Chapter Six
Hayden
A few hours after the fiasco with Daisy’s toppled arrangement, I found myself pacing behind a sprawling greenhouse display near the center of the festival. My phone kept vibrating in my pocket, but I’d been avoiding calls most of the morning—especially ones that might rope me into more sponsor photo ops. All I craved was time to revise tomorrow’s horticulture lecture, maybe check on Daisy’s booth and apologize for not staying longer to help. Instead, I was dodging cameras left and right.
I snuck a look at the text messages while crouched behind a potted citrus tree:
Marlene : Hayden, urgent – Ariana’s manager reached out, they want dinner tonight. Sponsor arranged a big media table. This is prime PR.
Benton : Where are you? Ariana’s waiting. We have something special planned for your synergy. Don’t stand her up—this is big, trust me.
My teeth clenched. Special synergy was sponsor code for “forced date.” I recalled how Ariana had teased the possibility earlier—a staged dinner with paparazzi swirling like fruit flies. The mere idea made me want to vanish among the nearest rows of petunias. But the sponsor hammered home that if I played along, it might open more doors. Did I ask for bigger doors? Not really. I was a teacher at heart, plucked out of academia by random viral success. Now I had to schmooze?
A voice jolted me. “Hayden Brooks, exactly the man I wanted to see.” Ariana appeared from around a pallet of potting soil, striding over in a fitted pastel blazer and pencil skirt that screamed style over practicality. She looked every bit the ex-pageant queen: manicured nails, hair in a sleek twist, a glint in her eye that telegraphed unstoppable ambition.
I rose from my crouch, trying not to grimace. “Ariana. Didn’t expect to see you over here.”
She offered a practiced laugh. “I’ve been searching for you.”
She stepped in close, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Tonight’s dinner is all set. The sponsor’s reserved a private section at the Brierwood Restaurant. Photographers from Montana Life magazine will attend, plus a local news channel. Benton’s absolutely thrilled.”
The mention of paparazzi made my stomach knot. “I don’t recall agreeing to a dinner. Marlene texted me, but I haven’t given an answer yet.”
Ariana tilted her head, eyebrows raised as if baffled by my hesitation. “You’d turn down an opportunity to generate positive buzz for your brand? Benton believes we’re the perfect pairing—my flair, your substance. He’s even hinted at the possibility of a reality show pitch. Think about it: a blossoming romance between America’s Floral Sweetheart and horticulture’s new star played out in beautiful gardens and event venues highlighting my arrangements. Ratings gold.”
I swallowed the protest forming in my throat. The thought of presenting a staged romance repelled me, but Ariana’s buoyant tone suggested she found nothing odd about it. “I’m not comfortable faking a relationship,” I said quietly, scanning for an exit route in case she tried to corner me further. “I only came to Wintervale to give lectures and share practical knowledge, not to star in some reality show storyline.”
She let out a gentle, dismissive laugh that grated on my nerves. “Oh, you’re so earnest, Hayden. But that’s precisely why it’ll work, darling. You’re the down-to-earth cute single professor, and I’m the glamorous pageant girl turned lifestyle design queen. Opposites attract. That’s the angle they want to push, anyway.” She touched my arm lightly, adopting a coaxing tone. “Look, I get it—some folks cling to old-fashioned integrity. But the sponsor wants a little drama. Benton says if we play along, it could lead to bigger deals for both of us.”
My mind flicked to Daisy—her up-and-coming booth overshadowed by Ariana’s extravagance, the look on her face when she spotted us locked in a photo shoot. The last thing I wanted was to deepen that misunderstanding. I took a measured breath. “Even if it leads to a bigger deal, at what cost?”
Ariana waved away my concern. “Minimal cost. It’s just a bit of hand-holding for the cameras, maybe an affectionate gesture or two, dinners documented by the local press. Benton even said he has a budget for future cross-promotional events if we show decent chemistry. That’s how the industry works, darling. Remember? This is the big leagues.”
Darling. The term grated. I flexed my hands, feeling the beginnings of a headache at the base of my skull. “I’m not sure this is how I want to build my reputation. People might see it as a cheap stunt. I prefer letting my work speak for itself.”
Her eyes narrowed, though she kept her saccharine smile. “We can keep it tasteful. A hint of flirtation, a few candid photos, no actual romance. I promise, you’ll survive. And who knows—maybe you’ll become the face of horticulture on prime-time TV. Don’t you want that recognition? That level of success?”
I swallowed again, thinking of how I used to dream of educating people about sustainable, environmentally friendly plant cultivation. “I’m not sure.” The words emerged hollow.
Sighing, Ariana reached into her purse, retrieving a lipstick. With quick, deft motions, she refreshed her bright coral shade. “Well, I can’t force you, but Benton’s quite insistent. If you skip, you’ll upset the sponsor. They hold the purse strings for a potential expansion of your book series. Does that matter to you?”
Guilt churned in my gut. My publisher had pinned their hopes on me “cooperating” for the sake of future contracts. If I backed out, I risked souring everything they’d worked for. “Fine,” I muttered, the word tasting bitter. “I’ll go to the dinner. But keep it minimal. I’m not calling you my girlfriend or anything.”
She brightened, ignoring my reluctance. “Fantastic. See? That wasn’t so hard. Dress nice. We’ll meet at the Brierwood around six. Benton’s arranged a ride, or you can come with me—I’m staying at the Wintervale Resort. Your call.” She glanced at her phone, presumably checking the time. “I need to dash. I have a quick cameo at a sponsor’s booth.” Then, giving me a half-wave, she vanished around the corner, her heels clicking on the pavement.
I slumped against a nearby table, overshadowed by a massive palm tree. A staged dinner. Great. If Daisy saw that spectacle… She already believed Ariana and I were getting too cozy. My only hope was that I could slip away after the photographers got their fill, maybe talk to Daisy later. But she’d seemed so guarded before. Why does it matter so much? I already knew the answer: because I found myself caring about Daisy more than I ever intended.
I spent the afternoon finishing a second lecture, a demonstration on compost layering and biodegradable pots, but my mind refused to settle. Even as I fielded questions, half my thoughts circled back to Daisy, how her face lit up when she explained her designs, how crushed she’d been after finding her arrangement ruined. How had that happened anyway? No one seemed to know.
Finally, around five, I left the event grounds to grab a quick shower at the Inn and change into a collared shirt. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked tense, brow creased. I told myself it was just one evening. Pose for a few cameras, nod politely, leave. Then I could see Daisy—if she was still up. Guilt throbbed again. But I couldn’t stand up the sponsor without risking professional fallout.
By six, I found myself in front of the Brierwood Restaurant, a fine-dining establishment on the outskirts of Wintervale. Twinkling fairy lights lined the entry path, and a cluster of black SUVs parked out front hinted at some press presence. My stomach churned. This is not how I wanted tonight to go. I squared my shoulders, stepping inside to the hush of subdued conversation and delicate piano music.
Ariana spotted me immediately, perched near the hostess stand in a chic, off-the-shoulder dress the color of champagne. She beamed, gliding over to take my arm with a theatrical gesture. “There you are, darling! We’re in the private room.” Paparazzi hovered, snapping photos of us near a lavish flower arrangement by the door. My jaw tightened, but I forced a polite smile. Just get this over with.
Inside the private dining room, Benton and a couple of media representatives fussed about lighting and table angles. A swirl of camera flashes erupted as Ariana guided me to a seat across from her. Waitstaff stood by, ready to deliver carefully curated plates. Ariana chatted incessantly about how the “chemistry between them” was sure to wow potential producers. I offered short, monotone answers. I’m not leading her on—I’m just surviving.
The meal that followed felt endless. Ariana deftly turned each course into a photo op: toasting me with a champagne flute while leaning across the table, complimenting me loudly on some horticulture tidbit I’d never actually discussed with her, resting her hand on my forearm whenever a camera flashed. I tried not to recoil each time. Inside, my nerves jangled, the entire setting stifling. My daydreams of quietly exploring Wintervale with Daisy flickered, overshadowed by Ariana’s carefully orchestrated show.
Midway through, I caught Benton giving me a thumbs-up from across the table, obviously delighted at how well Ariana was playing up the “possible romance” angle. I forced down bites of roasted vegetables, tasting almost nothing. What if Daisy sees these photos in tomorrow’s coverage?
Eventually, dessert arrived, a decadent chocolate creation. Ariana performed her final flourish—she fed me a spoonful for the cameras, and I nearly choked on my embarrassment. A round of applause from sponsor reps sealed my humiliation. Once the last flash receded, Ariana patted her lips with a napkin, beaming as though it had been the highlight of her day. I just want to leave.
Finally, after nearly two hours of forced conversation, the sponsor and Ariana’s manager—a tall, thin woman whose severe features reminded me of Cruella Deville—signaled that the media had enough footage. Ariana turned to me, her voice dropping in a conspiratorial whisper. “See? That wasn’t so painful. They loved our synergy.”
I swallowed a sharp retort, mustering a curt nod. “I’d like to call it a night.”
She batted her fake lashes. “I understand. But the sponsor wants us to share a ride back to the little B&B where you’re staying. More photo possibilities outside.”
Every fiber in me wanted to roll my eyes, but I just sighed. “Right. Let’s go.” The sooner we do it, the sooner it ends.
Outside, the paparazzi pounced again, capturing us in the golden glow of the restaurant’s lights. Ariana looped her arm through mine, happily playing her part. I forced a clenched smile. A black SUV pulled up, courtesy of Benton, the driver stepping out to open the door. Ariana slid in first, patting the seat beside her. My skin crawled with the knowledge that none of this was real.
The ride back felt interminable. Ariana scrolled through her phone, presumably checking her reflection in the tinted window, or posting cryptic social media hints. I stared out the opposite window, silent, mind drifting to Daisy. Was Daisy back at the Inn? If she was already at the Inn, might she see me arrive with Ariana in tow?
When we finally pulled up, it was nearly half past nine. The porch lamps at Evergreen Inn illuminated the walkway, and I spotted a few bystanders milling near the steps—likely more photographers. I grit my teeth, steeling myself for one more round of photos.
Ariana stepped out first, wearing that perfect pageant smile. I slipped out after her, determined to move quickly. One paparazzo snapped a shot, calling my name. Ariana seized the moment to lean her head briefly against my shoulder, the flash capturing it all. My insides twisted. Just end, please.
As if conjured by my dread, I heard the Inn’s front door squeak open. Daisy stood there, halfway out, wearing a simple cardigan and holding a small bundle of brochures. Our gazes locked across the porch. Her face flickered with hurt, the brochures trembling slightly in her grip. Ariana noticed, tossing her a dismissive glance before hooking her arm through mine once more for the cameras. The paparazzo clicked away, evidently thrilled by the drama.
I tried to call out—“Daisy!”—my voice rough with desperation. She stiffened, flicked her gaze from me to Ariana, then turned, hurrying back inside. The door swung shut with a firm thud that felt like a fist to my gut. My heart plummeted. No, no, no.
I shrugged off Ariana’s arm, ignoring the paparazzi’s continued snapping. “Excuse me,” I muttered. “I need to—”
But Ariana latched onto my sleeve. “Don’t storm off, darling. The cameras—”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m done with cameras tonight.” Jerking free, I darted up the steps. By the time I reached the foyer, Daisy was nowhere in sight. Silence enveloped the space, except for Bramble napping on a rug. The dog lifted his head, blinking at me curiously, but Daisy had vanished into some corner of the Inn.
A wave of loss seized me. She probably believed I was playing lovey-dovey with Ariana for real, happy to plaster my grin in every paparazzi shot. My nails dug into my palms. Could I have refused the entire show? Possibly. Yet the publisher’s warnings about contract renewal echoed in my mind. I stood there, frustration twisting in my chest, wishing I could explain everything to Daisy—tell her how fake it was, how trapped I felt.
Heart pounding, I edged toward the corridor that led to Daisy’s room, but an emptiness pervaded the hallway. My shoulders sagged as I realized she’d likely shut herself away, not wanting to see me. I might have pushed her away for good by agreeing to go along with this ruse. A hollow ache spread through my chest. I have to fix this somehow, I vowed inwardly, yet uncertainty gnawed at me: Would Daisy even listen if I tried to explain? The image of her downcast expression echoed in my mind, and I feared tomorrow might hold nothing but more misunderstandings.