Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Joey
With the sun shining and a cool, refreshing breeze touching my skin, I stroll toward my sister’s quaint store in downtown Hemlock. It’s one of many shops lining Main Street, most of which are decorated with beautiful flowers and vibrant window displays.
Stepping inside my sister’s shop is like stepping into a greenhouse. There are leaves trailing down from hanging planters, tables overflowing with various overgrown houseplants, and an overwhelmingly pleasant earthy smell filling the air.
I’d forgotten how much I missed this place.
And it makes me miss my parents. Deeply.
“How long are you in town for this time?” Charlie asks.
Her dark brown eyes meet mine between the leaves of the large green plant she’s repotting.
After our parents died, she moved back home and took over A New Leaf.
My brother and I breathed a sigh of relief when she quit her job and took over my parents’ shop.
Every time I walk into this store, I can feel their presence.
Maybe it’s their ghosts hanging out here. Huh. I’ll have to sneak in one night and perform a seance to confirm my suspicions.
With a huff, I slump down onto the old wooden stool at the front counter. “Three months,” I reply, fidgeting with a random dead leaf on the plant.
I’m here because, as the senior brand designer at Fernrose Creative Agency, I’m expected to be in the office for a project with my firm’s big client.
Typically, we work remotely. It’s a perk of working for a boutique creative agency.
All I need is my laptop, semi-reliable Wi-Fi, and an IV drip of caffeine, and I’m ready for anything.
I spent two months working from Canada a couple of years ago, though when my boss found out, that came to a quick end. Apparently one cannot just work from another country without dealing with lame legal shenanigans.
My sister simply hums, making me wonder if she even heard me. The three of us Thorne siblings are pros at tuning each other out. Hence why Charlie’s asked me about how long I plan to stay three times in the last twenty-four hours.
For me, it happens often because my mind has too many tabs open. Though I can’t vouch for my siblings.
I survey the prickly green cactus in a cute terracotta pot in front of me.
Let’s see if my sister is paying attention.
Slowly, I reach for the spiky devil.
Without looking up from her plant rehabilitation project, she snaps, “Do not touch that. What is the matter with you?”
I jerk my hand back quickly, surprised and also impressed by her observation skills.
Under her breath, she mutters, “What is it with everyone wanting to touch cacti? Jesus.”
Somewhere nearby, Vera, my sister’s comically lazy golden retriever, lets out a long and dramatic groan. Charlie inherited Vera from my parents along with the store.
In unison, we look at the giant furball on the floor, then at each other, both shaking our heads at her grumbly, semi-judgmental noises.
“So you’re here for three months,” Charlie says. “What’s your plan?” Elbow deep in soil, she blows a stray piece of her dark brown hair out of her eyes.
Immediately, it falls back into place, and with a more frustrated huff, she tries again.
Lips twitching at her frustration, I hop up and round the work bench, removing a bobby pin from my hair as I go. Then, carefully, I pin back the unruly strand of hair.
She looks up at me with softened eyes. “Thanks, Joseph.”
“Always, Charles.”
In our orphan trio, Charlie is the curmudgeonly middle child who’s uncomfortable showing affection. We couldn’t be more different. She’s grouchy and prefers to stay far away from social interactions. Whereas I’m a people-person.
I plop myself back down on the stool, my shoulders slumping. I haven’t even been home for a full week and I’m already exhausted. If I’m gonna make it through the day, I need three shots of espresso and at least one pack of gummy bears.
She clears her throat, eyes darting between me and the plant in front of her. “Back to your plans for the next few months. Do you plan to stay with me?”
I bite back a smile. That wasn’t so much an offer as a concern. “You know I love any opportunity to disrupt your antisocial nature and annoy you with my mere existence, but I respect you too much to crash in your spare bedroom for more than a couple of nights.”
She drops the plant shears onto the counter, breathing a sigh of relief. “I have never loved or respected you more than I do in this moment.”
I shake my head, feigning annoyance. “I found a short-term rental. It’s not far from the office or your place. I’ll be nearby in case you need anything. Like sisterly bonding. Can I paint your toenails?” I tease. “Maybe we can do facemasks and watch a rom-com.”
She glares at me. This girl loves hard, but she loves hard from a safe distance. The way to her heart does not include pedicures or movie nights.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll pick up ice cream after work, and we can bitch and complain about that overly dramatic rich housewife show you love.”
That gets a genuine smirk out of her. Call it a sixth sense, but I’m pretty good at inferring what people need without being told.
Checkmate, dear sister. You’re forced to love me.
The sound of pattering paws fills the store as a brown and black blur makes a beeline for Vera, narrowly missing a table teetering under the weight of large monsteras.
Frank.
Last year, my sister met Finn, a very nice—albeit a tad awkward—guy, and with him came Frank the dog. Frank is blind and a kleptomaniac Australian Shepherd. Charlie sends weekly updates to our siblings’ group chat about what the dog has stolen most recently.
He barrels toward me and, with impressive precision for a dog who can’t see a damn thing, he jumps up and knocks me off my stool. As I tumble to the ground, a few ceramic pots fall with me. I press my hands to the ground to haul myself up, but a sharp pain in my palm makes me yelp.
“Oh my god,” my sister cries. “Frank, under the table. Now.”
She’s at my side a second later, gently cradling my hand. “I’ll get a clean towel from the back,” she says. “While I’m gone, whatever you do, do not look down. Please.” With that, she sprints to the back room.
When I’ve been told not to do something, I tend to find myself rebelling against that authority. So that’s what I do. I look down at my hand to find a deep, angry gash on my palm. Blood seeps from it and drips onto my jeans.
Shit. I’ve never been good with blood. I don’t enjoy seeing a substance that should be safe inside my body, outside my body.
The crimson fluid mocks me with every drip, and my traitorous brain can’t seem to look away.
Nausea rolls in my stomach, and a second later, a wave of dizziness hits me.
Like it always does, my vision tunnels next, white blurring around its edges.
Don’t faint. Don’t faint. Don’t faint.
I close my eyes and take a few deep, calming breaths. Don’t. Faint.
Dammit. I’m going to traumatize my sister even more than I already have.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is the blood splattered on the rustic wooden floor beneath me. Shit. Not only will Charlie be traumatized, but she’ll have an OSHA violation on her hands.
Before I go down, I attempt—and fail—at communicating with my sister telepathically, apologizing for what’s about to happen in the middle of her store.
My mouth goes dry, as expected, and I break out in a cold sweat.
The cherry on top? The shallow breathing.
And as the world goes dark, a piercing scream rends the air.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a nice, deep sleep. More often than not, my body feels discombobulated due to the changes in time zones, weather, and late-night driving that come with traveling so much.
But at this moment, my brain is devoid of restless thoughts. I feel light, airy, and at peace.
That peace is disrupted, though, by a nudge on my shoulder.
Then another.
Well, this isn’t annoying at all. I’m reveling in this perfect slumber and—
A low murmur cuts through my thoughts. It sounds like my sister. The next one comes from a deeper voice, though the words are impossible to make out.
With a groan, I force my heavy eyelids open. Immediately, I’m clouded in a haze of confusion, my mind desperately trying to grasp for clarity amid muddled thoughts.
Where am I? Why does my hand hurt? Why am I lying on the ground? And why are there so many damn plants in this place?
“Hey there. Welcome back,” a deep voice above me rumbles.
A million thoughts swirl in my mind, none sticking, and my tongue feels like sandpaper. There’s a dull ache pulsing in my temples, and someone is hovering over me, watching me.
I blink a few times, and when my vision clears and I focus on the person still speaking to me, I’m struck speechless.
Holy mother of—
He snaps his mouth shut and peers down at me with searching green eyes. They’re bright against the stubbled jaw and tousled dark blond hair. Crouching, and with his lip caught between his teeth like that, he looks concerned, but also hot.
As heat creeps into my cheeks, I force myself to look away. His eyes are too damn intense. Instead, I glance over to where he’s white-knuckling the counter.
Without my permission, my eyes trace the path of dark tattoos beginning at his wrist and gradually winding up to his muscular bicep. An intricate mix of florals and landscapes, with a few animals tucked between designs.
Color me curious because I want to know more.
How many other tattoos is he hiding? More importantly, where are they hiding?
I must be in heaven.
Actually, I don’t see my parents.
So I’m most likely in hell. It wouldn’t shock me if Satan and his pitchfork were waiting for me. I’ve pissed off more than my fair share of people in life and I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.
Pain radiates through me, and a groan escapes my lips. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but my head is resting on something soft and vanilla scented. As I inhale, catching another whiff of the pleasant smell, it hits me.
My weak self fainted.
I’ve never been good with blood. As a kid, I thought I would make an amazing doctor. My bedside manner is, dare I say, impeccable. However, my older brother Jack had one too many bloody, broken noses from football and I became very squeamish. Now, every time I see blood, I pass out.
I’m a phlebotomist’s worst nightmare. I’m positive I saw one trembling in their scrubs when she saw me walk into the lab.
Over the man’s broad shoulder, a crowd is forming.
My eyebrows knit together in annoyance, but underneath the surface, anxiety crawls up my spine, taking hold of me.
I’d forgotten how curious the people of Hemlock can be with their whispered gossip and knowing glances.
The townspeople think they’ll combust if they’re not privy to every detail of local nonsense.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply. When I open them, I discover those piercing green eyes still locked on mine, brimming with worry.
Brows pinched, he peers over his shoulder like he’s just now noticed the crowd.
Dozens of curious eyes watch on, and phones are out, the curious onlookers recording or taking photos of me lying on the floor. My chest tightens at the attention, and an urge to scream bubbles up inside me. To shout at them to give me a bit of privacy.
Yet I can’t find my voice. The words stay lodged in my throat.
The mysterious tattooed man, still hovering over me, now turns to the crowd. What happens next makes me want to propose to him right here, right now.