Chapter 3
FELIX
Never has a woman been less interested in a man than India Marigold is in me.
She sweeps out of Cyrus’s living room without a backward glance, her long red hair swishing behind her, her hands tucked in the pockets of her jean shorts.
“Bye, Sunshine,” I call with a grin, because like a child, I find joy in poking and prodding. She makes an annoyed sound from out in the foyer, and my smile widens. I wait until I hear the front door click shut; then I get off the couch and move into the dining room, peeking at her from behind the blinds.
Like a weirdo.
But India’s cool, right? She’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she’s lived in Lucky her whole life. Maybe she’d be willing to help me.
“Felix is right. You can’t talk to a crying woman like that,” Poppy is saying to Cyrus behind me in the living room, her voice full of exasperation.
“She’s not a woman,” Cyrus says—or grunts, more like. “She’s my sister.”
“Flawless logic,” I say as I continue to watch India through the blinds. She pulls her hair away from her neck and into a ponytail, faster than I can follow. How do girls do stuff like that without everything getting tangled?
I glance over my shoulder at Cyrus and Poppy, both of whom are now watching me with raised brows. “So about India,” I say.
Something steely glints in Cyrus’s eyes. “Don’t even think about it,” he says.
“Yeah, I know,” I say distractedly as I peek out the window again. “But she’s—what, twenty-four? Twenty-five?”
“Stop it.” Cyrus crosses the living room and then the dining room in several long strides, pinching the blinds shut in front of my eyes and giving me a stony look. “Stop looking at her.”
“Just tell me how old she is,” I protest.
“No,” he says, and I’ve got about two inches on him in height, but when he’s wearing that facial expression, he seems to loom. “Whatever you’re thinking, just—don’t,” he goes on. “Forget she exists.”
I give up on the blinds and turn around, throwing a glance at Poppy, who mouths twenty-six at me and then snaps her mouth shut and smiles innocently at Cyrus as he looks back and forth between us.
Twenty-six. That would work. But would it be weird to enlist my best friend’s little sister for something like this?
“The thing is,” I begin, and Cyrus actually growls. I ignore him. “If you don’t want to help me, Poppy, that’s fine. But I do need help from someone.”
“Do you really, though?” Poppy says. She’s not being sassy—the question is simply curious.
“ Yes. ” The word comes out a bit strained. “I need to find someone quick. A woman,” I add. “India might be a good fit. She’s someone I know?—”
“ My sister— ” Cyrus cuts in.
“Someone I have no romantic history with?—”
“You’d better not?—”
“Oh, calm down, you big grizzly bear,” Poppy says, swatting Cyrus lightly on the chest. “All joking aside, Felix isn’t that bad. He might be a bit of a flirt, but he’s a good guy. Aren’t you?” she adds, looking at me.
“Of course I am,” I say, a little annoyed she even has to ask. “And I don’t want to date her,” I go on. I run my fingers through my hair, a bad habit that comes out when I’m agitated. “I’m not interested in her romantically.”
“That’s the problem,” Cyrus says, throwing his hands up in the air. “If you came and told me you’d somehow fallen in love with my little sister and you wanted to marry her or something?—”
“Whoa,” I say as my eyes widen, because just the thought makes me anxious.
“Then I could deal with that,” Cyrus goes on. “We wouldn’t be friends if you were the kind of person who treated your girlfriends like garbage. But this stupid article you’re writing—” He breaks off and shakes his head.
Ah. I see the problem.
“Nothing is going to happen,” I say. “The article is about all the romantic areas in and around Lucky. Checking them out isn’t going to magically make us fall in love.” I hold my hands up placatingly. “I’ll pick India’s brain and we’ll visit some of the lovey-dovey hot spots. Then I’ll write the article and be done with it.”
Because somehow I—a thirty-one-year-old journalist with no desire to fall in love—have found myself in charge of the Lucky is for Lovers feature of the Four-Leaf Gazette.
I say “somehow,” but it’s because the article was my idea. I did try to subtly pass the project off to someone more suited, but Herb, the editor-in-chief, told me to do it. He wouldn’t budge. So I’m stuck doing this stuff—trying to find a local to help me hunt down some cool romantic spots to showcase.
“I don’t care,” Cyrus says, pulling me back to our debate. He flings the front door open and gestures at it, waiting for me to leave. “Don’t ask India.”
“Sorry,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder as I step out. “I’m probably going to.” I inhale deeply and then give him the most pressing reason I need his sister. “If I don’t choose someone myself, my boss is going to have my coworker Veronda do it with me instead.”
“Ver…ronda?” Poppy says, her nose wrinkling as she tests the name. She leans against the doorframe, her brow raised at me.
“I know,” I say with a sigh, feeling the breeze play against my skin. “It’s one word trying to be multiple words—Veronica, Rhonda, verandah.” I pause. “She’s nice, I guess, but she’s fifteen years my senior and she always has lipstick on her teeth and she’s been flirting with me enough that I’m uncomfortable. I don’t want to bring her along on this assignment.” I look back at Cyrus. “I’ll keep you updated either way.”
He mutters something unintelligible under his breath; I can’t make it out, but I feel safe in assuming it’s not flattering.
I just wave over my shoulder and head to my car.
India, Juliet, and Aurora live in a little house about half a mile from Cyrus. I know this because after my best friend all but kicked me out of his house, I sat in my car in the driveway and texted Poppy for India’s address, and she sent it.
I’m not surprised that all four Marigold siblings live back in the town where they grew up, even if none of them live with their parents anymore. There’s something almost magical about Lucky, Colorado. I couldn’t put my finger on what, exactly. I never planned to end up here, but when the opportunity came calling, I took it, and so far I have no regrets.
The air always smells crisp and clear, and the people are friendly, and something about the mountains soothes my soul. My little Idaho hometown is a day’s drive away if I ever want to go back, which I do sometimes on long weekends, so I can see my parents. I’m not super close to my dad—he’s not a bad guy, just grumpy and abrasive—but I would stand in front of a moving train for my mother. I try to visit when I can, and my mom likes knowing I’m only a couple states away.
It’s a pretty sweet setup, job included. I interned with the Four-Leaf Gazette—Lucky’s one and only newspaper—back in college, which I attended in Boulder. I went home to Idaho after graduation, and I liked my job there well enough, but when the Gazette reached out a few months ago, I jumped at the chance to come back here. The paper is losing steam, and they’re desperate to revamp and revitalize so they don’t die out completely, so they were reaching out to past interns. I don’t even have to commute to Boulder for work like so many people in Lucky do—although as long as I have some good music to listen to on a drive, I’m happy.
It’s “Roadhouse Blues” that’s blaring over my speakers when I pull into the driveway of Cyrus’s sisters’ house. There’s a motorcycle parked in the open garage, with a sedan parked out front and another in the driveway ahead of me. I recognize the one on the street as the one India drove to Cyrus’s, so she must be back here by now.
Perfect.
It occurs to me not one second before I knock that I have no idea what I’m going to say when the door opens. My fist comes down before I can think it through, though, and even though I’m usually a planner, I guess this time I’ll feel it out and see how things go.
I have to knock three times before anyone answers. Finally the door lurches open, and there she is: India Marigold, the woman who could not be less interested in me—the woman I need to talk to for that very reason.
I didn’t really take a good look at her at Cyrus’s place, but now that she’s standing right in front of me, I let myself examine her. Her hair is still in the ponytail she pulled it into earlier, and her skin is golden against the white of her t-shirt and the denim of her shorts. Her toenails are painted pink, I notice—why does that make me want to laugh?—and there’s a faint dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
I’m a simple guy. I see an attractive woman, I smile. And India? She’s cute. I’d never tell Cyrus that, of course. But even when her big brown eyes are narrowed at me like right now, she’s cute—and there’s something highly enjoyable, too, about the way she always looks at me with a faint frown.
Like the one she’s currently sporting.
She steps forward, propping her hip against the door frame and folding her arms across her chest. Her eyes narrow further as she looks me over. “Did you follow me home, Felicia?” she says.
“Sure did,” I say, smiling broadly at the nickname. She started using it a few years ago; when I asked, she just said she like Felicia better than Felix. “I wanted to run an idea by you.”
“Why?” she says, and I have to say, her suspicious look is slightly hurtful. “You could have just called.”
“I don’t have your number,” I point out.
“And why are you smiling like that?” she goes on, unfolding her arms and pointing at my face. “Is your mouth stuck?”
“I’m smiling to counteract all the negativity coming from your general direction”—I could swear her lips twitch at this, which I count as a win—“and to make myself seem more likable and harmless so that you’ll hear me out.”
When she just stares at me, I say, “Well? Is it working? Am I likable and harmless?”
She hums, raising one eyebrow. “Debatable, but I’ll listen. What do you need?”
I gesture past her. “Can I come in?” I say. “This might take a second.”
“Nope,” she says, popping the p . “Juliet would actually murder me if I let in someone like you when she’s in the middle of an emotional crisis.”
I give her a questioning look. “Someone like me?”
“You know. Someone…” she trails off, gesturing vaguely up and down my body. “Tall. And male.”
“Tall,” I say blankly. “And…male.”
“Yeah,” she says with a shrug. “So what did you want?”
I debate for a second. “How about you sneak me in so Juliet doesn’t see me,” I finally say. “I don’t want to do this out on your porch. Plus it smells like a bakery in there. You can offload some more stuff onto me and I’ll eat all of it.”
“No good,” India says with a shake of her head. “Juliet has a keen hot-guy radar. She’ll know you’re there. She’ll be able to sense it.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” I mutter. A grin springs to my lips, though, when I realize what she’s said. “But you think I’m hot?”
“When you’re not trying to be charming or flirtatious, you’re passable,” she says in a flat voice. “Now get to the point or I’m closing the door.”
“Fine,” I say. “You win. But— but —I’m being serious here, okay? I need help with something for work, and I don’t have a lot of options. I don’t know many people in town.” I meet her gaze and hold it. “So don’t write me off without thinking about it, okay?”
Her expression has morphed into something more nervous now. She clears her throat and tucks a few strands of loose hair behind her ear. “You’re kind of freaking me out,” she says.
“No,” I say quickly. “Sorry. It’s nothing weird.”
“Okay,” she says, letting out a relieved breath, and some of the tension leaks out of her shoulders. “Good. Fine. Just say it, then. Don’t be weird about it. I promise to hear you out or think about it or whatever.”
“Good.” I take a deep breath and then dive in. “So I used to work in Idaho, right? For a paper there. And we did a spotlight series called Idaho is for Lovers, highlighting a bunch of the romantic spots around the state.”
“Okay,” she says slowly.
I nod and go on. “So now I work for the Four-Leaf Gazette, and in our?—”
“Wait,” she cuts me off. “You’re working at the Gazette?” Her eyes have widened slightly, big and brown and full of an expression I can’t place.
“Yes,” I say, blinking at her. “Since last month. Why?”
The look in her eyes disappears as she clears her throat. “Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Never mind. Okay, so you’re working at the Gazette. Go on.”
I shrug. “Yeah. So at our meeting two days ago I pitched a similar idea for Lucky, because it’s so beautiful here, right? A Lucky is for Lovers article. The editor really liked it, but he wants me to write it. Only I haven’t lived in Lucky very long, and I don’t know the popular local spots, and I just—” I break off, my breath gusting out of me. “I’d love some help. From a woman, preferably, because I’d like a female perspective on these places too.”
“Oh,” India says, blinking at me, and that little frown is back. “That’s it?”
“Pretty much,” I say with a shrug.
“Okay. But why me?” Her nose wrinkles. “You and I don’t talk. You don’t even have my number.”
“Which might be good,” I admit. I pause as a car drives past, music blaring from the open windows, and then I sigh. “Are you sure I can’t come in? Or is there a patio around back or something?”
She sighs, too. “Fine,” she says. “Yes.” But instead of opening the door wider, she steps outside onto the porch. “Go around the back. There are some chairs.”
She moves past me and begins trekking around the little house; I follow, watching the sun play with her hair, pulling all sorts of gold and brown and blonde into the deep red. I feel an odd pang of disappointment when we reach the shade of the back yard and all those colors disappear.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I like looking at pretty things.
“There,” she says, gesturing carelessly to a cluster of chairs on the patio. They’re clearly well used, with no dust or dirt or leaves despite the trees overhead—a little clump of aspen, rarer in town because our altitude isn’t high enough, but always beautiful when they appear.
I pick a chair and sit down, my eyes still on the trees that blow in the breeze like waving friends, and India more or less flops into the one next to me.
“So why me?” she asks again when we’re both seated.
“Because the whole concept of this piece is that Lucky is a perfect place for lovers and romance and whatnot. So I think it would be best to test it with a woman who has no interest in me and vice versa.” I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably. “I don’t?—”
She raises one brow at me when I break off, and I sigh.
“All right. It sounds bad,” I say, and I already know how much I’m going to get laughed at. “But I don’t want to risk working with anyone who might actually fall in love with me,” I admit. “That…happens sometimes.”
And, as I predicted, India holds in her burst of laughter for all of two seconds before it breaks free. A few wisps of red escape her ponytail as she throws her head back and laughs.
And laughs…and laughs…and laughs. The crisp Colorado breeze is going to carry that sound to the entire town—lighthearted, carefree, and entirely too amused.
I roll my eyes. “So hilarious. Really.”
“I’m sorry,” she gasps as she wipes tears of mirth from her eyes. “But you’re worried that some poor woman might fall for you because you’re just too irresistible. How is that not hilarious?”
I don’t find it particularly hilarious.
“I’m just saying,” I begin, “that historically—in the past—I’ve had a problem with women falling for me. That’s all— it isn’t funny! ”
“It is,” she says, the words faint as she tries to catch her breath. “It so is.” After inhaling deeply and exhaling several more times, she finally speaks again, humor still sparkling in her eyes. “So, what, you don’t want to fall in love?”
“No,” I say with complete honesty. “I don’t.”
She leans forward as the breeze picks up, pulling more of her hair across her face. “And you don’t think anything would ever happen here?” She gestures back and forth between us. “With you and me?”
I lean forward too, grinning suddenly. “Nah,” I say. “You’re not my type, Sunshine.” I wink at her and go on, “And I doubt I’m yours.”
Her answering smile is still full of amusement, and I decide on the spot that although irritable India is a whole lot of fun, laughing India is even better.
“You’re not,” she admits. “You’re a Bingley, and I’m more of a Darcy girl.”
I think she’s talking about Jane Austen, but beyond that, I’ve got nothing.
Luckily she saves me the trouble of responding.
“What’s your type, then?” she says, her eyes still bright. “Sultry bombshell? Cute little cheerleader?”
“I like all women,” I say truthfully. I don’t mean it in a creepy way; I just think all women have a lot to offer, and I think all women can be beautiful. I’m much more interested in that spark —the x-factor, if you will—than I am in a prescribed list of characteristics.
“If you like all women, then I am your type,” she points out with a laugh.
“Just trust me on this one,” I say. “I’m not worried about it.”
“Hmm.” She studies me for a second. “So you’re one of those guys who wants the thrill of the chase but doesn’t actually believe in true love? That’s the vibe I’ve always gotten from you.”
“Not at all,” I say, surprised. I lean back in my chair. “I believe in it. I think it’s a giant, life-changing force. That’s exactly why I’m not interested.” I shrug. “I’ve got a great life right now. I’m happy; I’m having fun. I don’t see why I should pursue something as disruptive or all-consuming as love.”
Marriage changed my mother into a smaller, quieter version of herself. And I’ve watched college friends pair off one by one, sucked into that vortex—and they change, too. Some of them seem happier in love, but others are moodier and insecure. I had a buddy who wanted to work on the police force or for the FBI, and his fiancée shut that dream down.
Is there a woman out there who will love me exactly as I am and not ask me to change for her? Someone I would love in a way that made me stronger and happier? Maybe. But I’m not interested in hunting for a woman like that. If she finds me, so be it.
Until then, I’m happy just having fun.
India eyes me for a second, and I can tell that this is it—she’s making her decision. I hold my breath, waiting.
Finally she shakes her head. “Sorry, Felicia. I wish you the best of luck. But?—”
“Why not?” I demand, straightening up again. I thought for sure she was going to say yes. Didn’t it seem like she was coming around?
“Because I don’t want to let you back in my life,” she says with a shrug.
What is that supposed to mean?
But before I can ask, she’s speaking again. “And because I have a hard time believing you actually need me. No one is going to fall in love with you just because you hang out at a few pretty places. Find someone else.”
“I do need you,” I blurt out. “I do. I need you. Poppy already said no. I have no one else.”
She rolls her eyes at this, but I plow forward.
“It’s true,” I say. “I really don’t know who else I can ask. I’m frankly scared of Aurora”—India nods as though to say Your fear is wise —“and Juliet would fall prey to my charms too easily. You three and Poppy are the only ones I feel safe with.”
“It would take you five minutes to meet another woman,” India says.
“I don’t want another woman,” I say. “I want someone who won’t fall in love with me. Someone I know is normal and fun to be around.” I swallow. “My boss is going to assign me a partner if I don’t find someone soon. Her name is Veronda, and I’ll be honest with you, Sunshine: I’m as scared of her as I am of Aurora. She likes me. She winks at me. She wants to have my babies.”
India’s nose wrinkles. “Ew.”
I nod emphatically. “So please help.”
She bites her bottom lip, looking at me with narrowed eyes. I can practically see her mind churning.
I open my mouth to speak, hesitate, and then close it again.
I have another card I could play, one that would be totally uncool. It would also involve lying, which I generally avoid.
But…I’m a little desperate, and she doesn’t even have a good reason, and she’s clearly on the fence already. She just needs a nudge in the right direction.
“If you agree to help me,” I begin, “I might consider keeping my mouth shut about your deep, dark secret.”
She stares at me blankly.
Am I being too vague? I’ve never blackmailed someone before. Do I need to be more specific?
“About your embarrassing moment,” I say, clearing my throat. “If you help me, I won’t tell anyone.”
Still nothing. I think I’m doing this wrong.
“The pageant,” I say, exasperated. “Please help me, or I will tell everyone about what happened at the pageant when you were a senior in high school.”
It’s this, finally, that does the trick. India’s eyes widen, her jaw dropping, an incredulous breath escaping her lips.
“Are you—” she says. “Are you blackmailing me?”
“That word has such a negative connotation,” I say evasively. “I prefer to think of it as being very persuasive.”
If looks could kill, I would be six feet under right now. India Marigold would be dancing on my grave.
So why am I so insistent that she help me? Because in a sense, she’s right. I could find someone else. I don’t want to, and it would be highly inconvenient, but I could.
India, though…she just seems like a lot of fun. I might like to bask in her sunshine for a bit.
“I—you—” she stutters. “Are you serious?”
I sigh. “Sadly, yes. I really really really need help, Sunshine?—”
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps.
“And it will be quick and painless. So unless you have a genuine, very good reason not to, you should just work with me here.” I eye her. “I’m not a monster. Do you have a really great reason not to?”
“I think I might hate you,” she says faintly.
“Let’s explore that loathing,” I say, because I just gave her a hint of an out, and she didn’t take it. My words are hasty and enthusiastic as I go on. “Really lean into it. At all the romantic spots in Lucky. You can hate me anywhere and everywhere you want.” That sounds like a euphemism I’d normally play with a bit, but since this is India, and Cyrus might actually castrate me, I move on. “I’ll provide snacks, too.”
She folds her arms and leans back in her chair, turning grumpily away. “Fine,” she says. “You’re the worst, Felicia. And you owe me more than snacks. If I have to help you do this stupid article, then you have to help me with something too.”
“Done,” I say easily. “I’ll help you with anything you need.”
“Fine,” she says again. “I have a list of things to do. You’ll be my chauffeur, and you will provide my favorite snacks.”
“I’m a great snack-providing chauffeur.” I hold my hand out, and she stares at it.
“I’m not shaking your hand,” she says with a sniff. “That’s the hand of a blackmailer. Who knows what other dirty deeds you’ve been getting up to?”
I grin. “Just you wait, Sunshine,” I say. “It will be fun. I promise.”
“You,” she says, “are a big fat liar, Felix Caine.”