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They’re different.
A lot of Gram’s old pots and worn boxes are suddenly surrounded by shiny new brass-colored urns. Some are empty and some are already occupied with vibrant cold weather perennials.
Even with winter creeping in, it’s the first time since I got here that the garden looked truly green and alive.
Almost like it used to under Gram’s green thumb.
I open my mouth and try to speak, but he goes first. “Just had them brought over. The empty pots have all the seeds for next year recommended by a master gardener, the same guy who landscapes my place. And that’s not everything.”
I follow to where he’s pointing and gasp.
“What’s this?” I see a neat row of new pink bee boxes tied to the tree.
“If you’re keeping the name, I thought you might want honey for Bee Harbor next year. I already set up an order with a bee specialist for the spring. They’ll be delivered then, unless you cancel. Otherwise, we can plan on making our breakfasts with the best local honey again.”
We.
We.
This whole thing is so thoughtful, so beautiful it hurts.
Miles Cromwell, are you trying to torture me?
“It’s gorgeous. Really stunning, Miles,” I force out. “Everything I’d want with new plants.”
“No, ma’am.”
Another hot tear rolls down my cheek. He’s going to argue with me now?
“Oh?”
“They’re not new. They’re the same plants your grandmother always had in this garden. The bee boxes aren’t the same color, but you like pink, and I wasn’t buying them for Lottie.”
He put so much thought into this and he wants me to know it.
“I appreciate it. It’s a striking gift, but how do I know you’ve really changed? Plants can’t make up for what happened in Seattle.”
His eyes narrow. “Would I be here groveling myself into a crater if I hadn’t changed?”
“You sent Coffee and Cream gourmet treats once. You’re just generous. I know that. The problem is, I need consistency. I need a man who wants a partnership, who can be on the same page, and we’re like characters living different stories. You’re high fantasy, and me, I’m—well, too silly to tame fire-breathing dragons or find forbidden treasure.”
His puzzled look hardens as I shut up.
A crumpled line appears between his eyebrows.
His mouth is twisted, and for a second, I think he might lose his shit like I’m losing mine.
The tears are merciless now, drowning me in a clammy heat that’s so intense I’m blind, even through the rain sprinkling from above.
This is harder than it should be.
I only get through it by remembering the way he gutted me in Seattle.
“We’re neighbors, Miles, and it’s probably best we’re neighbors from a distance. We share a border, but there’s plenty of space. We can live on this coastline without ever having to speak to each other.”
“We can’t even talk?” His bewildered look slays me.
It’s dark and conflicted, pain dredged up from his core.
“It’s just—” I have to turn away to keep from bursting into ugly tears so cruel they won’t let me speak. “It’s too much. Too painful. Look, I want this as bad as you do. In another life where we could merge lives, maybe it could work. But now... now, it’s impossible, and one of us has to admit it.”
I can’t even see straight at this point. So I walk back inside alone, leaving him standing in the garden with the rain dousing his dark hair into an unruly crop against his head.
I don’t get any real work done.
As soon as I head back to the cottage, I grab a bottle of wine and start upstairs, biting my bottom lip to silence the ruthless heartbreak.
I wait for Coffee and Cream to settle next to me before I pop the cork off and drink straight from the bottle.
I’m beyond giving a damn at this point.
For the first time since the inn opened, I realize it’s my entire life, and I don’t want it to be.
The next morning the doorbell rings just before we open.
I assume it’s a new guest showing up to check in or a delivery. But I open the door to find a delivery man with a bouquet of roses arranged in a crystal vase.
“There’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any flowers.”
“Someone must have sent them. You’re Jennifer Landers, right? There should be a card,” delivery dude says.
So begins a daily ritual that lasts for over a week.
The flowers come so often I’m on a first-name basis with the delivery driver.
Marcos.
“I’m running out of space for these and I don’t want to toss them all outside,” I say a few days later. “Any chance you could start dropping them off at a local church or homeless shelter or something?”
“No can do. I gotta go where the delivery gets routed, lady. Sorry.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He hands me another bunch of roses bigger than my head.
