Chapter 1
INDIA
I never want to see another cupcake in my life.
The whole car smells like vanilla buttercream frosting, a scent that mingles unpleasantly with the little pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. I roll down the window as I come to a stop at the intersection, and then I stick as much of my head out as I can, inhaling deeply.
Fresh mountain air, faintly sweet with the scent of pine sap that’s somehow always stronger on warm days. A dry breeze pulls my hair into my vision, strands of reddish-brown, but I don’t smooth them back. I just continue to fill my lungs with my surroundings, and I only pull my head in when my phone rings, answering right as the light changes color.
“Yeah,” I say, putting the call on speaker and setting it on the center console. Then I shake my long hair out of my face so I don’t crash and die. No one needs that today.
A prickle of fear dances over my skin, and I grip the steering wheel a little tighter.
I made it out of the motorcycle accident just fine. I haven’t even told anyone what happened. But I’d be lying if I said I’m totally over it.
But it’s all good. It will be great. I’m working on a plan.
“Hey.” My big sister’s voice is tinged with stress when she speaks, and I startle back to attention. “I think you should come home and talk to her. She’s starting a batch of eclairs.”
“Eclairs?” I say, glancing in my rearview mirror at the back seat full of baked goods. Then I turn my head to get a few more whiffs of the fresh Colorado air coming through the open window. “I haven’t even gotten rid of all the cupcakes yet. You talk to her.”
“I’m not competent at consoling people,” Aurora says, sounding uncomfortable now.
It’s true; she’s not. Aurora is a typical older sister in some ways, fearless and bold, protective, strong-willed enough to drive my parents crazy—but emotions aren’t her strong suit.
She could take over the world if she wanted, but don’t ask her to talk about her feelings.
“Just hurry,” she says. “I don’t think she’s ever tried eclairs before.” Her voice lowers to a muffled whisper as she adds, “And she has her crazy eyes.”
That sounds about right.
“I don’t know what to do with all these, Ror,” I say, glancing once again at the dozens of cupcakes in the back seat.
“Did you take some to Mom and Dad?”
I snort. “Yeah, of course. But only six; they leave early in the morning.”
“Good call,” Aurora says, her words musing. “Dad’s supposed to be watching his sugar intake anyway. What about Poppy?”
“I gave her a dozen.” And she took them with a smile, because even though she’s not technically a Marigold sibling, she’s Cyrus’s best friend and has been for years. Anyone who puts up with our grumpy big brother deserves to be treated like family.
Aurora sighs. “Take the rest to Cy’s place, I guess. He’ll eat them. Or you could take them down to the station. Bert will eat a bunch. He’ll take some home to Maureen too, and he can give the rest to the officers.”
I’m not sure what it says about us that we know the police chief and his wife by name.
But it’s not like this is a big city. It’s Lucky, Colorado. Most of the people here have been around forever, and most of them have seen us through multiple iterations of ourselves—including Bert. He was the one who brought Aurora and I down to the station when we got caught egging the house of a stupid teenage boy that broke Juliet’s little teenage heart years ago.
Jules was a stress baker back then, too, but it’s gotten worse as we’ve gotten older. A few times a year she goes through a mid-twenties crisis, and the kitchen of the house the three of us rent together explodes with vanilla and sugar and flour.
It’s probably good that Cyrus has his own place. All that mess would drive him insane.
It drives me insane too, but I’m less irritable than Cyrus. Luckily even though Juliet stress bakes, Aurora stress cleans, tidying methodically and almost compulsively when she’s got too much on her mind or on her plate.
I usually just go for a long run when my emotions are tangled and fit to burst. I run until I can’t feel my legs, until my lungs are ripped and raw.
“All right,” I say as I pull a legal-but-questionably-executed U-turn. “I’ll take these to Cy’s, and then I’ll be back. Try to hold her off on the eclairs.”
“I’ll try,” Aurora says. Her voice is skeptical and distracted, which makes me think she’s watching Juliet whirl around the kitchen like a tornado of chaos, her blonde hair piled on top of her head, flour on her cheeks, a manic look in her eyes as she stirs and folds and whatever else bakers do.
I don’t know. I could burn water.
“Also,” Aurora adds, “did you take my sandals? The black ones?”
I glance briefly at the strappy black shoes on my feet. “No,” I lie.
“India!”
“Try to stop her, please,” I say before she can get started on her rant. “I don’t know anyone who will want a million eclairs after I’ve already dumped a bunch of cupcakes on them.”
At thirty-one years old, my brother, Cyrus, is easily the most responsible of the four of us.
He has a real job, a good one, with a salary he won’t disclose and benefits and all that jazz. Since he works doing research at the University of Colorado in Boulder, he could even send his kids there for cheap if he wanted.
If he ever had kids, that is. He has to find someone who will put up with him first. We’re all hoping he and Poppy will wake up one day and realize they’re in love—they’ve been best friends forever—but so far it hasn’t happened, and our mom thinks that if it hasn’t happened by now it probably won’t.
I don’t know. I still think it could work.
When I pull into Cyrus’s driveway, I have to park behind two other cars. A frown tugs at my lips. The little red Jeep is Poppy’s, but I don’t recognize the black SUV, and Cyrus isn’t one to entertain visitors, even on a Saturday. If he could move up into the mountains and be a camping hermit for the rest of his life, I think he might do it.
I peek through the windows of the SUV as I walk past, but there aren’t any clues inside—just a pair of sunglasses tossed carelessly on the passenger seat and a little collapsible trash container hanging from the glove compartment. I shake my head and continue up the driveway and then the sidewalk that leads to the front door, two large Tupperwares full of cupcakes in my arms.
Cyrus’s house is surprisingly cute, considering his personality. I don’t think he plans to live here forever, so he hasn’t bothered with changing the exterior; the light-blue siding and white shutters give the place a charming feel, similar to the rest of the homes in his neighborhood. There’s even a cheerful, cherry-red front door.
I cannot emphasize how little Cyrus cares about the color of his front door.
I tap briefly on this door with my foot when I get to the porch, but I don’t wait for Cyrus to answer; I just let myself in, maneuvering awkwardly with my baked goods.
“Cy,” I call. “It’s me. I brought you cupcakes.”
So many cupcakes.
“We’re in here,” comes Poppy’s voice from the living room, so I toe my shoes off and then head through the entryway, past the stairs and into the next room, where I find three people.
Cyrus is sitting in his favorite chair, a squashy old recliner, with his laptop on his lap, his eyes down. His glasses reflect the light of the computer screen, and there’s a furrow in his brow that tells me it’s something for work. A few strands of his hair—blond, but darker than Juliet’s and Aurora’s—have fallen down over his forehead, which usually would annoy him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Poppy is seated on the couch. She and Cyrus became friends in elementary school, which means she’s been an honorary big sister to me and Aurora and Juliet for that long too. Her wild, dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her attention is on the plate of cupcakes already on the coffee table; she clearly brought over the ones I gave her earlier. Next to her, I see, is?—
“Oh,” I say when my eyes fall on the blond-haired, brown-eyed Adonis reaching for a cupcake. “It’s you.”
“Hey, Sunshine,” Felix Caine says, shooting me the famous grin that’s broken more hearts over the years than the number of cupcakes now in this room. “It’s been a while. How’s it going?”
I ignore the question. “What are you doing here?” I say. “Don’t you live in Idaho?”
“He moved,” Poppy says.
“To this tiny town?”
“It’s not tiny if there’s a Panda Express,” Felix says.
“There’s not a Panda Express,” I say.
Felix looks blankly at me. “Is there not? I thought I saw one. Off of Center?”
I shake my head. “Nope. That’s Panda X-pres”—I spell it for him, X-P-R-E-S —“our blatantly derivative small town version. It’s an easy mistake to make,” I say with a shrug. “The logo is as close to the real Panda logo as it’s legally possible to be. The signature dish is citrus chicken.”
Citrus chicken, Felix mouths wordlessly. Then he shakes his head. “Well, to answer your question—I’m here for the cupcakes,” he says with an irritated look at Poppy. “And to request help from my dear friend who nonetheless refuses to come to my aid.”
“Probably a smart choice,” I say to Poppy, who nods. Then I hold up my containers apologetically. “I have more cupcakes,” I add.
“Never too many,” she says with a smile. “I couldn’t eat all mine myself, so I brought them over too.”
Felix turns his attention to the Tupperwares in my arms. “Is there anything besides vanilla?” he says.
“Sadly, no. Some of these have sprinkles, though.” I set the containers down on the coffee table and pry the lids off. “Everybody dig in. Cy,” I say, grabbing one with rainbow sprinkles and moving over to his chair, waving the cupcake under his nose. “Eat. Cupcakes. Come on.”
He swats my hand vaguely away. “Is she still baking?”
“Yes.” I tap the cupcake against his mouth. “Aurora says she’s starting eclairs. Come on—eat.”
“I’ve already had three,” he says. Then he sighs and shuts his laptop, finally turning his gaze to me. “Eclairs?”
“Yep.” I nudge the cupcake I’m holding into his hand, and he takes it grudgingly.
From the couch, Felix speaks again. “Look, Poppy?—”
“I said no,” she cuts him off with a laugh. “There’s no way.”
I don’t know what they’re talking about, but it’s a rare woman who can say no to Felix Caine. Even I fell for him once, years and years ago. He’s the reason I studied communications in college; he lit up when he talked about how much fun journalism was, enough to spark an interest in me, too.
I could have gotten my degree in journalism itself, I guess, but I’m glad I didn’t; I didn’t end up loving it the way he did, especially the actual internship. By the time I figured out what I really wanted to do—work with animals, not people—it wasn’t worth starting all over again. So I graduated with my degree in communications and haven’t touched it since.
That’s what crushing on Felix Caine will get you.
He’s beautiful by anyone’s standards—six-foot-two with golden hair, dimples, and a blinding, mischievous smile—but it’s not just his looks that pull you in. Felix is the most charming man I’ve ever met. He would be sleazy if he weren’t so genuine. He treats everyone like they’re his favorite person, and he isn’t even insincere about it. He loves talking to people, meeting them, making them smile or laugh. Flirtation is his natural state. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. That’s just how he is—and I haven’t seen him in a while, but he doesn’t seem to have changed.
For the life of me, I will never understand how he and Cyrus—and, by extension, Poppy—became such good friends. Poppy can get along with anyone, but Cyrus and Felix are as different as night and day. They shouldn’t be able to stand each other. And yet here they are, some nine or ten years into their friendship after rooming together freshman year of college, and they’re still rubbing along just fine.
“Does Jules even know how to make eclairs?” Cyrus says now, pulling my attention away from his friend. He sets his laptop on the table next to his chair, putting the cupcake next to it, and then he stands up.
“We think no,” I say, scooting back to give him room. “We’ve never seen her make them.”
He sighs again. “What has her so upset?” He digs in his jean pockets and pulls out his phone. Then he taps around for a minute and holds the phone to his ear, waiting. It’s only when he speaks again that I realize who he’s calling, but I’m too late to stop it.
“Jules,” he says into the phone, his voice exasperated. “Look, this has to stop. We can’t keep eating all the stuff you’re making.”
I wince; over on the couch, Poppy shakes her head. Even Felix looks faintly appalled at the way Cyrus is trying to handle the situation.
“No—” Cyrus says after a second of silence. “It’s not—I’m not—don’t— cry ,” he finishes lamely. He turns to me, looking bewildered and grouchy and not at all penitent despite the fact that he just made things worse.
“Apologize and hang up,” Poppy says in a disapproving voice. “Now, before she starts crying harder and can’t hear you anymore.”
“Sorry, Jules,” Cyrus says into the phone, sounding tired. “I’ll let you go.” Then he hangs up and looks around the room at the three people who are highly unimpressed with his performance.
“That’s not how you comfort a crying woman,” Felix says into the silence, his voice thick with disgust. “You have three sisters. What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know if you can talk,” I say before I can stop myself—rude, maybe, but it’s true. “How many women have you made cry in the last six months?”
“I don’t make women cry,” Felix says, sounding offended now. “I make them happy.”
Poppy and I snort at the same time; she rolls her eyes, and I open my mouth to speak.
“It doesn’t count if you make them happy and then stop making them happy. Because then they cry,” I point out, and Poppy nods.
“Exactly,” she says. “If you treat a woman well, she thinks you like her. Then she’s disappointed when she finds out you don’t.”
“I do like her,” Felix says, even though we’re not talking about anyone in particular. “I like all women.”
“We know,” Cyrus, Poppy, and I all say at the same time.
“And I don’t see what’s wrong with treating women well. Shouldn’t I?” Felix goes on—and I can tell this is a rant he’s gone on more than once, because he looks downright annoyed now. “I don’t get it. Should I only be nice to the women I want to date and rude to everyone else? That’s a crappy thing to do.”
“ Nice looks different to you than it does to other people,” Poppy says.
“Speaking of dating,” Felix begins. He turns to Poppy, but Cyrus stops him.
“Poppy said no,” he says to Felix. “Cut it out. And get your feet off my coffee table.”
Felix’s jaw drops, his eyes widening in outrage. “She has her feet on the table too!” he says, gesturing to Poppy.
“She’s not wearing shoes,” Cyrus points out—from her spot on the couch, Poppy wiggles her yellow-sock-clad toes—“but don’t you dare take yours off. Your feet will stink.”
“Excuse me,” Felix says. He straightens up, putting his feet back on the floor. “They don’t stink. I am one of the cleanest people you know.”
“That’s probably true,” Cyrus grunts. “Your clothes all over the floor, won’t even let anyone go in your room, but a million different beauty products in the shower?—”
“That was a long time ago,” Felix cuts in, rolling his eyes. “I’ve changed. And it was conditioner. Don’t act like I use all this stuff you’ve never heard of. Most people use conditioner. Ladies?” he says with a look at Poppy and me.
“I use conditioner,” Poppy says.
I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Me too. Sorry, Cy.” Then I turn away. “I’m heading back to undo the damage you just did,” I call over my shoulder as I move toward the front door. “Don’t go too far. I might bring over some eclairs later.”