Grump’s Wild Rose (Seven Nights to Mr. Right #1)

Chapter 1

Darby

I can’t believe Kari and Lola talked me into this.

We arrive at Green with Envy in a convoy of soccer mom vans and SUVs. Okay, only three vehicles, but each could house a minor league baseball team. We need room for all our plants, Maggie insisted.

“I’m pretty sure the only people who plan potting parties in the middle of winter are looney tunes.” My breath hangs in the air as I step into the cold.

“Hey,” Kari says, looping her arm around mine. “This was my idea.”

“I rest my case,” I say.

Kari scrunches her nose. “Be nice.”

“I’ll try,” I say, scrunching my nose right back at her.

“It’ll be fun.” Lola flanks me on the other side. “You promised you’d be on your best behavior.”

“I promised under duress,” I tell her. “Also, it’s freezing. We could

have gone somewhere normal. Somewhere with tacos and mounds of chips and queso. But never that tea and cucumber sandwich place again.”

“Hey. That was fun,” Lola insists. “With those little petit four things. So, yum.”

“Mama needs a margarita.” Maggie smirks, obviously happy to be out of the house without children in tow.

“After we’ve played in the dirt,” Gabby says.

We step inside the building, and the scent of damp earth and florals reminds me of mud facial masks and over-spritzed perfume.

I scan the displays. Roses…everywhere. Buckets of them.

Arrangements stacked on display tables, in refrigerated cases, and in pots lining the floor. Pale pinks, deep reds, creamy whites.

It’s enough to make me gag.

“Don’t make that face,” Kari says.

“This place is adorable.” Lola releases my arm and drifts toward a display of small potted plants with tiny heart-shaped tags. “It’s cute. It’s fun. It’s—”

“Roses. In February. How original,” I mutter. My lip curls as I pass an arrangement so big it’s obscene. I’m sure the price tag is equally so.

Valentine’s day and roses out the wazoo make me want to toss my cookies. My friends meant well planning today, but V-day isn’t my thing. I don’t mean to be a pain in the butt, but I’m just not in the mood.

“Aww…come on Darbs. This class is all they had at the last minute,” Kari says. “Be a sport.”

“I’ll be a sport for St. Patrick’s Day. Green beer, Irish whiskey, and pinching hot tushies.” I finger a leaf as I pass an arrangement of flowers.

It isn’t that I dislike flowers. It’s V-day and roses that muck up everything.

And… I’m a little jealous. I can admit that…

to myself. I’m the last woman in our group without a partner.

Everyone has a husband or boyfriend. While they’re deeply, madly, over the moon in love, I have no one.

I stare after Maggie, Gabby and Rumer as they wander toward the back of the shop.

“You used to love Valentine’s when we were kids,” Kari says.

“It wasn’t so transactional then.” I lower my voice as an older couple passes.

The woman cradles a bouquet like it’s a newborn.

“Roses are boring, cliché and plain old predictable. Just like heart-shaped boxes of creme-filled chocolates that nobody likes and those bubble bath gift baskets. The only reason men buy the damn things are to get laid.”

“Darby.” Kari’s eyes dart back and forth, checking to see who’s in earshot.

“What? You want me to pretend I don’t know how the world works?”

Lola laughs under her breath and steers me toward a wide aisle lined with ceramic pots and tiny decorative watering cans. “Try not to get us kicked out before we make it to class.”

I scan the shop as we walk. The space is nicely curated with hand-painted pots, ceramic gnomes, and wooden garden stakes. The ceiling stretches high with exposed metal beams wrapped in string lights. A freaking fairy garden.

Everything is soft and pretty, curated for couple season.

Kari pauses at a display of handmade cards. Her smile brightens and my chest pinches for half a second. She’s so in love…with my perfect brother.

“It’s my first Valentine’s with Grey,” she says, almost shy about it. “We’re going to cook homemade pasta together. Then… Netflix and chill.”

I roll my eyes. “Gross.”

Lola snorts and loops her arm through mine, steering me past a table of heart-shaped trinkets and red candles. “At least you’re not still sleeping on their sofa.”

“Hallelujah,” I say. “It’s bad enough I had to listen to the two of them going at it all hours of the night. There’s probably a dent in the wall from the damn headboard.”

“Darby.” Kari freezes. Her face turns the color of a tomato so fast it’s impressive.

“What?” Sarcasm creeps up my throat and across my tongue faster than I can stop it. I fake a serious expression. “I’m proud of you. Very loud. Very committed.”

“Okay, okay. Give her a break.” Lola squeezes my arm, a warning not to go too far.

Too late.

A twinge of guilt stabs at my gut. “No more jokes. I’m happy for you, Kari. Really. I’m just—”

“I know.” Kari gives me a brief, weak smile, and I feel even worse. “But it’s your own fault. You told Grey to make me happy, and he’s doing an ah-mazing job of it.”

Lola bursts out laughing and high-fives Kari. Kari bats her lashes at me and joins the others near the counter. My guilt vanishes immediately, because this is how we roll. These are my friends and why I love them dearly. They don’t let me get away with anything.

Lola leans close, her voice low and teasing. “We need to get you laid.”

“Oh, please,” I say, shaking my head as we follow Kari to the back of the store. “I’m not desperate.”

“Of course not,” Lola mutters as we near the counter. “But a dose of the big “O” couldn’t hurt.”

“Outside in the greenhouse to the left,” the woman at the counter says to Gabby. “If you need anything else, I’m Daisy. Happy to help.”

I catch movement outside through the glass doors.

A dark-haired man steps into view with a cumbersome bag slung over his shoulder.

He carries it without breaking stride, like it’s the weight of a feather.

A worn hoodie clings to his broad shoulders.

I tilt my head, watching as he shifts the bag to adjust his grip.

His muscles flex, stretching the fabric taut across his forearms.

My brain blanks for a split second as I swallow. “Oh, hello,” I mutter.

Lola follows my gaze, and her mouth curls into a grin. “Well, well, well…”

“Don’t start,” I warn her. “Quick question, Daisy. Who is that?”

Daisy strains to see past me. “Oh, that’s Greg. He owns the place. He’s teaching your class today. He’s a very hands-on kind of guy. Salt of the earth.”

“Good to know.” My stomach does something a little annoying and a lot lustful. I wouldn’t complain if he gave me a little hands-on attention. “Shall we ladies? Don’t want to be late for class.”

Maggie and Gabby exchange smirks, and I don’t give a rats ass. If I’m going to be surrounded by love sick women and thorny roses without a Valentine’s Day date in my future, I might as well get to look at a hot man.

Kari glances back, and her eyebrows shoot up. “That’s my client.”

I give her an innocent smile. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m just here to plant stuff,” I add. “I can multitask without embarrassing you.”

Greg

I drop the bag of potting soil onto the bench. It lands with a thud, echoing through the greenhouse. I roll my shoulder once, working out the stiffness, then turn my attention to the worktable where my prize rose bush sits in quiet defiance.

Her leaves are green and stems are strong. Healthy as hell—and not a single bud.

I lean over it, hands braced on the table and exhale the restlessness weighing on my mind.

I’ve tried everything I can think of. Adjusted the soil, fed it premium fertilizer, and checked the pH balance more times than necessary.

I’ve followed every guideline, every recommendation, every piece of advice passed down from my dad and every new method I’ve researched on my own.

Nothing.

“You’re killing me,” I mutter.

My hybrid rose is supposed to set Green with Envy apart from every landscaping business in the county. No one else carries chocolate roses within a four state radius. If I can just get the damn thing to cooperate.

I know better than to let my ego get in the way, but people still talk about the place like Dad’s still running the show.

I’m grateful he entrusted the business to my siblings and me, but after Ace branched out with Merry & Bright outdoor lighting and Kinsey left, I’m the one opening the doors every morning and locking up at night.

I’m the one hauling soil, managing orders, dealing with suppliers, keeping payroll straight.

I straighten and rub a hand over the back of my neck. I’m not chasing perfection. Just proof I deserve this place. That I’ll leave it better than I received it for the next generation.

I glance at the clock mounted above the door.

I’ve got a potting party to teach. Not something that was on my radar, but marketing needs content, and content means events.

Kinsey used to handle all of that without breaking a sweat.

Social posts, promotions, event planning.

She had a knack for making the shop feel welcoming without turning it into a circus.

Now she’s working for the mayor’s office in Cranberry Corner, chasing her own dream.

I get it. Hell, I respect it. I want the same thing for myself, here.

It’s why I hired a social media consultant to pick up the slack.

Kari talks a lot about engagement, reach and branding.

She insists classes are more important than the revenue they’ll generate.

She designed them to connect with the community, here and everywhere the internet reaches.

That’ll be key when I perfect my hybrid roses.

I straighten the pots and adjust the tools at each station. Teaching is outside my comfort zone, and communicating with women isn’t exactly my strong suit. I’ve never understood why they laugh so loud, talk over each other, and act giddy when they greet each other.

The greenhouse doors slide open and it’s just as I expected—loud, voices overlapping, and exaggerated laughter. Their excitement bounces off the walls, and I swear the noise alone will cause my rose bush to go into shock.

I glance toward the door and am gobsmacked when I see her. She steps inside with the others, hair pulled away from her face, eyes sharp as they move through the space. She takes everything in with quick, assessing glances, like she’s looking for something specific.

Then her gaze shifts and locks with mine.

Her lips curl into a devilish grin. A look that could upend my world if I’m not careful.

My pulse quickens and an electric zinger snaps my attention fully into place.

I’m not braced for the jolt that straightens my spine.

An awareness so fast and precise it throws me off balance.

I clear my throat, reminding myself she’s a customer, here to learn with her girlfriends, and then go home with dirt under her nails and a rose bush for her husband or boyfriend.

But against my better judgment, I can’t stop staring at her.

She moves closer with the group, like she’s leading the pack with her energy. Her body language is relaxed, yet focused, not fading into the background. I catch pieces of conversation as they approach—joking, teasing, familiar.

“Welcome. I’m Greg—”

She steps past the others and thrusts her hand forward. “I’m Darby. My friends call me Darbs.”

She stares at me unblinking as if she’s daring me to take note. I slide my palm over hers, and am instantly aware that noticing her isn’t an issue. But just being friends will be.

“Darby,” I repeat.