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“Fred Davis?”
She grimaces. “Yeah.”
“He hates me.” The owner of the only moving company in town has loathed me since I accidentally plowed over his award-winning flower bed while learning how to drive with my dad.
“I know he does, which is exactly why you’ll have Dahlia there to soften him up.”
Where Fred’s hatred for me has never wavered, his appreciation for Dahlia only blossomed after she singlehandedly saved the flower bed I nearly destroyed.
“I don’t need Dahlia’s help,” I say with a scowl.
“We both know you do, which is why I already sent her over to Fred’s with a basket of Alana’s baked goods and a fifty-dollar Holy Smokes BBQ voucher.”
Dammit.
“Look at these roses.” Dahlia flashes Fred a beautiful smile that makes the stunning flowers around her fade into the background. The usual tightness in my chest returns at the sight of her, making breathing a chore.
Will you ever get used to her being around?
Based on the uneven thump of my heart, the answer will remain a resounding no.
A twig snaps beneath my shoes, and her eyes flick over to me.
Fred turns on his heels, making his white-haired toupee flap from the sudden movement. “You.”
“Hey, Fred,” I say with a half-assed wave.
“If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll get lost before I go searchin’ for my granddaddy’s rifle.”
Dahlia muffles her laugh with the palm of her hand.
Glad one of us is amused.
I take a stab at being mature. “I want to be here as much as you want me here.”
“Then feel free to see yourself off my property.” He turnstoward Dahlia.
“Mr. Davis,” Dahlia says in that sweet-as-sin voice of hers. “The town could use your help.” She uses those damn puppy eyes again—all big eyes and batted lashes—turning poor Mr. Davis into her latest victim. I’ve seen her use the same kind of tactic repeatedly throughout our lives. When we were teens, I hated it because there wasn’t a situation Dahlia couldn’t charm her way out of.
No one stands a chance against her when she does that thing with her bottom lip.
Fred lasts three whole seconds before breaking down. “Fine. But only if Dahlia stays with the truck the whole time.”
“Of course!” She claps her hands together.
Fred disappears into the house.
Dahlia turns toward me with a wicked grin. “And that’s how it’s done.”
“So how long will the trip take?” Dahlia asks as I turn onto the main road leading into town.
The brakes squeal as the twenty-six-foot truck jerks to a stop. “What?”
She checks her phone. “The highway is congested because of construction, so we probably won’t get there until after the sun goes down.”
“You’re not coming with me.”
“What do you mean?”
