she says, laughing. “I saw you talking into the phone and standing there with scissors so figured I’d pop out and help.”
I shrug casually, like I wasn’t trying to impress her. “I thought they might look nice on the table. What do you think?”
Translation: do you like flowers?
“My dad used to get flowers for my mom every week.”
Used. Past tense. “Did she pass away?” I ask, since I’ve learned from personal experience that it’s best to be direct about loss.
“No. She just took off when I was ten.” She waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t know why I brought that up. I guess flowers sometimes make me think of her, since Dad tried to romance her every week with them. They’re nice though.”
And I am not cutting flowers for her now.
I look to the swaths of yellow flowers, swaying gently, spreading a vanilla scent across the breeze. “I’ll leave them here then,” I say, grateful that Siri’s haphazard answers saved my ass.
Briar lifts her nose to the air, inhaling. “I love fresh flowers though. I’ve always loved to do yoga outside, but especially here, because it smells so good. This place felt a little bit like an escape when I arrived.”
It can’t possibly be an escape now. Maybe the last thing she wants is one man coming on to her, let alone two. “It’s probably the opposite now with us crashing into the cottage?”
There. I’m fishing for intel without being obvious.
“I don’t mind.”
“Hmm. You sure? It can’t have been on your bingo card to share a tiny cottage with three obnoxious hockey players who argue constantly, trash talk incessantly, and eat all the time.”
“You’re not obnoxious. Trust me,” she says.
“We could try to be obnoxious,” I tease.
“Is that a threat? Will you attempt to be rude to scare me away?” she challenges, but she seems unperturbed. No, that ferocity in her eyes, the raise of her chin—she seems fearless. Tough.
“I can try. If you really want me to,” I say. “But it’ll be hard because I’m naturally charming.”
She smiles, relaxed, easy. “You sure are, Rhys Corbyn.” She holds my gaze for a beat longer than I’d expected. “And you’re right. It definitely wasn’t on my bingo card. But I don’t think I’m going to mind it at all.”
Okay, that’s intel too. She likes our company possibly. As I consider that, she gives me another important look. One that says there’s something on her mind. Like her brain is turning over possibilities.
No idea what though, so I return to the earlier topic. Seems rude not to acknowledge what she’s shared. “Sorry about your mom leaving. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t, but it was a long time ago. And hey, I’m a daddy’s girl. He owns a garage, so I know how to change a tire and fix an engine.”
I whistle. “That’s right fucking hot.”
“Wait till you see what I can do with a screwdriver.” Then she tips her forehead toward the cottage. “I should go. I left Gavin in the kitchen.”
I want to tell her he’s Mister Independent. He’d make the whole meal himself, then serve us all, making sure everyone had gotten enough. But it’s nice that he’s letting someone help him cook.
“See you at the table,” I say.
“See you inside,” she says, and her blue eyes twinkle as they roam up and down my body, like she’s assessing me.
What the hell is on that beautiful mind of hers?
