Chapter One Lily
CHAPTER ONE
Lily
W ith an unbelievable amount of self-restraint, I resist turning the shocking letter I read into paper confetti. Instead, I toss it inside my thrifted shoulder bag and lock my office.
On my way to the sales floor, I pass by my mom’s empty office. Her door is shut—a more frequent occurrence since her doctor said she needed to take it easy because of her high blood pressure—and the plastic box nailed beside the white door is full of a few days’ worth of mail.
I spot the matching envelope to the one I received with the town’s crest on the upper left-hand corner. My vivid imagination gets the best of me, and I’m overwhelmed by images of my mom reading the notice tomorrow before she opens the flower shop for the day.
I can picture her breaking down when she learns how a condemnation act works. She’d spiral once she figures out that local governments are allowed to buy properties regardless if someone wants to sell or not, so long as there is appropriate, fair market compensation.
My mom and dad poured everything into turning this shop into their legacy, and I’ll fight anyone, including our small-town city council, who thinks they can buy out a few small businesses because of some antiquated amendment and turn them into fancy new storefronts.
Not wanting to second-guess my decision, I steal my mom’s letter and throw it inside my purse. It’s heavy from the weight of my rash choice, but I’d rather be the one to deliver the bad news.
Ditching the scene of my crime, I push on the swinging door that separates the offices, break room, and storage area from the sales floor. I’m hit with the fresh scent of flowers first, followed by the sound of soft music streaming from the hidden portable speakers.
The comfort I always feel whenever I walk into Rose & Thorn is quickly replaced by an emotional gut punch as I take in everything I stand to lose. My eyes well with tears as my watery gaze wanders around the small shop bursting with different roses, carnations, and other popular summer blooms.
The pristine shop is kept organized, allowing customers to navigate the endless amounts of color-coded buckets full of flowers and foliage so they can easily create their perfect custom bouquet—a Rose & Thorn experience I suggested five years ago—along with description cards placed in front of each bucket describing the name, origin, and possible meanings.
Our newest Rose & Thorn employee, Jane, picks the perfect time to look up from the flowers she’s rearranging at the front of the store. She is a sweet, young woman who moved here from Lake Aurora, a neighboring town that’s only a thirty-minute drive away.
“Everything okay?” Her brows knit together with worry.
I quickly smooth out my sour expression. “Yup. Got some mail from the IRS.”
Even if I wanted to tell Jane about the letter, I shouldn’t. Given the notice’s emphasis on discretion, I’d only anger the people who control our shop’s fate.
As a sign of good faith—I use the term loosely—the Ludlow family is willing to offer a hush-money check in exchange for a signed NDA. It is meant to be a bonus that encourages people to stay quiet until January when the forced sale is finalized and announced to the town.
Assholes .
Jane’s nose twitches. “I’d suggest shredding the envelope and pretending you never got it, but I believe that’s a crime.”
I laugh, but it rings a bit hollow. “Don’t tempt me.”
She brushes a hand down her Rose & Thorn embroidered apron. “I won’t tell on you if anyone comes knocking.”
“Your loyalty is appreciated.”
She returns to fixing the flowers while I stare out the window at Lavender Lane, which is ground zero for the city council’s reconstruction project.
The sun is slowly setting outside, casting our run-down street in a golden glow. It might not be the nicest, most popular part of the Historic District, but at this time of day, the hues of pink and orange make our humble little side street look like the most beautiful part of town.
“Are you sure you’re good with locking up later?” I ask, only to delay my departure.
Jane offers me another reassuring smile. “Absolutely. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got everything covered.”
I get going, but instead of heading to my car right away, I pause outside the store to take it all in.
While the other four storefronts need a serious makeover, Rose & Thorn stands out with its pink-painted bricks and striped awnings. My dad installed the window coverings himself, and it was one of many improvement projects he worked on in the store.
This season’s window display, which took me eight days to assemble, might be my favorite one yet. The melting ice-cream cones are made completely out of flowers, and they’ve been an absolute hit since I unveiled them last week, driving up foot traffic, sales numbers, and social media buzz.
My plan of having Visit Rose & Thorn on everyone’s Michigan bucket list is slowly coming together, and I’ll be damned if the city council thinks they can shut our doors for good.
Ignoring the ache in my chest, I turn away from the window and walk to my parked car located across the street. It’s stuffy inside thanks to the faded upholstery and constant exposure to the hot June sun, but it’s nothing that blasting the AC can’t fix.
I plug my key into the ignition and turn it, only for my heart to drop at the telltale clicking sound.
“No.” I groan while turning the key again.
The dead battery doesn’t respond to my second or third try, so I spend the next few minutes researching tips and tricks. By my fifth failed attempt, I give up on Google and pop the hood open.
My long, dark hair sticks to the back of my neck as I check out the engine. I’m not sure why I bother since I know next to nothing about cars, but I at least need to try to diagnose the issue before I text the family group chat asking for help.
I shoot daggers at the engine until the sound of shoes clapping against the sidewalk steals my attention. I’m about to wave the person down, only to stop when I find a pair of dark brown eyes already focused on me.
If eyes are the window to the soul, Lorenzo Vittori must lack one, because his blank stare gives absolutely nothing away. It remains emotionless as his eyes ever so slowly rove down my body—a reaction he can’t seem to help whenever I’m around.
Today’s outfit is bland at best, like most of my neutral colors lately. Ditching my bright clothes didn’t happen overnight, but rather it felt like I slowly turned the saturation down in my life.
Fashion is my favorite form of self-expression, and lately I want to keep that part of myself hidden away. I’m not sure for how long, but at least until I stop worrying that I’m too much .
After being vulnerable with one too many assholes, I’m done wearing my heart on my sleeve—both literally and figuratively.
My choice to dim my personality isn’t a confidence issue.
It’s a trust one.
If a man wants to get to know me, he needs to work for it. Then, once they earn my trust, I’ll whip out the pastel dresses, crochet tops in every color yarn, and my custom-painted sneakers with satin ribbons for laces.
Like usual, I expect Lorenzo to carry on with his day without acknowledging my existence, but I’m surprised when he heads directly toward me.
Something in my chest flutters , and I swear to God I’ve never hated the sensation more. Swooning over Laurence was one thing, but feeling lightheaded in his alter ego’s presence?
“Need some help?” he asks, the deep timbre in his voice sending a vibration rolling through my body.
“Nope.” I lean over and start fiddling with a cap of some sort.
He stops beside me, standing close enough for me to see the one tiny speck of dirt on his shoe.
How out of character for the perfectionist.
“I haven’t given it a try myself, but maybe if you turn that cap the wrong way long enough, it’ll finally come off,” he says, his amused tone grating on my fraying nerves.
My composure slips at the stupid smirk on his face, and my irritation flares. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
He checks his fancy platinum watch, which must be worth more than my monthly salary. “Not yet.”
A rarity coming from the man who is busy juggling a mayoral campaign and his small but growing venture-capitalist portfolio.
His gaze dips. “You’ve got a stain on your pants.”
I take a jump back with a gasp, the muscles in my neck spasming from how quickly I look down to assess the white linen material. “Where?”
He effectively slips through the gap and starts tinkering around underneath my hood. I never allow my stare to linger on him, but today I’m taken aback by his nearness.
Laurence—or should I say Lorenzo —once told me he liked cars, but I didn’t know he could repair them.
His dark hair falls in front of his eyes as he leans over to see something, and I’m tempted to comb it back.
Have you learned nothing?
I blame my lack of impulse control on his proximity. It’s disarming, being this close to him after months of avoiding each other, so my head is a mess.
I try to refocus on his actions. The ease in which he twists knobs and assesses engine parts with his phone’s flashlight distracts me temporarily, only for me to become entranced by how his bespoke suit bunches up around his muscles when he bends over to get a better look at something.
The view of his backside…I swear the man’s physique could’ve inspired Renaissance sculptors with a body like his.
His voice startles me, but it’s his narrowed eyes that make me want to die of humiliation.
Shit . My face turns hot.
What did he say?
When I don’t reply fast enough, Lorenzo raises a single brow. “When’s the last time you got an oil change?”
Oh .
I’m quick to look down at the metal stick in his hands. “Uh…let me see.”
I take the opportunity to add some distance and get a hold of myself. It’s a valiant effort that’s ruined when I accidentally brush against his back with my shoulder, sending sparks down my arm.
He bristles at the contact, adding to my embarrassment as I dart around him to check the sticker on my windshield.
I climb back out of the car with the grace of a newborn foal. “Looks like I went in May.”
“Of this year?”
I shake my head. “Last.”
“I guessed as much.” His lips, which look deceptively firm, mash together, and I’m reminded of what it felt to have his mouth pressed to mine.
The way my body tingled as soon as we touched.
I’m overwhelmed with an urge to flee him and the memory, but then he beckons me closer with a quick flick of his hand. “Come take a look.”
With shaky legs, I step forward until I’m close enough to smell the crisp, clean scent of his cologne. I’m a glutton for punishment, so I take another sniff because why the hell not? It’s not like things can get any more awkward between us.
“See this?” He holds up the stick with tiny markings.
Even with contacts, I need to squint to read it. “What am I looking at?”
He points at one line with an F . “This is where your oil should be.” His finger travels down the stick until it nearly reaches the end. “And this is where it is now.”
“I’m guessing that’s not great.”
“Unless your goal is to kill your engine, no. It’s not.”
I look up at the sky and pray for patience when Lorenzo shifts the stick so I can get a better look.
“See how it’s dark?” he asks.
“A bit hard to miss.” The bead of oil at the end of the stick is nearly the same shade as his eyes, hair, and today’s suit. He skipped out on wearing a tie, but I imagine it would match his doom-and-gloom aesthetic.
“That means you need to get it changed, along with your serpentine belt, which looks like shit, by the way.”
“I knew you loved collecting cars, but I had no idea you knew how to fix them too.” The comment slips out. Typically I pretend we hardly know each other, especially around my family, but I forgot myself.
He puts the metal stick back where it belongs before he stands to his full height and assesses his stained hands. “Do you have a rag or something?”
I pluck his fancy pocket square from his jacket and hand it over. “This looks like it could work.”
He grabs it with a fake smile. I ignore the way the tips of my fingers tingle when his brush against mine, just like I ignore the small jolt in my chest when he stares at his hand too.
He wipes engine grease from his well-manicured fingers and tosses the stained silk square into the trash bin next to us before asking, “When’s the last time you changed the battery?”
“Recently.”
“Are we talking in the current decade?” His smile grows, along with the pain in my chest. Countless times I’ve seen Vote Vittori lawn signs, street banners, and local television ads promoting his mayoral campaign, so I should be used to it.
My gaze drops to his mouth before I look back at the engine. “I’m going to grab my phone and call the mechanic. He can come out and take a look.”
“The shop’s closed already.”
“Great,” I mumble to myself.
He shuts my hood. “I can give you a ride home.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“In the middle of a heat wave?”
I give his suit a quick pass. “I don’t see you struggling.”
“This is nothing compared to Vegas.”
“Huh. And here I thought you spent the last two decades in hell.”
“Sure felt like it sometimes.” His light tone doesn’t match the dark, intriguing look in his eyes.
“Hm,” I reply while chanting we don’t care enough about him to ask what he means in my head.
“Do you want a ride or not?” He pulls out his key ring from the interior pocket of his jacket. “I don’t have a lot of time before my next meeting.”
I stare at him without saying anything.
“I’ll even call Manny on the way and ask him to come here first thing tomorrow morning.”
My brows rise. “I wasn’t aware that you’re on a first-name basis with the town’s mechanic.”
“He didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“Aw. Look at you making a friend. Should I warn him about what happens when anyone gets too close?”
“You and I were never friends.”
A sharp pain shoots through my chest. “Great. Since you cleared up that misunderstanding, you’ll understand why I don’t accept rides from strangers.” I curse to myself, knowing I revealed way, way too much about how hurt I am.
Feeling both embarrassed and annoyed at myself, I reach inside my car and grab my purse from the passenger seat. The white envelope peeking out makes my bad mood even worse, so I need to get out of here before I say or do something I’ll regret.
“Thanks for the help.” I lock up my car without looking at him.
“You hate me that much?” he says, low enough for no one around to hear us.
I start walking in the opposite direction without replying.
I don’t look back because I’m too afraid of my eyes revealing the answer to his question.