Spring Fling (Seasons in Montana: Spring #5)
Chapter One
Daisy
I drove into Wintervale at first light, the sun’s early rays flickering across the mountains in peach and lavender hues. Every roadside planter brimmed with color: daisies, tiny daffodils, tulips in soft pinks and bold reds. A breeze through my open window carried a faint hint of new blossoms and damp earth, the quintessential smell of spring waking from winter’s hush. Spotting the roadside banners proclaiming Wintervale Flower seeing it up close, every detail radiated that exuberant sense of possibility.
A small black terrier lay sprawled in a patch of golden light near the steps, a well-gnawed bone wedged between his paws. He glanced up at me, tail giving a slow wag, and then trotted over. I knelt down, offering my fingers. He sniffed them briefly, then gave my hand an affectionate lick, as though officially welcoming me to his domain. I laughed softly and patted his head, feeling my earlier travel fatigue slip away in the face of such an endearing greeting.
“He’s a sweetheart,” came a warm voice behind me. “His name’s Bramble.”
I glanced up to see a woman step onto the porch from inside, wearing jeans and a simple sweater. She had dark-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and an air of bright efficiency. “I’m Rory Lancaster, proprietor,” she said, smiling wide. “Let me guess—Daisy Parker?”
“That’s me,” I answered, returning her smile as I stood. “I’m hoping it’s not too early to check in?”
Her gaze dipped to the large overnight bag at my side and then flicked toward my overloaded car. “Not at all. Come on in. I’ll get you sorted.”
I followed Rory through the front doors into a foyer that took my breath away. High ceilings, original crown molding, polished wood floors softened by tastefully patterned rugs. A faint aroma of lemon polish merged with the sweet undertones of fresh blossoms arranged in a tall vase near a stained-glass window. Colorful prisms of light danced across the walls, creating a dreamy effect. It was the perfect blend of quaint charm and a modern, inviting vibe.
“I’m so glad you still had a room,” I said, my excitement escaping me as a slight laugh. “This place is beautiful—beyond anything I expected.”
“Thank you so much,” Rory said, leading me toward a modest check-in desk. As we walked in, Bramble—the terrier—ambled back inside behind us, then flopped onto a cozy rug in the foyer, evidently content now that he’d delivered his official greeting.
“My partner Cass is a contractor,” Rory continued. “He specializes in restoring historic buildings,” Rory continued, “I just happen to love Victorian architecture. Between us, we’ve breathed new life into the place. We’re happy you decided to stay here for Wintervale’s Spring festival. We were lucky we were able to get all the renovations completed in time to welcome visitors.”
“Oh, I can already tell I’m going to love it.” I reached into my purse for my wallet, noticing a chalkboard sign on the desk: Welcome Flower & Garden Market Participants scrawled in decorative chalk lettering.
My phone buzzed with a reminder about the festival’s orientation meeting set for this afternoon, and a burst of nerves tingled up my spine. Focus. Breathe. I forced myself to remain calm. “I’m a floral designer,” I explained, feeling the need to fill the quiet. “I’ll have a booth at the market showcasing, well… everything I can fit in that poor car. Trying to get a shot at the 'Best in Bloom' award. I hear it comes with big bragging rights and maybe a magazine feature?”
Rory nodded encouragingly. “Yep, that’s what folks say. Apparently, florists in the past have landed some pretty huge gigs because of exposure here, so the event is very popular. I hope it all goes perfectly for you.”
I handed her my credit card to handle the formalities. “Thank you. Me too. I’ve been working months on these new arrangement concepts. If I can catch the right sponsor’s eye, it might open some big doors.” My voice caught with a mix of determination and anxiety, but she gave me a sympathetic smile that eased my worries.
Just then, a tall man with rolled-up shirt sleeves and strong forearms walked in carrying a toolbox. He spotted Rory, parted his lips as if to ask a question, then paused to look at me. “You must be Daisy?”
I nodded, returning the easy grin. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Cass,” he said. “Need any help unloading your vehicle?”
“You read my mind,” I teased, relief flooding me. “I’d be so grateful. I have a ton of floral stands and supplies to store. I’m not sure I can get them all up the stairs by myself.”
“Don’t worry,” Cass chuckled. “We’ll manage. Come on, I’ll grab a dolly from the side room. Unless you want to do bicep curls with heavy boxes?”
I laughed. “I think I’ll pass on that workout.”
Rory handed me a key labeled “205” after finishing the check-in process. “Your room’s on the second floor, left side, near the end of the hall. Once you settle in, let us know if you need anything else. You can store big items in the side storage if you’d prefer not to trip over them all week.”
“Great, thanks.” I turned to Cass, feeling a second wave of gratitude for their thoroughness. “Okay, let’s do this. My SUV is out front. Prepare to see a floral explosion.”
Cass winked, leading me outside while Rory answered a phone call at the desk. The mild weather had turned slightly warmer, and the sunshine felt more pronounced, glinting off the recently melted frost. We navigated to my car, and Cass grabbed a folding dolly from a utility closet. In record time, we began stacking boxes, vases, and stands. I cringed at how many crates I’d crammed in, but Cass took it in stride, murmuring easy jokes about how the rest of the festival folks would “eat their hearts out” seeing my inventory.
We hauled the first load back inside, heading down a narrow hallway to a storage room. On the way, I admired glimpses of the Inn’s décor—carefully chosen wallpaper with a subtle floral motif, old light fixtures updated with eco-friendly bulbs. The sense that Cass and Rory cared about preserving history while meeting modern needs kept resonating in my mind and increased my admiration for the work they had done.
Once we deposited my supplies, I thanked Cass profusely. He waved me off. “No big deal. Glad to help. This festival has become a highlight of Wintervale’s year, so it’s fun to witness the behind-the-scenes excitement.”
Leaving Cass to tidy up the hallway, I returned to the foyer. Rory was helping another guest check in, so I gave her a quick wave before making my way up the wide wooden staircase with my suitcase. Each step squeaked softly in a reassuring, this building has history way. The second-floor corridor smelled of lavender sachets, an aroma that reminded me of a spa, both soothing and welcoming. One door near the top of the stairs was propped open with a housekeeping cart, revealing glimpses of pale walls and a landscape painting above the bed.
Following the room numbers, I reached my door: “205” etched on a small placard. Slipping the key in, I took a breath. So far, so good. The room itself was bright with natural light from two tall windows that overlooked the side lawn, where early spring crocuses dotted the grass in purple and white. The bed’s quilt matched that aesthetic, a riot of pastel squares that somehow didn’t clash but felt whimsical. A sturdy old writing desk stood near a standing lamp, and in the corner was a comfy-looking upholstered chair. If I craned my neck, I could see glimpses of the orchard behind the Inn.
Setting my suitcase down, I let out a breathy laugh at how much better this was than some of the motels I’d endured last year. Here, the entire ambiance said, Take a moment, breathe, you’re in a safe place. Just the environment alone helped settle some of my festival nerves. For a fleeting second, I considered making a quick trip to the orchard later if time allowed, daydreaming about scattering orchard blossoms into my designs.
I was halfway through unzipping my suitcase when it happened: I heard a muffled voice outside, male, and low. Something about the cadence, that husky pitch, triggered goosebumps on my arms. I froze, my heart stuttering. The sound was indistinct, but the resonance reminded me of someone I’d tried not to dwell on for months. That’s impossible. My mind conjured an image from last spring—laughter in a bar, a heated gaze in a random hotel corridor, strong arms around me, a night so scorching I’d told him it felt like a fantasy. We’d parted in the morning, each going back to our busy schedules. Real names? No. He’d introduced himself as “Jack,” I’d teased him by calling myself “Jane,” aware we were indulging in anonymity. We parted with half-smiles and the knowledge we were each due somewhere else.
Yet the voice in the hallway hammered at my rational side. Could it truly be him? My pulse spiked in a weird combo of dread and excitement. No, Daisy. That was a one-night fling hundreds of miles away. We hadn’t stayed in contact. I didn’t even know if “Jack” could be his real name. The memory alone had kept me warm on lonely nights, but I’d never expected an encore.
Sucking in a breath, I closed my suitcase with exaggerated calm and tiptoed to the door. The old door had a slight gap near the frame, letting me peek into the corridor. Carefully, I eased an eye to the crack. Initially, all I saw was Cass’s broad back. Then he stepped aside, revealing another man—tall, well-built, with sandy blond hair that caught the overhead light. A wave of recognition crashed over me. The shape of his face, that strong jawline, the slope of his shoulders… Dear god, it’s him.
I stifled a gasp. My chest tightened, my heart in my throat. So “Jack” was real, right here in Wintervale, at the same inn, chatting casually with Cass about something I couldn’t make out. The muffled words might have been about luggage or a room key, but it didn’t matter. He’s here. He’s definitely here. My mind reeled with questions: Had he come for the festival? Was he also in horticulture or something related? Had he recognized me in the foyer?
I pressed a hand to my rapidly thumping heart. Our single night together had meant more than I’d admitted to anyone, even myself. The spark, the unstoppable chemistry—it’d all vanished with the dawn, leaving me with a tender ache. Now, as if fate wanted to test me, we were about to exist in the same building. Possibly for days. My stomach churned at the idea of seeing him face to face. Would he be glad? Shocked? Would he even remember?
Through the faint corridor lights, I watched him shift slightly, handing Cass a small piece of luggage. Cass nodded and pointed to a door a few feet away from mine. My heart hammered again. He was going to be just down the hall. I can’t hide forever, obviously.
As if to confirm my worst or best fear, Cass said in a clear voice, “We’ve got you in 207, Hayden. Let me show you where it is.” The man—my fling—responded with a low “thanks,” the same timbre that had once murmured “Jane” against my ear in the dark. Hayden. So that was his real name. I nearly sagged in relief mixed with shock. Hayden. It felt simultaneously correct and jarring, rewriting my memory of him as “Jack.”
I ducked back as Cass and Hayden walked past my door. The swirl of footsteps receded. Silence fell. My entire body trembled from the adrenaline. So not only is he here, but he’s apparently in the room next to mine. Or at least close enough for me to hear him talking in the hall. I sank onto the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands. This was supposed to be a stress-free start to the best business week of my life. Now my long-lost fling—and best sex I’ve ever had—just waltzed in.
A swirl of emotions battered me: excitement, confusion, longing, and more than a little fear. Part of me wanted to fling open the door, march over, and say, “Hi, remember me?” Another part insisted I hide until I could figure out my next move. Because real or not, a fling from a year ago was the last thing I needed overshadowing my festival ambitions. But how can I ignore him? The memory of that sizzling night threatened to replay in vivid detail—heated whispers, tangled sheets, breathless laughter. I felt my cheeks burn.
No matter what, I had to keep it together. Tomorrow was day one of the festival, which meant final booth prep, meeting potential clients, and ensuring my design was up to par. My success hinged on concentration, not old lust. Then why is my heart pounding like a wild drum?
I inhaled, exhaled, repeated. The quiet of the room enveloped me, but it did nothing to calm the wild swirl in my head. Hayden… he’s just down the hall. The notion made my mouth go dry. I’ll figure out a plan, I told myself firmly. No meltdown. No letting it hamper my big break.
The day might bring everything I never knew I wanted. Or it might yank me into a tangle of emotions I’d spent a year burying. I had to face it: from the moment I recognized him, the show had taken on a new dimension. The question now was whether I could juggle a major professional opportunity with the emotional shock of encountering the one-night flame who haunted my best and most confusing memories.
My gaze flicked to the door again, half expecting him to knock. But no further sound came from the corridor. He must be settling in. I forced myself to stand, smoothing my hair back. After a shaky moment, I strode to the window, focusing on the orchard’s pale pink blossoms to ground me. The day outside was breezy, brimming with life, much like my future if I only played my cards right.
One thing was certain: I wasn’t leaving Wintervale. The festival was too important. If Jack— Hayden , I repeated in my head—was here, I would just have to put on my big-girl panties and handle it. My pulse fluttered as I imagined seeing him face to face with real names and no illusions. I recalled the grin that had once melted my defenses. Steeling myself, I squared my shoulders. I’ll deal with it—somehow.
An anxious laugh slipped free. Then I pressed my palm against my mouth, half giddy, half overwhelmed. The Inn’s walls felt both comforting and conspiratorial, as if they knew secrets we were about to unravel. I was bound to run into him sooner or later. And then neither of us could pretend we were strangers anymore.