Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sophie
“If I bring you a latte, will you feed me cookies for breakfast?”
Willa yawns into the phone. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse. Come on over. I’m up.”
I pocket my phone as I shuffle forward in the line at Serendipi-Tea. It’s early on a Tuesday morning, and I have final design plans I’m supposed to submit by noon, but I’m nearly finished. Finished enough that I can absolutely spend a few hours with Willa before I add the final touches to the design.
The senior designers are probably going to overhaul the whole thing anyway. Well. Maybe overhaul isn’t the right word. More like they’ll keep all the infrastructure but gut the project of anything that gives it character. I’ve been told my designs are a little too whimsical for my firm and I’d increase my chances of advancement if I could “dial it back” a little.
I’d like to tell them what they can dial. My designs are whimsical. That’s what makes them so amazing. Everything else that comes out of Trowbridge and Associates is as boring as Leonard Trowbridge himself.
Still. It’s a decent job. A steady paycheck. And the convenience of working from home is amazing. If I can stick to my three-year plan, saving and paying down my loans, once everything is paid off, I’ll have the freedom to find something else, maybe even branch out on my own. Until then, I just have to deal with senior architects sucking the heart and soul right out of my terraced gardens in favor of right angles, retaining walls, and orderly boxwoods.
It’s finally my turn, and I step up to place my order. I add a couple of breakfast sandwiches, hoping at least a little protein will offset the many, many grams of sugar I plan to consume as soon as I reach Willa’s. Probably too little too late, but I still have plenty of time to make healthy dietary choices.
And I will.
When I’m thirty.
With breakfast in hand, I return to my car and drive the short distance back to The Serendipity where I park, then take the grand staircase up to the second floor.
Willa opens her door after just one knock and motions me inside. The scent of sugar and vanilla fills my nose. She doesn’t even bake up here, but somehow, her apartment still smells like a giant sugar cookie. Or maybe she smells like a cookie? Either way, I love it almost as much as I love her.
I hold up the bag. “I brought us protein.”
“Look at you being healthy.”
“I’m not sure sausage, eggs, and cheese layered inside a croissant qualifies as healthy, but Peter is always telling me I should have protein before I have my carbs, so…I guess I’m trying?”
“Peter is too logical for his own good,” Willa says as she moves into the kitchen. She holds out a tin of unfrosted sugar cookie pieces—all the discarded broken bits left over from her bakery business. A dish of frosting already sits on the counter—because Willa knows I won’t eat her cookies without it.
“True,” I say using a boot-shaped cookie piece to scoop up a dollop of frosting. “Peter is too logical for his own good.”
“How is he, by the way?” Willa asks. “I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever.”
At her question, my mind shifts back to Saturday night when Peter and I watched a few episodes of Ted Lasso . When we snuggled and watched Ted Lasso . Usually, whenever we hang out, Peter is pretty reserved when it comes to touching. He doesn’t get weird about it, but he doesn’t really initiate it either. I’ve always just assumed he’s not as touchy-feely as I am. But that night, he leaned in like he’s never leaned in before.
And I—weirdly—really liked it.
I don’t admit this to Willa, though, because she will absolutely turn it into something it is not.
“He’s good,” I say instead. I settle onto a barstool and pull the sandwiches out of the Serendipi-Tea bag and hand one over to Willa. “He’s been focused on a big project at work that’s sucked up all his time. That, and moving all his stuff out of his parents’ house.”
“That’s right. They’re moving soon, aren’t they?”
I nod. “It’s happening so fast. And Peter won’t really talk to me about it. I know he’s bummed.”
“They’re close?”
“So close. They genuinely like to hang out together. I think he feels like he’s supposed to be happy for them, so he’s not letting himself be sad, and that’s making him all weird and stuff.”
Willa lifts an eyebrow. “Why did you just blush when you said weird and stuff ?”
I lift my hands to my cheeks. “I did not blush.”
“Yes, you did,” she says back. “And now it’s getting worse, so there’s definitely something you aren’t telling me.”
I roll my eyes. “No, there isn’t.”
“Sophie. Spill it,” Willa says, her tone leaving zero room for argument.
I huff out a breath. “It really is nothing. It’s just—we hung out on Saturday night, and Peter was—I don’t know. He was super clingy. Sitting closer than he usually sits. Touching me more.” I reach for another cookie. “Not that I minded. You know me. I’m happy hugging total strangers. But Peter isn’t like that, so it just felt…odd.”
“You and Peter never touch?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No, it’s not like that. We do. But it felt more intentional somehow? I’m usually the one who initiates, but he totally was. Giving me foot rubs, putting his arm around me. Plus, he asked me to go with him to pick up the rest of his LEGO collection. That’s a thing he would usually want to do by himself.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he prefers to do most things by himself.”
Willa laughs. “You guys really are polar opposites.”
“That’s why he’s so good for me,” I say. “He makes me slow down and be still. And I remind him he doesn’t actually hate people and socializing can be fun.”
Willa opens her breakfast sandwich and takes a big bite. “Oh, gosh, this is amazing,” she says through a mouthful of food. “Tell Peter thank you for making you order protein.” She swallows, then takes a sip of her latte before saying, “So, I’m guessing by your earlier blush that you know what I’m going to ask you, right?”
I dig into my own breakfast sandwich, because she’s right, and I’ll happily delay her question as long as possible. The sandwich really is delicious, and I let out a little moan, surrendering to the momentary distraction, then chase the bite with a sip of my latte.
“You can ask,” I finally say, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you a different answer.”
“Come on,” Willa says. “You guys seriously have so much chemistry. I just don’t buy that you’ve never thought about dating him.”
I breathe out a sigh. Willa and I have this conversation every few months, usually when I’ve had a bad date and feel like complaining about the sad selection of men in Serendipity Springs. Her argument every single time is that I could save myself a lot of trouble by dating the guy who already loves me.
Which…Peter and I do say I love you to each other. But only in a friend way. It would be colossally weird for him to actually catch feelings.
Wouldn’t it?
“It just doesn’t work that way,” I say, pushing my uncertainty away and reaching for my tried-and-true argument yet again. “He’s my best friend. We’ve always been best friends. It would be stupid to mess that up.”
“It just doesn’t work that way?” she repeats as she rolls her eyes. “Says who? Maybe he’s acting a little differently because he’s into you, and you’re just being stubborn.”
My heart rate increases the slightest bit as I think about how good Peter smelled on Saturday night. About the weight of his arm around my shoulders, the gentle press of his thumbs into my tired feet.
Ten years of friendship, and Peter has never given me a foot rub before.
“That is absolutely not what’s happening,” I say, but even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice.
“What makes you so sure?” she asks.
“The fact that I am absolutely not Peter’s type.”
“Does Peter even have a type?” Willa asks. “I’ve literally never seen him dating anyone.”
“He dated this woman in college,” I say. “Penelope. She was bookish and quiet and very put together.”
Willa laughs. “Okay, yeah. Except for the bookish part, that is nothing like you.”
I feel weirdly offended by her laugh, which makes zero sense, because I’m the one who made the comparison first.
“The thing is,” Willa continues, “Peter didn’t wind up with Penelope, right? So maybe you shouldn’t assume she’s his type.” She reaches into the tin and takes a piece of cookie. “I could be wrong. You definitely know him better than I do. But just think about it. Let it simmer in the back of your mind whenever you guys are together and see if you notice anything else. You have to at least admit, Soph, Peter is pretty cute.”
On that point, at least, she doesn’t have to convince me. Peter has a great smile and great hair. Light brown eyes that I really love. And a great jawline. I reach for another cookie and swirl it through the icing. “Of course he is. I never said he wasn’t.”
She grins like I’ve made some monumental concession.
“But I still don’t think that’s what’s going on,” I say. “He’s just sad because his family is moving, and since I’m the next best thing, he’s holding me a little tighter than normal.”
“Okay,” she concedes. “You would know better than me.”
“He could also just feel sorry for me because my other best friend is spending all her time with her new boyfriend.”
It’s a deflection, and I’m sure Willa recognizes it as one. But I can’t wrap my head around the possibility of Peter having real, actual feelings for me. I can’t, because I can’t lose Peter. And if my track record is any indication, dating him would definitely mean losing him.
Willa scoffs. “I’m here, aren’t I? Having breakfast with you?”
“Sure. But you’re probably still thinking about him,” I say. “Counting down the minutes until you get to see him again.”
A goofy smile stretches across Willa’s face before she nudges the cookies toward me. “Shut up and eat another cookie,” she says playfully. “Sugar makes you happier than protein.”
I do as she asks, then finish the last of my latte before remembering why I wanted to come see Willa in the first place.
I spend the next few minutes filling her in on everything I’ve learned about the love flower in my garden—which is, admittedly, not very much.
Since she and Archer were on the roof the first time the flower bloomed, she’s been invested in my progress, so she’s excited to hear about the Hathaways’ name for it. But there’s little to tell beyond that. Adding “love flower” to my searches didn’t pull up any new hits, and my reverse image search of the bloom pulled up a lot of similar flowers but none that were an exact match.
“I just think I need to narrow my search to Serendipity Springs history,” I say. “Has a flower like this ever shown up before? Could it be connected to the spring? I’ve even wondered if there’s something else going on. Like, I know it sounds crazy, but what if the flower actually bloomed for the Hathaways? Like, it bloomed because they were on the roof?”
“Maybe because they’re in love?” Willa says. “You did say they called it a love flower.”
“That tracks,” I say, “because the first time it bloomed, you and Archer were present. But that still feels like a pretty big stretch.”
“Really?” she says. “And a portal in my closet isn’t a stretch? Mr. Hathaway said strange things might be afoot. I’m just trying to think outside the box a little.”
I sigh, suddenly weary. “I have no idea. Maybe I’m overthinking and it’s a weed I should have pulled the minute it popped up.”
“It’s way too pretty to be a weed,” Willa says. “Just keep researching. Have you searched the library downstairs?”
I nod. “Yeah, but I didn’t find anything.”
“Then you should go to the one downtown. They have a ton of local history books. Maybe you’ll find something there?” Willa gathers up our trash and turns, dumping it all in the bin beside her fridge.
“That’s actually a good idea,” I say.
“Don’t act so surprised,” she says. “I’m full of good ideas. Which is why you should also consider what I said about Peter. You never know, Soph.”
“I will do no such thing, because it’s a ridiculous suggestion, and Peter does not like me like that.”
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
But as I say goodbye to Willa and head back downstairs to get to work, I can’t help but wonder.
What would it be like if he did?
And why does the thought make my stomach flip?