Placing the fern inside the pot, I filled the sides with soil and began dusting the counter off. “No. Well—” I hesitated and glanced around the shop. When was the last time I had made a sale, anyway? “I guess it would be nice if someone bought one, y’know. But that’s not my job,” I muttered. Absentmindedly fluffing the leaves, I forced a smile on my face. “I sellflowers.”
“But you could sellpottery,” he responded practically.
I drew a long breath and tried to look anywhere but in his discerning eyes. I never considered abandoning the shop. It was Marigold’sflowers, not Georgie’s pottery studio. My grandmother had given up so much to step in and raise me. Shewas the pillar of Bluebell Cove. There wasn’t a reality I could think of where I would betray her legacy now that she was gone.
No—I wouldn’t entertain the thought.
“What brings you to town?” I said instead, reluctantly dragging my gaze to his.
Rhett traced a finger along one of the pot’s flutes and seemed to study the speckles of sage and lavender. “My uncle left his business a mess. I have to finish some contracts for him before I can sell it.”
My frown was unavoidable. “Sell it?”
“I’m an architect, and I live over two thousand miles away.” He shrugged. “I can’t exactly operate it from across the country.”
I snatched the pot from his reach and marched across the shop. My skin felt like it was on fire when I placed the fern on the windowsill with the rest and turned to him. “You’re going tosellyour uncle’s business. The one that he spent his entire life building.”
Rhett might as well have declared that he enjoyed kicking puppies in his free time.
“He’s dead, Georgie.”
For a half-second, I was struck by the way my name sounded on his lips. Then his words sunk in.
“So he’s dead, and you just… move on and pretend he never existed? What about everything he did for you?” My pulse raced wildly beneath my skin. Tears pricked my eyes despite how I tried to will them away.
Rhett crossed his arms. “I have my own life. My uncle understood that.”
“Your own life,” I mumbled in a daze.
I stared at him from across the shop, sure his stony mask was back in place—even as my vision started to blur. Ten minutes ago, I thought maybe I’d misunderstood him. If I weren’t busytrying not to lose it, I’d almost be impressed by how fast he flipped the switch.
Rhett Briggs was unfriendly, selfish, and apparently determined to give me emotional whiplash.
Rushing past him, I plucked my bag from the counter and mumbled something mildly intelligible about going on lunch. It didn’t matter that it was ten in the morning. He could think whatever he liked about me.
I blinked against the brightness of midmorning as I darted onto the sidewalk and out of view. Leaning on the wall outside the Button Jar, I drew a long, shaking breath and quickly wiped the unshed tears before anyone could see. The Morning Bell was already bustling—no doubt half-full of lingering tourists or students with a free period—so Rachel would be busy.
That left one place for me to hide: Gulliver’s Books.
At the ring of the bell, Joe greeted me from his perch atop the library ladder. Nose-deep in a novel as thick as his barrel chest, he was precariously balanced on the highest rung, unfazed by the eight feet separating him from a broken limb. Silver-and-black braids fell down his back and over his shoulders, his deep brown skin glowing in the light. He worked the arm of his wire-framed glasses between his teeth, rubbing his short beard as though my presence barely registered. I gently shut the door, doing my best not to interrupt him further.
Gulliver’s Books was a legend in its own right. No matter the time of year, it was always quiet here, as if all who entered were enraptured by the sea of golden dust motes and towering cases of vintage novels. The store was an homage to Joe himself; a sturdy, mystery of a man who arrived in Bluebell Cove with the same inevitability of the sunrise. It wasn’t one of the many landmarks that stood the test of time, but once Gulliver’s Books opened, it might as well have always been there.
I passed someone engrossed in the historical section and quietly ascended the short flight of stairs toward the back. The loft-style second floor was the spot I frequented. With a wide, black-paned arch window and an entire wall dedicated to vinyl records, it felt like a hiding place from familiar eyes on Main Street. Joe, who I knew was reluctant to sell them at all, also kept his romance collection in the loft, quarantined from the scores of vintage editions and hefty literary fictions.
Only a few sparse shelves adorned the walls, and a table in the center, dedicated to whatever novels he had deemed worthy, stood partially filled. Seeing as the majority of shoppers kept to the first level, I often wondered if he kept these in stock solely for me. Wishful thinking, probably.
Finally clear-eyed, I ran my hand over the covers before me and smiled. I noticed a few new titles, but between my time at the studio and managing Marigold’s, I still hadn’t worked my way through the bulk of them. I thumbed through the novel I‘d been considering for the past few weeks and put it down with a sigh. My lack of business acumen would continue to keep me from having new reading material for the time being.
The chime of the bell perked my ears. Slowly, I peered over the railing and to the first floor.
My heart dropped to my stomach.
“Margot?”
I clapped my hand over my mouth and Joe sent me a thick-eyebrowed look of disapproval from the ladder.
Margot stared up at me from the doorway, her features an undeniable mix of surprise and frustration. Her dark hair was swept into a glossy, too-tight ponytail, not a single hair out of place despite the breezy day outside. Everything about her was manicured: from the crisp, tailored suit she wore, to the shining toes of her heels, to the way her shoulders were drawn back into statuesque perfection.
