“Okay then—” I cleared my throat and tucked an invisible strand of hair behind my ear. “Twenty businesses are participating, and most of their booths barely survived the last festival. There’s also some leftover money from Fourth of July for new tables in the communal dining area. Nothing fancy.” Hesitating, I waited for some sort of response, but he didn’t look up from the screen. “The last tables finally reached retirement age, you could say,” I added with a weak laugh.
Silence. I worried my bottom lip between my teeth and wrung my hands together. There was a final flourish of taps before he slipped his phone back.
“Was that all?” Rhett raised a single brow at me.
“Well… yes. I suppose. Until tonight.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what was the purpose of this meeting?”
“I— It’s my first year as the head of community events, and…” My mumble tapered off pathetically as his scrutinizing eyes caught a spot by the windowsill.
I was too flustered to stop him as he stealthily approached, as though he was a hunter and my leaking roof was his prey. He crouched, swiped a single finger across the damp floorboard—why hadn’t I dried that yet?—and his jaw tightened.
“How long has there been a leak?”
When our gazes met, he looked like a disappointed parent.
“The summer storms have been really bad,” I explained miserably, knowing that wasn’t really the case. It had almost been an entire year since I noticed the first puddle, and the state of my bank account had only become increasingly dismal since then.
“And your awning out front is practically hanging by a thread,” he continued as though he was reciting a grocery list.
“Yes, I’m going to get that fixed.”
Rhett stood, watching me with indifference. “This shop is a health hazard.”
For a second, I wanted to defend the place—not because he was wrong, but because admitting he was right felt like confessing that I failed her.
“Well, you’re a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” I muttered under my breath, turning away before he could see the darkening hue of scarlet spread across my face.
Where did that come from? I was never hostile, and everything he had saidwastrue. Hearing it from a stranger’s mouth, though, in a tone completely lacking any shred of sentiment, made it feel like a punch to the gut. And those cool, unaffected eyes made me want to punch back.
Bending behind the counter, I gathered a breath and rose.
“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going,” Rhett said, looking anywhere but at me. He didn’t wait for my response before striding out the door.
“Yeah, thanks a lot.”
If he noticed the unintended sarcasm, he didn’t show it. I watched through narrowed eyes as he stepped outside the shop and poked at the arm of my awning. Just when I was about to yell at him—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d yelled atanyone—he shook his head and made his way up Main Street.
Rhett Briggs was an out-of-towner, alright—and decidedlynotinfuriatingly handsome. Justinfuriating.
Chapter Two
My house was the smallest on Maple Street.
Bluebell Lane ran parallel, a parade of Victorian estates with manicured gardens and towering widow’s walks.Thosefamilies traced their lineage back to the Mayflower, yet favored the country club on the edge of town over any of the Main Street businesses. The houses sat empty several months out of the year. At Christmas, though, their immaculate light displays draped across the old white oaks drew tourists from miles away.
Maple Street was humbler, a row of pastel-painted terraced homes that looked like a squashed imitation of its neighbor. But we took pride in it. Every year, storms tried to strip the paint and topple the flowers, and every year we put it back together again.
My grandmother’s was the jewel of the row, with rose bushes that climbed higher than the picket fence and window boxes that spilled with petunias, lobelias, and her favorite herbs. Every Saturday she’d putter down the street, pausing to fuss over Ronnie’s yellow jessamine or Juniper’s hydrangeas.
When she passed, I wasn’t the only one who felt the loss. The town did too.
I stared up at Marigold’s house—myhouse, I had to keep reminding myself—every time I arrived home. The fuchsia hued roses had become sparse under my care, and the flowers wilted over their window boxes no matter what I tried. There was irony in the fact that the owner of Marigold’s Flower Shop had a knack for mangling flowers.
But I could take care of them just fine once they were cut. They were basically dead then, anyway.
I sighed and pushed the picket gate open with my hip, hurrying down the path and up the porch steps. The meeting at Captain’s Table was soon. I needed to focus on that, not the cloud of dread that loomed everyday with increasing urgency.
