Chapter 4
MOLLY
I’m in the greenhouse an hour later when I hear Chase’s truck rumble down the gravel driveway. All the courage I gathered during lunch with my friends vanishes like a plume of smoke. I glance over at the photo of Luke and Laurel I have pinned to the corkboard next to the greenhouse’s door.
Remember your why, Kristen Quinn advised in her book. Those kids are it for me. I want to be the mom they deserve as much as I want to be someone I can be proud of.
I smooth a hand over my hair, then realize I’ve probably left dirt crumbs in it. I don’t wear gloves nearly as often as I should because I like the warm feel of the earth on my bare skin.
Avah told me about a podcast she listened to that recommended standing bare feet in grass to ground yourself. It’s a shame that people have to be reminded of that. Maybe it’s because I grew up on my grandparents’ farm, but dirt has always done it for me.
An especially helpful thing these days because it’s not as if I’m running my hands through anything else. Like Chase’s thick locks, or over the muscles his denim shirt clung to this morning.
I press the tips of my short fingernails into the center of my palm, hoping the bite of pain will ground me in a different way. It might not be the smartest idea in the world to hire a nanny who makes my ovaries stand up and do a little dance.
He thinks I’m weak. And possibly a gold digger, which is ironic since Teddy never had money. But I need to remember the devastation his callous words caused to younger me as I watch him stride across the yard.
I hate him for both his judgment and the fact that I overheard it. Even worse, my husband-to-be agreed with Chase’s asshole opinion so I went into my marriage knowing Teddy thought the worst of me.
And rather than leaning into that understanding and fighting to prove I was something different, I let it define me.
I’m not doing that anymore.
Chase opens the greenhouse door, and even with everything between us, my traitorous body notices the way his broad shoulders fill the doorframe. How his work shirt stretches across the hard planes of his chest. His stormy gray eyes find mine, and I mentally curse the flutter in my stomach.
“Okay if I come in?” His voice is gruff and scrapes across my skin like sandpaper, which is an oddly appealing sensation. “Or are you busy?”
“Busy,” I tell him, forcing my tone to stay chilly. “But just with transplanting seeds. I can talk and work.”
“Should you be standing and working?” He gestures toward my injured leg.
I study him as he studies my ankle. Years of bull riding have honed his frame to perfection—lean hips, powerful thighs, and maddeningly distracting forearms that are strong and tanned in a way that makes a woman curious about the rest of him.
His hair is longer than it used to be, but it only emphasizes the sharp angles of his face and a chiseled jaw that could cut glass.
It’s annoying how devastatingly handsome he is, especially when I’m trying to stay unaffected by his presence.
My pulse quickens despite my best efforts, and I hate that he still affects me this way.
Something about him in this space—my sanctuary—puts me on edge. Oddly, not in a bad way. More like my senses are heightened. I can hear the birds outside and feel the tiny breeze that blows in from the windows that are slightly cracked.
“Things aren’t going to get done unless I do them.” I dust my hands off and grab the handle of the scooter I keep in the greenhouse. “Besides, it’s a sprained ankle, not life-threatening.”
Chase’s eyebrows draw together. “How did you hurt yourself anyway? Linda didn’t give specifics.”
“I twisted it while sledding with the twins during that big snowstorm a couple of weeks ago.”
“Based on your coordination this morning,” he says with an amused smirk. “That tracks.”
I flip him the bird, and he chuckles. “Did you do all this?” he asks, inclining his head toward the rows of seed pods. “By yourself?”
“Luke and Laurel help sometimes. But it’s mostly me.”
“Linda said you garden. She made it sound like…” He runs a hand through that sandy blond hair.
“A hobby?”
He nods, and the smile I give him is as brittle as old newspaper. “Of course she did. It’s a job. My job.” I bite my lower lip, and he winces slightly, like the movement causes him pain.
I don’t owe him an explanation, but can’t stop myself from continuing, “Planting and harvesting are a calling for me. My grandparents were farmers and their parents before them. I think growing things is in my blood.” I straighten my shoulders.
“But flower farming is also a business. Thanks to my success last summer, I retired from cleaning office buildings every night after I put the kids to bed.”
His brows draw together. “After?”
“Normally I’d start around nine or so and finish around midnight.” At his shocked expression, I roll my eyes. “Did you think Linda was bankrolling our lives? Not that I’d expect or even want her to. I know what you think of me, Chase, but—”
He holds up a hand, regret darkening his eyes.
“I need you to understand how things were before your wedding.” He looks down at the dirt floor like he can’t quite bring himself to meet my gaze.
“My childhood best friend, who claimed he’d never settle down called and told me to get my ass to Colorado.
For his wedding to a vacation fling who got herself pregnant. So, yeah, I was skeptical at best.”
“I didn’t get myself anything, Chase.” I breathe out a sharp laugh. “Trust me, Teddy was actively involved in the process.”
Chase closes his eyes for a few seconds. “That isn’t how he talked about it, and when I met you…”
I feel my eyes narrow. “What happened when you met me?”
“You seemed delicate…fragile. Teddy was always a sucker for wounded birds.”
Anger rises inside me, but it’s as much directed at myself as Chase. I’m very familiar with the version of me that first caught Teddy’s eye.
I came with friends to Colorado only weeks after my grandparents died.
I was a wounded bird at that point. And Teddy liked it.
He enjoyed drawing the smile out of me and playing white knight for the young woman who cried herself to sleep in her tent every night.
For better or worse, we both lost interest in me playing that role very quickly.
“Shell shocked,” I clarify. “I was overwhelmed and shell-shocked at how my life was changing.”
He’s silent for a moment before nodding. “You got over it. Linda told me you’re a good mom.” Is this his way of convincing me he no longer thinks I trapped his friend into marriage? I remind myself that I don’t care what Chase Calhoun thinks of me.
“I’ve gotten over a lot of things,” I tell him with a shrug. “Can we be done skipping down memory lane? Like I said in my text, I’d like to take you up on your offer of help, or Linda’s offer for you to help me. However you want to phrase it.”
“I’m glad you changed your mind.” His voice is neutral as he stands there with one hand hooked in his belt loop, the other holding his hat. And looking every inch the rugged bull rider who could probably fix anything that needs fixing and handle whatever problem comes his way.
“I know she talked to you about taking care of the twins, but that will primarily involve driving them when they need to get to town for activities. Otherwise, the three of us can manage around here even with my ankle. I know how to manage.”
He’s watching me intently, and if he knew Teddy as well as I think he did, he understands what I mean.
I was married for four years before my husband’s accident, and Teddy loved his kids.
But while he could light up a room like nobody’s business, I don’t think he ever changed a diaper or cleaned up puke when they got sick.
And believe me, if one got sick, the other did as well. Teddy wasn’t into domesticity.
He liked to float in with his bag of tricks, party magician style. But once he grew tired of being the fun parent or something better caught his attention, my late husband was gone again. Teddy brought home the sugar, but I was the keeper of the recipe box of our lives.
Chase clears his throat, and I realize I’ve let my thoughts wander to memories better left in the past.
“I’ll need your help keeping the flower farm going.” It’s my turn to study him. “Did Linda happen to mention my business?”
“She did not,” he answers before his gaze flicks around the greenhouse’s interior once more.
“Right.” Because, according to my mother-in-law, flower farming is a hobby. Maybe it started that way, but it’s so much more now. It’s also how I’m going to make my dream of staying in Skylark come true.
“The work is year-round, but things start to pick up this month.” I move forward on the scooter.
“Currently, I use about three acres for the flowers. The bulbs will be coming up soon in the nearest field. I could use another set of hands harvesting and then planting new crops. And someone to drive me into town for deliveries and help with my booth at local markets.”
Listing everything out loud makes my chest tighten painfully. There’s so much to do. So many moving pieces have to work together if I’m going to make enough money to buy this place. The weight of it presses down on me like a boulder, and I have to force myself to take a steady breath.
“I’ll do whatever you need.” It’s similar to what he told me earlier, and the statement makes goosebumps erupt along my arms. It feels as if he’s promising something more than his arrangement with my mother-in-law. Like he’s doing this for me. Because of me.
It’s probably just my overly-sentimental heart. I tend to latch onto whatever crumbs of kindness people scatter in my direction.
“If you tell me what Linda is paying you, I can try to add—”