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“No worries,” Joanne said, nodding and giving me a look of sympathy that stirred up even more of those emotions I wasn’t equipped to handle. “I’ll be down here if you want any company. Whenever you’re ready, we can start going over the paperwork and day-to-day stuff with the shop.”
If she was holding a grudge over our awkward first meeting, at least she was being professional about it. We’d had our little misunderstanding, followed by a couple of minor disagreements, and now… hopefully we were good?
The warmth in Joanne’s gaze said yes, and I was just going to assume that was the case unless she told me otherwise.
I was going tohopethat was the case.
I might not really know Joanne, but I liked the way she had made me feel—at least before I had opened my mouth and ruined it. Calm. Relaxed. Peaceful. They were new feelings for me, and I wanted more of them.
And honestly, I respected a woman who could speak her mind but still be open enough to other opinions that she didn’t get too worked up about it.
Maybe that was the kind of personality it took to work with Henry for so many years.
Or maybe Joanne was just a good actor.
Maybe she was a damn saint.
I couldn’t tell, and for a first meeting—despite the pull I felt to earn more of Joanne’s sunshine—I didn’t really need to know the depths of the woman’s soul. It wasn’t like we were going to be spendingthatmuch time together. Even if the thought came with a pang of disappointment, I had to remember that I was just there to figure out how to unload the flower shop as quickly as humanly possible so I could get on with the rest of my uncertain future.
Chapter Eight - Brady
I looked around the small living room of my dad’s old apartment. The beige recliner that I was pretty sure was at least fifteen years old. The plaid couch that even I—who had lived in hotels for years—could objectively say was hideous.
It was all very 1980s, and all very Henry Davis.
Everywhere I looked, every detail of the apartment reminded me that I was intruding on my dad’s space, that I wasn’t supposed tobethere.
And I wasn’t, really.
My life was supposed to be in Atlanta, in the NFL. Henry was the one who was supposed to be here—in his shabby old apartment with the ugly, threadbare furniture.
I took a few steps to the kitchen table and picked up the stack of unopened mail my father’s accountant had been bringing in. Even without opening any of it, it was easy to recognize that most of the envelopes in my hand contained bills. I shuffled through the envelopes. Bills from the hospital, from the funeral home, from credit card companies.
Jesus.
With a heavy sigh, I tossed the stack of bills—still unopened—back where I’d found them. There was no way I was up to going through all ofthatat the moment.
I glanced back at the door, half-expecting the old man to come barging through and demanding to know what I was doing there; telling me to keep my mouth shut and mind my own business, like he’d done so many times in the past.
But of course, that wasn’t going to happen. Dad wasdead.
The reality was that I wasn’t intruding in my father’s space right now. The furniture that I didn’t want to sit on and the mail that I didn’t want to open—the desk in the corner and everything in it, the clothes in the closet—all of it wasmine.
The apartment.
The shop downstairs.
Joanne, the cute-as-fuck employee.
All mine now.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment.How hard could it possibly be to go and sort through my dad’s old stuff?
I’d naively thought that it might take a couple of hours to get rid of the things I didn’t want, and then I’d spend the rest of my time living rent-free in the little apartment… at least until I sold the place and moved on.
Now, though? Looking around and seeing it all first-hand was a little overwhelming. The feeling that my dad was actually watching me—judgingme, like he always had—was palpable. And the thought of spending the night in my dad’s bed, with my dad’s old sheets?
A shiver went up my spine and my knees buckled, causing me to reach out for the doorframe in support.
