Page 6

Emily Piper had been Sunshine for as long as I could remember. It fit her so well that sometimes Emily sounded like the nickname.

Marion answered to Bluebell too. She was sweet as ice cream, pretty as the flower, tiny and blonde and deceptively delicate-looking for a woman who’d raised five Bishop boys without being eaten alive.

“Man candy on aisle five!” I called out.

Sunshine smiled mid-word but kept talking quietly on the phone.

Marion laughed. “Which one? Mr. Paisley, Mr. Strokes—”

There was only the faintest hint of Texas in her voice, the same as my mother's. You heard it more when they were tired or annoyed.

“Ew.” I made a face. We did not agree on the hotness of Mr. Strokes. He had a porn ’stache. I didn’t get the appeal, no matter how popular mustaches became. “And neither. It’s Mr. Mann.”

“Oh, nice. That one’s a treat. Might have to go arrange some flowers out front for a minute, take in the view.”

Marion snapped her fingers once toward Sunshine and mouthed, “Mr. Mann.” Mom waved her off without breaking her call.

We shared a grin. “That’s why I told you. You’re welcome.”

“You always were my favorite child.” She smiled.

“I know.” I blew her a kiss and headed back out.

I rang up a sweet old lady buying a small bunch of daisies.

I was writing out a personalized card for her friend Ethel when the bell over the door chimed.

When I straightened from my task, I saw that Clayton had walked in.

He’d clearly come straight from practice, still in a rumpled team T-shirt and mesh shorts.

“Hey, Clayton,” I called to him.

The nicknames had started with our parents. They'd been friends for almost twenty years and had been calling each other Buck, Riot, Sunshine and Bluebell for nearly as long. By the time the rest of us came along, apparently naming your children once wasn't enough.

Most of us answered to at least two names. I couldn't remember it ever being any other way.

I sent him a smile and a small wave. His arrival meant I was almost done with my shift. Sunshine wouldn’t let me work past six on a school night, on account of my homework.

My smile wavered a bit as Declan walked in behind him.

There it was again.

The rush.

My body knew him before I had properly looked at him.

It always did.

He wore dark athletic shorts and a gray team shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. At six-four and some change, he was the biggest of the brothers, dark blond hair damp from practice, golden skin, pale hazel eyes set in a face that was hard everywhere except his mouth.

I turned my attention back to the sweet old lady.

“Who shall I put it from?” I asked her, pen poised.

“Marie, thank you,” she said, beaming at me. “You know, I only came here because I heard about your handwritten notes. I must say, I love the personal touch.”

I smiled at her, trying to pretend my attention was on anything but the two huge brothers walking up behind her. “I’ve been practicing calligraphy since I was twelve. My mom insisted. I guess she was thinking ahead.”