Chapter 3 #2
Juliette tried not to choke on the chunk of banana lodged in her throat. Her eyes watered and she coughed once, clearing her throat. “Did my mother put you up to this?”
“Definitely not.” He lifted both hands in surrender. “I just remember how things can get between you two. You’re artistic and creative, and your mom is—”
“An obsessive control freak with an eye for austere perfection?” she supplied, arching one brow.
“That’s one way of putting it.” Brock grinned, wide and wonderful, and the whole world tilted.
Juliette almost lost her balance. She wanted to blame it on the way the morning light slanted through the window and turned his eyes to the shade of molten gold.
Or how whenever he moved, every muscle in his body seemed to flex on purpose.
Or maybe it was the way he kept flicking that pencil between his very capable fingers.
She forced herself to look away, leaning casually against the counter for support in case her knees gave out.
She’d forgotten his smile, how it caused her heart to give a little flip.
How it made a rush of heat course through her veins.
How the simple upturn of his mouth could be promising and captivating all at once.
She shook the nonsensical thought from her head. Those types of lustful imaginings were what got her into trouble with him in the first place. She had to be more aware. She had to do better. Be better. Not act like she’d never been around a gorgeous specimen of a man before.
Brock shoved his hands back into the pockets of his coat and gave a small shrug, completely oblivious to the effect he had on her.
“You’ve always had a good eye for design. So if you want it, the offer stands.”
Juliette pressed her lips together and forced herself to acknowledge him without drooling. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
He nodded again, and another wave of suffocating silence smothered them.
“I just have to double-check a few more measurements and then—”
“Perfect.” She tossed the banana peel in the trash. “I’ll just get out of your way.”
Brock’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but Juliette flashed a soft smile and headed down the stairs.
She needed to put some distance between them.
Being in the same room as Brock was too easy.
Too easy to forget, too easy to forgive.
She nearly sprinted down the staircase and headed toward the back entrance of the shop.
“Jules!” Adrienne called out to her, but she didn’t turn. She couldn’t. She could feel the burn of tears and the heat of shame and remorse. It fired through her. Stinging her cheeks, causing her nose to tingle.
She heaved the heavy metal door open at the back of the shop and stumbled out into the brutal January wind.
Beams of sunlight cut through a blanket of gray clouds, and the wind sliced through her sweater, chilling her to the bone.
Her teeth chattered, and the cold air slapped her face, leaving her skin frozen and numb.
At least this way she could blame her tears on the weather.
What difference did it make if she was crying, or if the strong gusts of wind coming off the beach caused her eyes to burn?
Juliette leaned back against the solid brick building.
Her heart ached, a slow pain that spread through her chest, making each inhale uncomfortable.
A dull, pounding sensation throbbed at the base of her neck, the headache gradually making its way to her temples.
Her mind was exhausted. Her nerves were frayed.
She was teetering on the edge of a breakdown, balancing on that fine line between panicked instability and total collapse.
This place was too much. The flower shop.
The town. The people. All of it a harsh reminder of why she left in the first place.
She couldn’t stay here.
But she had nowhere else to go.
Oh, she could work at Mystic Florals. She was certain her mother would let her take on a gig at the flower shop, but the last time she worked for Gigi, it ripped apart the final thread holding their relationship together.
They had both spoken awful things to one another, things Juliette still heard in the darkest corners of her mind.
The kinds of things a person could never truly take back.
She didn’t particularly want to live through that kind of disaster again, which left her with the second choice.
The one that had only been presented to her ten minutes ago by Brockton Gallagher.
Juliette’s chest heaved, and she winced against the bitter cold and salty tang of the air. Shoving a few loose strands of hair from her face, she gently let her body sag against the brick exterior.
She had to decide.
She could work for her presumptuous, overbearing mother, or she could work for the one man who’d broken her heart into a million pieces.
Or she could find something else. Someone in Mystic Cove had to be hiring.
Maybe she could put in some applications, make a few phone calls.
It was never too late to learn a new skill.
She could be a barista. Or scan items at a register.
Or find another position that would barely bring in enough money for her to survive, let alone be able to move out of the apartment above her mother’s shop.
Juliette squeezed her eyes shut. There had to be another way, and she was going to find it.