Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“That’s not what I mean.” His lips rise at the corners, giving that playboy smirk I love.
“Oh,” I whisper. Turning away and leaving me wanting more, he stops at the doorway.
“You coming?”
Both of us get into his truck and head to get flowers. Hopefully, we can get them in the ground while the sun is out because storms are on the way tonight. Heston has a new truck already, and just sitting inside I can see down into other cars passing by. The leather seats are polished and new give off the new car scent that everyone loves, and his steering wheel doesn’t look close to the one in his other truck.
“Do you want to go to Lowe’s?” he asks, shifting to his side, so he can see me better.
“Um…actually, I was thinking about checking out a place called Olive’s Flowers. It’s a smaller shop here in Fairview. I don’t really want to go to the city.” I express more emotion in my reply than I meant, but I can’t help it. You could compare my feelings for Charlotte to as a cold biting fear, reminding me I’m alone, no matter where I go in that damn city. I imagine my mother waiting in line for coffee and cussing under her breath. I can’t even pass someone asking for spare change because my mother would always give what she had in her purse. She’s everywhere there. I can’t go back without her. It’s not home anymore. It’s a reminder of everything I lost. Her.
“Their supply will probably be limited. Are you sure?” He raises a brow, the reflection of the clouds through the windshield swimming in his blue irises.
“Yeah. It’s fine.” I shrug with a smile. He reaches over his massive console, grasping my hand, and I can’t help the hard breath that rushes through me from his soft palm. With Luke Bryan’s “Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye” on the radio, the sun caressing the windshield, spreading warmth across my face, and the most handsome man I’ve ever met holding my hand in his brand-new truck, I can’t help but feel like this is all too perfect.
Pulling up to Olive’s, I can’t help but admire how simple and cute it is. A one-story brick shop with glass windows and a matching door propped open by an old tin watering can. Wooden barrels filled with flowers sit under the awning with fairy lights hanging above them. I inhale. Wet earth with a hint of sweetness fills the air.
An older woman comes through the door, her shoulders hunched, her hair once black but graying. Her green apron and bright yellow rain boots grab my attention, standing out like a daffodil in a dirt road.
“Hello. Can I help you find anything?” Her voice cracks with old age, but her eyes are bright emeralds, making her seem younger.
Heston looks to me, and I clear my throat.
“I’m just looking—”
“She needs pink flowers for her front yard,” Heston interrupts. His smile irks me, and I realize I’m scowling. He’s hellbent on me getting pink flowers, and I don’t want them. I mean, they’re nice, and he’s right about the color softening the image behind what’s living beyond our black door, but it’s not what Paige and I talked about. Our new house is the beginning of new memories and that night we picked the color was the first of many. I hope.
“Hmm…does your yard get a lot of sun or is it mostly shaded?” the old lady asks, staring out at the flowers as if one will speak to her.
“It’s mostly sun.” I think. I’ve only been there a couple days, so I don’t really know.
“I have one you might like.” She walks past us, her speed surprising me. The ol’ gal still has some pep in her step. As I follow her, I can’t help but notice some deep purple flowers that almost look black. Stopping, I look over at the cup-shaped blossom. Placing a dark silky petal between my thumb and index finger, I feel it, staring at its luscious green foliage. A tag hangs from the pot and I have to tilt my head sideways to read it. Queen of the Night tulip.
This one feels right. There’s a bond between us, and it dawns on me, this must be what
Anthophiles experience. It’s like a life breathing through your touch and rooting itself in your chest. It’s a motherly instinct.
“Rain!” My eyes snap up at Heston’s voice, finding him on the other side of a flower booth.
“This is the one,” the old lady says as I approach them, holding beautiful bright pink flowers climbing a stake.
“Wow,” I mutter, rubbing the petals between my fingers.
“It’s a Bougainvillea. A vine-like shrub. It longs for the sun and will grow bounties of beautiful flowers.”
“Do I put it in another pot or plant it in the ground?” I ask, mesmerized by how pretty it is. It almost looks fake.