Midnight Sunflowers (Sunflower Hill)

Chapter 1 Eve

EVE

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I storm out of my bungalow and into the sunflower fields, where a man dressed in blue work pants tucked into river waders hunches down to measure the water level of my stream.

At least, that’s what it looks like.

Next to him is another man in slacks and a dress shirt, his shiny, expensive-looking wristwatch glinting in the sun.

The whole thing inspires a churning feeling in my stomach that tells me my concerns were ignored when I stormed into the last town council meeting and demanded information about whatever is being “developed” next to my sunflower farm.

Unfortunately, it seems that whatever it is will be much worse than I imagined if they’re brazenly coming onto my land to measure my water level with zero notice.

“Hey!” I shout, the sound sharp against the backdrop of flowers all around us.

It’s the height of summer, the sunflowers in full bloom as far as the eye can see.

The river divides the farm from the preserve, the farm portion taking up the narrow strip of land bordered by the fifty-acre lot that was bought years ago by an LLC and left to rot, ownership ultimately unknown.

They turn to me as I storm over, the man in slacks raising his eyebrows at the crazy lady with last night’s messy bun deteriorating into wild tendrils around her face.

“Hi,” he says, smiling politely. He steps toward me, careful to avoid getting mud on his perfectly shined loafers, and holds his hand out to shake mine. “Ms. Harper, I presume.”

I cross my arms in lieu of shaking his hand.

If that bothers him, it doesn’t show. He simply slips his hand into his pocket with a polite nod.

“I’m Ryder Blackwell, owner of Blackwell Development. This is one of my contractors, Steve Murphy. He’s going to keep an eye on the stream and make sure water levels stay consistent.”

I blink. “Why would water levels not stay consistent?” I ask, but before he has a moment to speak, I realize why Blackwell Development sounds so familiar.

Box-like apartments that shoot up overnight. Thin walls, a reputation for shoddy work. Frequent plumbing issues and rampant pests.

“NO!” I shout, my finger raising in front of me to point at him in a bad habit that never fails to remind me of my grandmother, gently scolding me as a kid if I didn’t finish my homework or got mud all over the house.

“No. You are not building shitty apartments right next to my sunflowers. Are you kidding me?”

Only days ago, I went to the town council with a desperate plea for them to please guard the town’s namesake sunflower farm.

It’s not just sunflowers anymore—we have a wide variety of local vegetation that we protect, too—but the sunflower farm is why this town is here.

Why we have an official town flower and a sunflower festival and sunflower tours and scavenger hunts for the kids that center around the one hundred sunflowers you can find in the town square.

And that’s not even counting the gigantic sunflower mural my best friend Izzy was commissioned to paint along the wall of the local library that’s one of the town’s most popular attractions.

Yes, we are one big bag of crazy, but it’s our crazy.

And Mayor Reed promised me that the new development next door wouldn’t affect the sunflowers.

But gigantic box apartments would seriously ruin the aesthetic.

And considering a large portion of the farm’s revenue comes from influencers blasting pictures of themselves on social media, we cannot put crappy apartments next to the goddamn sunflowers.

Ryder Blackwell purses his lips, crossing his arms across his chest. “We’re not exactly in the business of building ‘shitty apartments,’ Ms. Harper.”

“Could have had me fooled. I’ve had friends who have lived in Blackwell apartments and they fall apart, you can hear your neighbors grunt when they shit, and there has been a non-zero number of cockroaches, which to me, is absolutely unacceptable.”

He nods, raises an eyebrow, and then steps toward me.

I lean backward as he reaches for my face, my nostrils flaring as I imagine biting the fingers that are now… brushing my hair out of my face?

What the actual fuck is happening?

Before I can catch up, he’s pulled two fingers away and holds them in front of me. “But roly-polies are acceptable?”

“I—” I start, taking the roly-poly from between his fingers. “I was cleaning up the backdrop,” I explain, running my opposite hand through my hair as if that will fix whatever’s going on up there.

“You have a… backdrop with a non-zero number of roly-polies?”

I shake my head, gesturing behind me at the strip of dirt road that runs along the edge of the sunflowers behind me.

“No, that’s the backdrop. That’s what we call it because that’s where everyone wants to take pictures, you know?

People like the path that winds through, but to get a picture that includes, like, the sheer size of the farm, everyone wants a picture on the little elevated area there.

But keeping it free of mud and bugs and dead sunflowers is a full-time job. ”

“Hence the roly-poly,” he says, eyeing the tiny guy in my hand.

“Hence my extreme displeasure that Blackwell apartments are going up directly next to my sunflower field and totally ruining the aesthetic that people are looking for when they come to this place. This is the Sunflower Farm of the town Sunflower Hill and Mayor Reed promised me that it would be protected. Which includes the revenue streams that allow me to keep this place functioning.”

He holds his hands up. “Okay, Sunflower,” he starts, the edges of his lips rising like he can see the little zip of fire the nickname sends down my spine.

And I’m struck by the way his smile reaches his eyes. Thick lashes, over warm brown irises. Dimples on each cheek that appear and disappear with every movement of his mouth. A dark five o’clock shadow that—if I weren’t so angry with him right now—I might imagine grazing against my bare skin.

And fuck me, the sunflower farm is working its magic on me, too.

Even after growing up in this place, there is nothing quite like the sight of a stupidly handsome man grinning at me beneath a cotton candy sunset and backlit by a hundred acres of sunflowers.

“First off, my apartments are not shitty. They’re economical,” he says, taking another step toward me so he can stare down his nose at me. “And I would check that attitude at the door because subsidized housing helps a lot of people.”

I can feel the crazy swirling in my own eyes. “Who is it helping to live in your apartments? You’re not helping anyone by giving people who are already struggling no choice but to live in your shitholes.”

“They could be without homes,” he says. “And even if my apartments were shitty, it’d be a hell of a lot better than spending the winter out in the cold.”

“Not much better if the heating doesn’t work.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Who are you hearing this from? Or are you just being difficult for the sake of being difficult?”

“No, I’m trying to figure out why some big shot developer is walking around my stream measuring stuff when you’re supposed to be avoiding doing anything that might hurt the sunflower farm.”

“We’re measuring the stream so we make sure we don’t hurt the sunflower farm.” He sighs. “Look, this stream crosses the property next door, and like you wished, we’re going to make sure nothing happens to it. We just have to divert it around the portion of the property we’re building on.”

I blink, my momentary delight at his mild exasperation disappearing in a split second. I glance down at the few feet of water running past us. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We have to divert the stream. We’re taking measurements to make sure we don’t disrupt it.”

I hold my hands up in front of me, the roly-poly emphasized between us. “You’re diverting my stream?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Only the portion on our land. And measuring what’s on yours. Like I said, to make sure nothing changes.”

My brain stumbles over itself as I struggle to imagine the implications. “You’re… how are you going to make sure nothing changes?”

“We’ll come back to measure it at regular intervals.”

I narrow my eyes. “So like, while you’re building you’re just going to come back to this spot and measure how deep the water is?”

He nods happily. “Yeah. You’ll probably see us a bunch,” he says, and then he holds that stupid meaty hand out again for me to shake.

“So really, I’d love to keep in touch. I don’t want to show up unannounced and get in your way, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate knowing what the plans are for the property next door. ”

I glance at his hand and then back up to those annoyingly warm brown eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

That good-natured smile returns to his face. “Your question?”

“What are you doing to prevent any changes to my stream?” When he opens his mouth to speak, I hold a hand up. “And if you’re going to say ‘measure,’ I suggest you not.”

He closes his mouth, pressing his lips together.

“When you say ‘measure,’ it sounds a whole lot like you’re building up a repository of evidence that the depth of the stream naturally changes over time.

The kind of evidence you’ll bring if little old me has to sue the big bad wolf because the lack of a stream kills the power to the charming, rustic barn that all the influencers stay at so they can post pictures of the sunflower farm and actually bring in the money to run this place. ”

He nods as he sighs, as if he’s finally understanding something. “You know, I was wondering what you were going on about at that town council meeting. Now I get it. You’re renting out the barn for publicity,” he says, and then eyes me. “Isn’t that against town policy?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Are you seriously coming onto my land, telling me you’re going to do nothing to protect my stream, and then blackmailing me on top of it all?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all, Ms. Harper.” He holds out his hand again. “Just giving you a multitude of reasons to be friends with me.”

“You’re not a friend. You’re a snake in the grass,” I tell him.

“You prance into this town like you own the place because everybody from Manhattan vacations here and it’s their quaint little country place outside the city.

But there are farmers who have been here for generations, my family included, that will not let you ruin it. ”

“Cute speech,” he says. “It’s a pity you couldn’t speak that well at that town council meeting.”

God help me, I point at him again. “I know that public speaking is not my strong suit, but you’re not going to embarrass me by pointing it out when you’re the one who’s been walking around all day with mud all down the back of your leg that looks like shit.”

“What?” he asks, instantly twisting so he can look at the back of his pants.

I take the opportunity to kick the unsteady rock he’s standing on, and with no other place to catch himself, he sticks one foot directly in the stream with a loud ack. His buddy Steve Murphy reaches out to steady him.

And I turn on my heel and run into my bungalow to plan his downfall.