Chapter 15
The bell over the door rang as she was stacking receipts.
The store was closed for the holiday, but she must have forgotten to lock it.
She didn’t need to glance up from her task.
She knew the sound his boots made on her shop’s floor.
She flicked through the pages, counting to make sure she hadn’t missed anything on the balance sheet.
In addition to the man’s inexplicable orchid care knowledge, Nic knew his way around a spreadsheet, and she was determined to be in better shape when he helped her with the shop’s books again.
Yes, there were a lot of jokes swirling in her brain about wishing he would do something else with her involving sheets that didn’t revolve around revenue predictions, profit margins, and local tax code.
Like sex.
“Good morning, Ms. Gallagher. Can you point me in the direction of your finest soil?”
“We at Grow Away are well-equipped to meet your dirt needs. Our motto is ‘Soil, Cuttings, Roots, and More since 1994.’ But Mr. Holm-Bozic, can you be a bit more specific about what you’d be needing it for?”
“Fiddle-leaf fig tree–compatible soil. Best money can buy. Cash in hand. Ready to pay,” he said in a voice better suited to a speakeasy in mobster Chicago circa 1922. “And we need to talk about that motto—”
“Oooh, a fiddle-leaf?” She stacked the last of the invoices on the counter. “Where’s your new friend?”
“The tree’s at the restaurant.”
“Take me to the invalid. I’ll bring my medical kit.
I’ve always loved resuscitating a cantankerous fig tree when I can.
” Technically, there was a five-year period of her early twenties when she refused to touch fiddle-leaf fig trees, but that was one of many childish grudges she grew out of as her prefrontal cortex fully developed.
She saved her progress on her tax forms, then grabbed her portable plant care kit and followed him out the door.
The patio outside was in that “it’ll get worse before it gets better” stage.
The materials for the pergola she and Nic had been planning had been delivered the previous week.
He’d stacked it all much more neatly than she would have.
They’d spent the last three weeks coming up with the plan.
The new flagstone pavers—current status: in transit from the wholesale supplier her dad recommended per the online tracking system—would extend the patio space to cover the area that would be beneath the pergola and would connect the patio to the sidewalk near the road.
So far, they had managed to install all of the pergola posts.
A deep freeze was predicted for next week.
“My brother and his husband are coming to visit at New Year’s. I bet they can help us get a little done if the weather cooperates.”
“You’d make your brother help you build a pergola on his vacation?”
She laughed. “It’s the Gallagher family way. I feel like every family vacation we took as kids involved helping some distant cousin somewhere build something. We were basically the von Trapps of free home renovation work. It’s what family does.”
“Sometimes.”
“Your family’s not like that?”
He shook his head and held the restaurant door open for her.
“I mean, except for Courtney, obviously. She’s the only one I stayed in touch with.
Everyone else lives pretty far away and doesn’t approve of my life choices.
There’s a point at which the political and lifestyle differences reveal some people just don’t give a shit about other people. You know?”
She nodded. Her family, though mostly Catholic, was surprisingly progressive. His people back in Texas were probably not the sort of folks who would like that Nic was a pansexual, socialist chef who drove a hybrid truck.
The hostess pulled Nic aside for a quick conversation, giving Felicity a moment to look at the wall beside the front desk.
Dark mahogany paneling salvaged from the old sanctuary lined the walls of the vestibule, with old pews creating a seating area in front of the hostess desk.
One section of wall was covered with old Polaroids that Marshall’s parents and her aunt Jeannie had taken when they first renovated the old church building and the parochial school next door.
So many milestones on the wall telling the story of the old church and how Jeannie and the Greenes saved it from being demolished.
It was a nice display and added to the atmosphere.
There were no photos of her aunt with “that asshole” as Felicity’s dad called him—aka Toby’s dad—during Jeannie’s brief marriage to him.
But there were photos of Marshall throwing a football to his siblings on the courtyard as it was in those days, of Marshall’s parents’ vow recommitment ceremony, with Aunt Jeannie holding two bouquets—this happened a few months before Marshall’s mom died—and of Thanksgivings with the Powell family, who came in to help with the motherless kids.
The wall told the story of how St. Clare Circle grew a large and loving found family dedicated to preserving the building where they now stood.
“On a separate but related subject,” Nic said, pulling her out of her thoughts to guide her back to the kitchen, “I think we should have a New Year’s Eve party.”
“Why?”
“Fun.”
“You answered that really quickly.”
“It’s Samantha and Abbott’s last pre-baby New Year’s. We can pretend it’s midnight at ten PM like the Good Lord intended for people after turning thirty.”
“I’m liking this plan better by the minute.”
He checked his phone. “Ack, sorry. Holly texted saying she’s taking a private personal call real quick in the office. Mind waiting out here a couple minutes, so she can finish up?”
“Course not.” Felicity adjusted the shoulder strap on her plant care bag, wincing. Installing that last post had irritated her old injury.
Nic missed nothing, so he held out his hand in a low-pressure tacit offer.
She handed the plant care tool bag to him and followed him down the back corridor of the restaurant, pausing occasionally to allow servers carrying food trays to pass or when sous chefs pulled Nic aside to ask questions.
Nic knew that she had been in an accident, but he never once asked her whether she should be digging pergola post holes or carrying mulch bags.
He assumed she could do whatever she decided to try to do, but he noticed when she was having trouble.
She’d never experienced chronic pain like this before, so she didn’t understand until the last three-ish years what it was like to deal with the reaction from people about chronic pain.
She’d mainly dealt with the sort of people who thought that if you could do something sometimes, it meant you were faking it or exaggerating when you couldn’t.
Or the people who thought you shouldn’t ever do anything ever that might possibly lead to a flare-up.
Those groups were comprised of most people.
Most family. Most friends. Even the most well-meaning ones.
But true to his word at Halloween, Nic was attentive without making her feel fragile.
“It’s Derek and Dylan’s last pre-dad New Year’s too.”
Nic’s face lit up. “Your brother’s having a baby?” They paused in the vestibule near the restaurant’s back door so as not to get in the way of a large delivery being unloaded into the walk-in.
Felicity leaned into the cool wall, letting it soothe some of the ache in her shoulder and neck. “Two babies.”
“Shit…”
“Dude, that is the correct response.”
“One baby already sounds brutal, but two at once?”
“I can’t imagine. But they’ve been over the moon since seeing that first ultrasound photo.”
“Do you want kids?”
“Christ, no.” She flinched. “Sorry, I probably should work on making my response to that question seem demure and conflicted.”
“Ha. Why?”
“Because the idea of a woman remaining child-free by choice is incredibly offensive to some people, many of whom live in the great state of Kansas.”
“Some people are dicks.”
“Agreed.”
Nic nodded. “I love kids, but I could never imagine a universe where I’d want my own. Let me tell you though, that is not the kind of thing you bring up on a date in Texas.”
“You had some unsatisfied customers?”
He puffed out his chest; today’s affected accent was best described as early era Keanu Reeves. “Oh they were sat-is-fied.”
The sound that left her was definitely a cackle. “Aww … You looked so serious when you said that. Cute.” She booped his nose.
“I take satisfying my dates very seriously.” He cringed. “Unless their opening icebreaker includes a ‘top five best baby name’ guessing game.”
“Nooo…”
“I ended up on the wrong side of Hinge.” He shuddered.
“Happened to me once. The guy looked okay, but then he told me my arm tattoos were the mark of the beast.”
“And your response?”
“I said it must be true, since this date was actually hell.”
Nic considered that. “I give it a solid seven out of ten.”
She smacked him. “How’d you respond to Baby Name Bambi?”
“I told her the truth, and she got up and left. Her name was Brandi, by the way. Alarmingly close.”
“She left because you said you didn’t want kids?”
“I also might have mentioned that any child named Madikinsley would have an emancipation case sewn up from the get-go.”
“Ding ding ding!” Felicity sang out. “We have a winner. Out of curiosity, did she mention how many Ys she’d be using in that name?”
“Anywhere between one and three, depending on her husband’s preference.”
“A generous concession to Madikinsley’s future sperm donor.”
When Holly came out and thanked them for patiently waiting, they headed up three stairs to where Nic held open the back office door.
He didn’t usually open doors for her, except when he knew her shoulder was bothering her.
She saw the small, sad-looking fiddle-leaf fig by the back window and rushed to its side like a paramedic.
“Give me a pH test strip stat. Start compressions. Not sure this guy’s gonna make it. I don’t think he’s breathing.”
“You’re the worst.”
She poked him between the eyebrows. “You’re no fun.”
Nic folded his arms over his broad chest. “I’m actually very fun and laid-back.”
“Last week you said my saucepans would kill me someday.”
“Cheap Teflon is legit poison,” he said. “And yours look like you’ve burned about a hundred meals on them and then scraped them with a garden hoe.”
“You’re a snob.” Felicity gave his plant setup an appreciative appraisal. He even had a fancy moisture meter. She dug around in the soil to check how it felt and guess at what he was using. “I don’t see anything immediately wrong with what you’re already doing.”
“I don’t get it.” He rubbed the back of his head. “It’s the same soil and setup I’ve always used. I’ve changed up everything else, and he still looks sad. I knew it would drop leaves when I brought it, but it looks deader than I expected.”
She shrugged. “Maybe it’s because it’s drier here. Maybe it’s the amount of sun. Maybe this fella decided to be a little bit difficult. It happens. Fiddle-leaf figs are known for keeping you guessing. Where’d you get him?”
“Propagated it myself.”
As if he needed to become hotter. Holy moly, this was too much.
As if he could read her thoughts, he stuck his thumbs behind the straps of invisible suspenders. “I even blend my own soil.”
“Ooooh. Dirt-y talk. I like it.”
Nic stared at her, then burst out laughing. “You’re the literal wors—”
“You’re both the worst. Blech,” Sam said from the office doorway.
Felicity laughed at Sam’s scrunched face. “I don’t know, Sam. Between this guy’s orchid skills and learning he cares for fiddle-leafs, I’m going to have to tell Marshall I want to steal him.”
“Good luck with that, Lis. Grandpa wants to know when we should come over, Nic. Courtney and Thea are picking up cranberry sauce and extra napkins from the supermarket before it closes. Need anything else?”
Nic was taken aback. “I’m making cranberry sauce.”
“Blame her.” Sam pointed at Felicity.
“Brutus.” Felicity glared.
Nic’s hands were still spread in outrage. “What’s wrong with my cranberry sauce? I’ve been honing the recipe for years.”
“Nothing personal. The non-jar kind tastes too much like cranberries.” Felicity made a delicate vomit sound.
“I literally do not know how to respond to that.” Nic shook his head and rubbed his temples with a huff.
Samantha rested a hand on her belly. Felicity had never met anyone whose eyes could communicate so much.
Nic and Felicity had made it very clear to absolutely everyone in a five-block radius that they were just friends.
Hadn’t they? They had, right? Sam hadn’t pushed the matter verbally.
But her big brown eyes still had a lot to say.
Courtney and Thea’s opinions had been more subtle.
Neither ever missed an opportunity to talk up Nic, but Courtney in particular seemed more … ambivalent about it? Maybe?
“I think Nic and I are going to throw a New Year’s party.”
“Oh.” Samantha’s oh was a lot closer to an ugh.
“Fake midnight at ten.”
“Ahh. Beautiful.” She massaged a spot on her back and yawned. “But was nine thirty considered?”
Nic smacked the desk in a silly way. “Damn it, if I’m going to celebrate New Year’s Eve like an old man, it’s going to be actual midnight somewhere in the world.
” He slung an arm over Felicity’s shoulders, and she nestled closer to his neck—definitely not because she liked how he smelled. “It’s called boundaries.”
Felicity tilted up her chin and pushed out her bottom lip. “Can we all get matching pajamas, so we can be more comfortable?”
“Fuck yeah,” Nic said. “I hate wearing clothes.”
Sam exhaled an impressively long sigh for a woman with a nearly fully grown fetus kickboxing her diaphragm. “We’ll be over to Courtney and Thea’s in an hour.” She was still shaking her head as she left.
“Why’s she so grouchy with us?” Felicity asked.
“Seems like she’s casting some shade on cave troll grandpa New Year’s.”
“How dare she?” Felicity looked up from where she’d been scrolling through her phone. “Nic. I found them. They’re perfect.”
He squinted closer to the screen and cracked up at the picture. “You are absolutely perfect, Felicity Gallagher.”