CHAPTER FIVE – LILY
The next afternoon I’m in the process of showing a couple of college kids how to use the floral shears when I catch a hint of black cherries and fall leaves in the air.
I spent a restless night thinking about everything Tristan said, and a frustrating ten minutes in the shower replaying his slow, wicked smile, but nothing takes my breath away like turning around and finding Otley James standing behind me.
My scent match.
Even here, surrounded by nature’s perfume factory, his tantalizing scent permeates my every pore. Decade-old memories of heated bodies and greedy mouths flash through my mind, and I have to wrap my arms around myself so I don’t stagger into his embrace.
Because he’s Tristan’s mate. Not mine.
If I have any doubt of that, I just need to remember them in their matching bathrobes with kiss-flushed skin and freshly-fucked hair.
“What are you doing here?”
The suspicion is so thick in my voice, the college kids look at me in surprise and sidle away with their shears.
But Otley just shrugs, one thumb tucked in the pocket of his designer jeans.
He’s wearing a light blue button-down shirt with the sleeves carefully rolled back, and a pair of expensive boots that are so new they squeak as he rocks back on his heels.
After Tristan went to such pains to tell me that Otley dresses for the occasion, I have to wonder what he’s here for.
Please, please, please don’t let it be to serve me with legal papers.
“Tristan said you had a staff shortage.” He looks around, and it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking since he’s swapped out his wire-framed glasses for mirrored ones. “What can I do to help?”
I’m sure that my feelings are written all over my face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. James.”
“Otley,” he corrects me, a hint of sourness in his black cherry scent. “There has to be something I can do. It’s clear you’re soon going to have more demand than you can supply.”
Of course he has to wave his business acumen in my tired and sweaty face.
Most customers are too busy cooing over the pretty flowers to think of the process behind getting them into their buckets.
Like I told Tristan, it’s hard, grueling work.
But this operation is small potatoes to a guy who has two fortune 500 companies, and trades businesses like they’re playing cards.
Calling his bluff, I lift my chin and try to ignore my flushed reflection in his shades. “What's your hourly rate, then?”
“For you?” He tilts his head, and I can feel his gaze taking me in, even though I still can’t see his damned eyes. “How about I offer the family and friends rate?”
Is he trying to get a bucket to the side of his head?
“Well, I guess that’s better than suggesting a mate’s rate.” The snarky comment has barely left my lips before I’m kicking myself for making it. I’m supposed to be convincing Otley that this is all business, not waving my bruised heart around like a red flag.
The problem is it physically hurts to turn my back on him.
He might be Tristan’s mate, but his scent is still imprinted on my brain, calling to me like a literal serpent in my garden.
I know he rejected me when I needed him most, and I know he’s a danger to the life I’ve built in the years since, but it seems that biology trumps self-preservation.
One sniff, and my needy little heart is dying for more.
I smother a groan as I mount the porch steps, only to hear his boots right behind me.
I bustle behind the counter on the excuse of grabbing water from the fridge.
Of course, my good manners have to strike again, and I find myself sliding a second bottle his way.
“You need to stay hydrated. We don’t have those cooling breezes you get back in LA. ”
“San Francisco,” he says quietly, cracking the lid and taking a long drink. “I’ve been based there since college.”
I raise a brow at that, my hands slippery on the damp bottle. “Not UCLA, then.”
Color stains his cheeks and he finally takes off his sunglasses, tucking them into the neck of his shirt. “No. I was at Stanford when we met. And Ellis was-.”
“Getting ready to break hearts on the big screen.”
“I’m sorry, Lily.”
Words I waited a long time to hear, but they do little to calm the heat prickling over my skin. “Why did you lie?”
“I was being… cautious. I thought we had time to get to know each other after your heat.”
I wave a hand to cut him off. Rehashing my heat is most definitely not on the agenda for today. “I guess it’s hard to hide your true identities when you’re dating supermodels and making magazine covers.”
If he hears the accusation in my voice, he doesn’t show it. “That’s just the media machine. It’s not who we are.”
I rub at the ring of condensation my bottle has left on the counter, but I can feel those dark gray eyes boring into me. “Really?”
“If I could do it again, I’d have told you everything, Lily.”
I shrug, but I really don’t want to hear any more of his half-assed apologies. Not until I get over the shock of seeing him, and the fear of why he’s really here.
Snapping the lid back on my water bottle, I slam it down on the counter, harder than I intended. “Do you actually know anything about farming? Or flowers, for that matter?”
He frowns at the change of topic but drops his gaze to the farm map tacked to the counter. “I read a couple of books on horticulture before we moved out here. And I have a ranch in Colorado, if that counts.”
“Do you work it yourself?”
“We have a manager, since we don’t get out there nearly as often as we’d like.”
Which puts him somewhere between a hobby farmer and a weekend rancher. “Well, buying Willow Manor isn’t going to give you more time in Colorado.”
He grunts at the obvious observation and steps towards a corkboard on the wall, covered in business cards and well wishes from happy customers. But his gaze is fixed on a picture of a horse, carefully drawn with the Derwent pencils Rosie bought Leo for his sixth birthday. “Did your son draw this?”
“Leo's really creative,” I reply, my chest clenching now that his name is out there, between us. “Right now, he’s all about baseball and soldiers, but every time he picks up a pencil, he creates something beautiful.”
I’m not sure why I’m sharing these insights with him, but Otley gives me a grateful glance. “He's really talented.”
“If a little inaccurate.” I nod my head at a Polaroid of a horse that’s tacked under the picture.
“Hercules was ancient even before he got sick, but Leo loved him so much, he couldn’t bear to draw any of his flaws.
He died a year ago, and Leo hasn't ridden since. Barely picked up a pencil, for that matter.”
Otley frowns again. “I’m sorry you both had to experience that.”
“Like I told Tristan, this is a working farm, and Leo knows the score.”
It isn’t true. Leo was heartbroken for weeks and I was devastated that I couldn’t take away his pain. Otley’s gaze lingers, but I’m fresh out of tender moments. I also need to get out of the store before I forget that the June air isn’t supposed to smell like fall leaves and warm cherry cobbler.
“If you really want to help, you can come make some deliveries with me.” I grab the truck keys from under the counter, texting Marion to get one of the field hands to cover the store.
It’s less than an hour to closing, and we’ve got good at stretching our team to cover the busiest parts of the day, so I know she’ll make it work.
I’m also pleased to see that the truck is already loaded with the afternoon’s deliveries, the invoice sheet propped on the dash.
Most of the business is computerized now, but in a town as remote as Knotty Falls, the reception can be patchy, and it never hurts to have a paper copy on hand.
“This should take about an hour,” I tell Otley as he settles in the cab beside me. “These customers are all part of my regular run, so if you want a tour, you’ll have to hire someone else.”
Otley settles his shades on his patrician nose. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already scoped out the places I’m most interested in.”
I bite my tongue on a smart retort and focus on leaving the farm without mowing down any of our customers.
When we’re out on the highway, grit and dust swirl up off the road and Otley rolls up the window.
The air-conditioning isn’t the best, and I’m suddenly conscious of his scent filling the cab.
Within less than a mile, I can taste warm, masculine skin on the back of my tongue, and I’m glad there’s just enough of Logan’s scent hanging in the air to keep me grounded.
The first stop is on the edge of town, and I flush as I realize it’s a delivery of sweet cherries – Otley’s signature scent.
The Krusty Kob Bakery is famous for its pies, and even though they’re now big enough to buy from the large commercial farms, they still take as much produce as we can give them.
Sarah, a third-generation baker, comes out to greet us when she sees my truck pull up, her apron speckled with flour, and her cheeks rosy from the ovens.
She gives me a cheerful wave, but her eyes grow wide as she spies Otley hefting a box of cherries out of the back of the truck.
“Has Christmas come early?” she purrs in my ear as I give her a one-armed hug, careful not to transfer flower sap and soil smears onto her apron.
“Hey, Sarah.” I ignore her teasing question. “How’s business?”
“Hectic, just like yours.” Her brows shoot into her hairnet as she watches Otley carry the box to her back door. “Looks like your help ad has paid off nicely, though.”
“He’s the new owner of Willow Manor,” I say abruptly. Sarah is a lot more charming than I am, her smile lighting up her face as she extends her hand in Otley’s direction. “Otley James, this is Sarah Bukanen. Her bakery has won more awards than any other in the state.”