Page 23 of My Faire Lady

Blowing out a long breath, I straighten my spine and pin back my shoulders. Kegs of mead line the back wall, and Lottie’s bag hangs from a coat hook, her stained clothes from that first day spilling over the edge. If she hadn’t tripped into me, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

The fates have a sick sense of humor.

Frankie’s face appears over the swinging door, and she smiles, giving me an approving nod. “Finally! I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.”

My stomach twists, and her face falls as she pinches her lip between her teeth. While she can’t read my mind, she’s known me long enough to pick up on my smallest cues. I press my tongue into my cheek and cross the room, shoving my hand against the doors.

They swing open, and the planks groan underfoot, the hem of my skirt catching on the splinters lying in the wood. It’s been less than a week since I last saw Lottie, but my brain conjured up every scenario of what it would be like seeing her again. The conversations we’d have. The long stories she’d share with me, if I was lucky.

I turn and find her sitting on the edge of the bar counter, reaching overhead as she hooks a hanging plant from the eave. She smiles at the flowers, dragging a finger over a lilac petal. As she lowers her gaze to me, the air leaves my lungs.

“Hey, Scarlet,” she says.

10

Igrip the counter until my knuckles blanch, fingernails digging into the worn underside of the lip. Tendrils of Scarlet’s auburn hair lift with a breeze, and the lie sours on my tongue.

But I couldn’t tell Frankie—one of Scarlet’s closest friends and my coworker—that I’ve dreamt of Scarlet’s lips every night this week.

Frankie gives Scarlet an appraising smile and turns to me, lifting a brow. My tongue turns to cotton as my gaze flutters over the embroidered vines sneaking over the swell of Scarlet’s chest; how her hair tangles with the ribbons. The sun, still rising from its home at the horizon, casts a warm glow over the side of her face, backlighting the curl of her bare eyelashes.

It’s not until she blinks that I find my heart racing.

She smiles and gives me a sidelong glance, not quite meeting my eyes. “Did you think I wouldn’t keep my side of the bet?”

Swallowing, I lower my feet to the floor and wipe my hands down the front of my skirt. I move to the corner of the bar and heave another hanging basket onto the counter, snapdragons and petunias hanging over the rim. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who backs down from anything.”

A shadow crosses her eyes, and she tilts her head, purposefully covering the scar cradling her brow. My fingers tighten on the pot, and if I weren’t hopelessly trying to calm my pulse, I’d tuck it behind her ear and tell her it’s one of the most beautiful things about her.

“The green suits her, doesn’t it?” Frankie says, her smile too bright.

Scarlet’s gaze finally holds mine, and something buzzes in the air between us, so visceral I could almost reach out and touch it.

I blink, hard, and focus my attention on the hanging basket as I chew on the inside of my cheek. “It’s beautiful on her.”

My words come out barely more than a whisper, and in my periphery, I catch her studying me.

I blow a lock of hair out of my face and add, “But I think I prefer the armor and chainmail.”

Her lips quirk at the edge, pressing a dimple into her cheek. I jerk my attention back to the flowers that neither make my heart race nor haunt my dreams. I wrap my hands around the woven basket and lift it, leaning over the edge of the rail. There’s a hook, high in the eave, but the rail is too thin to sit or step onto, and my reach is a few inches too short.

I narrow my eyes and rise to my toes, drawing my bottom lip between my teeth.

A hand brushes the small of my back.

“Let me help,” Scarlet says, her breath wafting over my neck.

She eases the basket from my hands, and as the backs of our knuckles brush, a shiver works its way down my spine.

I step back as she stretches her arms over her head. The muscles spanning her shoulders shift with the movement, and a blackbird charm dangles from her necklace. Her hair cascades down the length of her back as she hangs the basket on the hook.

Lowering to her heels, she smiles at the flowers, but it disappears a heartbeat later.

“Snapdragons were my mother’s favorite,” she whispers. “When I was young, she’d pinch their sides and pretend they were talking. We had a whole flowerbed of them.”

Warmth creeps into my chest, and I focus my attention on the petunia petals rippling in the breeze. “My grandmother kept a garden in our backyard, and after she passed, I took it over. There are so many empty flower boxes here, that I thought I could rehome some.”

She considers for a moment, then, “Do you grow lavender?”