The Staying Kind (The Bluebell Cove #1)

Chapter One

I had three dollars to my name, and I just spent all of it on coffee.

Technically, it went in the tip jar—Rachel never let me pay—but the black hole in my wallet didn’t care why it was there.

“Thank you,” I sang as she slid my white mocha across the counter—so sweet anyone sensible would’ve worried about their blood sugar.

She lifted a brow. “You’d be a lot less tired if you hadn’t insisted on making five new vases last night.”

“Sorry,” I replied, sending her a sheepish grin. “But I did tell you I could’ve taken a taxi home.”

“Are you serious? Marigold would’ve come back to haunt me.” Her eyes widened in mock-paranoia as she glanced behind her, wiping tattooed hands on the rag drooping from her apron.

Basically my cool older sister that I looked nothing like, Rachel was always there for me, with that special brand of loyalty that never filled me with guilt. I appreciated that more than she knew.

I smiled and brought the mocha to my lips, relishing my daily guilty pleasure that would no doubt make me crash in a few hours.

Some of the shops in Bluebell Cove leaned into the classic nautical theme—tourists loved that—but the Morning Bell was in its own league.

With vintage art lining the walls, mismatched furniture, and an art deco ceiling, it felt more like a retreat for poets than a coffee shop in a sleepy coastal town.

“I’ve got someone coming by soon about the Summer’s End Festival, so I can’t hang out,” I said, turning to the door with a wave. “Thanks for the coffee!”

“Why don’t you come by later?” Rachel called at my back. “It’s open mic night!”

My heart skipped, and my smile faltered, before I recovered and whirled on my heel. “Can’t, I’ll be at the diner!”

I didn’t wait for a response before bursting out the door and across the street.

Anyone under the age of eighteen used the Morning Bell as their watering hole, usually walking from school or camping out with a pile of homework.

Years of my life were spent there, relaxing with my best friends on the cluster of corner couches and pretending like we weren’t supposed to be in class.

But times had changed—everything had.

On the other side of Main Street, tucked between the Button Jar and Gulliver’s Books, was Marigold’s Flower Shop. A faded blue-and-white awning hung over the towering storefront windows, hopefully beckoning passersby with rows of potted ferns on the sill and an orange, hand painted sign.

I found the ring of brass keys at the bottom of my jean pants pocket. Sucking in a sharp breath, I jiggled it into the doorknob and hoped for the best. The lock was older than I was, and it reminded me every morning.

The hinges squealed in protest as I slid through the doorway, huffing a copper curl out of my eyes.

My hands moved of their own accord as I prepared Marigold’s for the day.

Floorboards squeaked underfoot, reminding me of their age as they flexed and shifted with every step.

I made swift work of setting out new arrangements, watering the potted greenery and discarding wilted stems from the floral cooler.

Before I knew it, my mocha was gone, and golden daybreak had burned off into the lemon hue of midmorning.

I leaned on the counter by the register, tapping my fingers against my thigh as I watched customers begin to trickle into the Morning Bell across the road.

Humming, I plastered on a wide smile as the clock struck eight and I hurried over to prop the door open.

Today was going to be good. Today would be better, at least.

As I strode back to the counter, though, I spotted another puddle on the floor by the window. My heart sank. The storm last night had been bad, but I didn’t think it was heavy enough to spring a brand new leak in the roof.

I was rubbing my temples and executing mental calculations beyond my comprehension when someone called my name.

“Hey, Frank,” I mumbled without looking.

“Another leak?”

I shrugged. “It’ll be okay.” Even if I didn’t believe it.

Frank pushed the stainless steel trolley inside, clipboard under one arm. The order was small—the cheapest blooms, mostly greenery, and just one bucket of roses. I’d called it in myself, but seeing the empty shelves still made my palms clammy.

“How’s Janice?” I asked, needing a change of subject.

“Much better.” His silver mustache twitched into a grin. “New meds have her back in the flower fields with me every morning.”

Relief softened my chest. “I’m glad. Tell her I miss her.”

He nodded, unloading buckets with a grunt. “You gearing up for the festival?”

“Yeah. Someone’s coming by about booth construction. Apparently, he’s been doing it for twenty years.” I sniffed a rose, half-distracted. “Just another thing I don’t know about running the festival.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. You love this stuff.” He tapped his clipboard, already wheeling out. “See you next week!”

“Say hi to Janice!” I called.

Alone again, my shoulders sagged. Being in charge of community events was a dream come true—but how could I enjoy it when the shop was crumbling around me?

Shaking my thoughts away, I plucked a few stems from the buckets and set them aside.

My grandmother always loved creating one wild, vibrant arrangement to set by the register. Customers would stare—sometimes in confusion rather than love—but they never failed to spark a conversation. It was the first responsibility I was trusted with when I got older.

I still remember how she loved that I always reached for the most unique flowers or the least appreciated colors.

“We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I,” she’d say, blue eyes sparkling beneath thick-framed, clementine glasses.

I wanted to believe it was true. There would be nothing better than being like Marigold, the force-of-nature who swept through life and never met a problem she couldn’t knock down. As the years stretched on, though, our differences seemed more and more undeniable.

My grandmother would never be stuck just keeping her head above water. She had an uncanny knack for unsticking herself.

Chugging the half-melted remains of my mocha, I gathered my wits—however many remained—and began to fill the cooler with fresh flowers.

Dwelling on the negatives had no use, like the suspicious water stains on my walls that seemed to grow every morning or my overdue credit card bill.

I had work to do. Nothing would change unless I made it.

I was humming the melody to my favorite song and building a mini arrangement when a knock sounded on the open doorway. In an instant, an automatic smile stretched across my lips, and I clapped my hands together.

“Welcome to Marigold's!" I cheered before I looked up and studied my customer.

The man stood in the entrance as if there was a rod fused to his spine. He stared at me, dark hair neatly cropped and seemingly glued in place, starched denim shirt practically filling up the open door frame. Whoever he was, he wasn’t from the Cove.

And something told me he wasn’t here to buy flowers.

“Are you Marigold?” he questioned, observing me with what could only be open disinterest.

“No, that was my grandmother,” I replied, slowly edging around the counter. “Can I help you with anything?”

“I’m Rhett Briggs.” He took a single step inside, floor shifting beneath his thick work boots. His face turned wary as he studied the board in question. “The handyman,” he explained to his feet.

“Oh! Nice to meet you!” My hand shot out as I strode toward him. The sudden scrutiny over the bendy parts of my shop that weren’t necessarily supposed to bend made my stomach twist. “My name’s Georgette. Friends call me Georgie, though.”

Rhett’s hand swallowed mine in a brief, firm handshake.

“I thought you would be—” I paused, trying not to stare too long. “Older?” I finished.

If he didn’t appear hellbent on nitpicking every nook and cranny of the store, I might have begrudgingly admitted that the breadth of his shoulders and penetrating darkness of his eyes made him altogether infuriatingly handsome.

“It’s my uncle’s business,” Rhett responded matter-of-factly, making it clear he’d provide no further explanation. “Where would you like to meet about the end of summer event?”

“Here’s fine.” I motioned around us. “There’s no one to watch the shop for me.”

My face heated in a flush of embarrassment as he swept his discerning gaze across the store as if to say, “This place is a ghost town.” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I rushed to the tiny backroom, dumped the water from the empty buckets into the sink, and carried them back out.

He continued to watch me, silent, as I turned them over to make stools.

“We can sit here.”

I noted absently that I was much too out of breath for the situation, and I probably looked like a frizzy-haired, red-faced lunatic.

Rhett blinked. “I prefer to stand.”

My blush deepened. “That’s perfectly alright! Do you want to take notes?”

In response, he pulled out his phone and a stylus from his back pocket.

“Okay then—” I cleared my throat and tucked an invisible strand of hair behind my ear.

“Twenty businesses are participating, and most of their booths barely survived the last festival. There’s also some leftover money from Fourth of July for new tables in the communal dining area.

Nothing fancy.” Hesitating, I waited for some sort of response, but he didn’t look up from the screen.

“The last tables finally reached retirement age, you could say,” I added with a weak laugh.

Silence. I worried my bottom lip between my teeth and wrung my hands together. There was a final flourish of taps before he slipped his phone back.

“Was that all?” Rhett raised a single brow at me.

“Well… yes. I suppose. Until tonight.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what was the purpose of this meeting?”

“I— It’s my first year as the head of community events, and…” My mumble tapered off pathetically as his scrutinizing eyes caught a spot by the windowsill.

I was too flustered to stop him as he stealthily approached, as though he was a hunter and my leaking roof was his prey. He crouched, swiped a single finger across the damp floorboard—why hadn’t I dried that yet?—and his jaw tightened.

“How long has there been a leak?”

When our gazes met, he looked like a disappointed parent.

“The summer storms have been really bad,” I explained miserably, knowing that wasn’t really the case. It had almost been an entire year since I noticed the first puddle, and the state of my bank account had only become increasingly dismal since then.

“And your awning out front is practically hanging by a thread,” he continued as though he was reciting a grocery list.

“Yes, I’m going to get that fixed.”

Rhett stood, watching me with indifference. “This shop is a health hazard.”

For a second, I wanted to defend the place—not because he was wrong, but because admitting he was right felt like confessing that I failed her.

“Well, you’re a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” I muttered under my breath, turning away before he could see the darkening hue of scarlet spread across my face.

Where did that come from? I was never hostile, and everything he had said was true. Hearing it from a stranger’s mouth, though, in a tone completely lacking any shred of sentiment, made it feel like a punch to the gut. And those cool, unaffected eyes made me want to punch back.

Bending behind the counter, I gathered a breath and rose.

“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be going,” Rhett said, looking anywhere but at me. He didn’t wait for my response before striding out the door.

“Yeah, thanks a lot.”

If he noticed the unintended sarcasm, he didn’t show it. I watched through narrowed eyes as he stepped outside the shop and poked at the arm of my awning. Just when I was about to yell at him—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d yelled at anyone—he shook his head and made his way up Main Street.

Rhett Briggs was an out-of-towner, alright—and decidedly not infuriatingly handsome. Just infuriating.