Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Rosalie
“—and that's when I told him, Harold, if you want dinner at six, you better learn to cook, because I'm watching my shows.”
I handed the older woman her bag of lettuce and chard, grinning. “Good for you!”
“At seventy-two, I've earned the right to make unreasonable demands.” She winked, counting out exact change. “Besides, he likes to complain. Gives him purpose.”
“Men do seem to enjoy a good grumble,” I agreed, glancing over at Cal, who was chatting with a family.
She tucked the greens into her canvas tote, then glanced over in Cal's direction. “Your husband has the same look my Harold gets when I drag him shopping. Like he'd rather be anywhere else.”
I choked on air. “Oh, he's not—we're not—”
“But he shows up anyway.” Her eyes twinkled. “That's how you know they're keepers, dear.”
She wandered off before I could correct her, leaving me staring after her in mortified silence.
Married. To Cal Sterling.
I busied myself rearranging the already-perfect flower display, sneaking a glance back toward the adoption area. Cal was crouched beside a little girl, who was cautiously petting Daisy while her parents filled out paperwork. His expression had softened—not quite a smile, but close.
Sure, he'd been helpful today. Packed some orders when the lunch rush hit. Helped me rearrange the booth after two kids racing through the market knocked over my entire herb display. Kept Daisy from stealing someone's breakfast burrito when they set it down to dig through their wallet.
But that didn't mean we were together.
The woman clearly needed her vision checked. Or maybe she'd been sampling too much of the craft beer from the brewery tent.
Because Cal was just... helpful.
I turned back to my booth, determined to forget that conversation ever happened.
Thirty minutes until closing. I surveyed what was left—a dozen eggs, two bunches of chard, some lettuce that was starting to look tired, and the flower bouquets nobody had bought.
The flowers were my problem. I'd made too many, convinced they'd fly off the table. Turns out people preferred baked goods and the fancy cheese from the dairy farm two booths down.
I did the mental math I'd been avoiding all day. Twenty-eight dollars in egg sales. Forty-three for vegetables. Sixteen for flowers. The herbs had done well—fifty-two dollars there.
One hundred thirty-nine dollars total. It wasn't terrible for a first market solo. Right?
Except it would barely cover groceries, feed for the animals, fixing whatever inevitably broke next, let alone rebuilding the farm account after the tax payment.
I plastered on my best smile as a woman wandered past, eyeing the chards. I pounced. “Fresh chard! Perfect for sautéing or adding to soups!”
The woman picked up a bunch, examining the dark green leaves. “How much?”
“Four dollars.”
She set it back down. “The organic farm over there has it for three.”
My smile faltered. “Oh. Well, this is—”
But she was already walking away, heading straight for the booth with the fancy wooden signs and the long line of customers.
I stared after her, my chest tightening. Three dollars? How was I supposed to compete with that?
A teenage boy drifted over, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes kept darting to the flower bouquets.
“Those are pretty,” he mumbled.
“Thanks. They're twelve dollars each. Perfect for—”
“Twelve?” His face fell. “That's... a lot.”
“Ten,” I said quickly. “I can do ten dollars.”
He bit his lip, glancing back toward where a girl his age was browsing the bakery booth. “I don't know...”
He shifted his weight, clearly torn. “I only have eight.”
The smart business move would be to hold firm. But the kid looked so hopeful.
“Deal.”
The relief on his face made my chest tight. He dug crumpled bills from his pocket, counting twice before handing them over.
I wrapped the bouquet in brown paper, watching him jog back to the girl with a grin that made my heart squeeze. At least someone would be happy today.
Even if I was slowly pricing myself out of business.
Cal appeared at my elbow, hands shoved in his pockets. “Done for the day?”
“Almost.” I straightened the remaining chard bunches, willing them to look more appealing through sheer force of optimism. “How'd the adoption thing go?”
“Found a couple for Hank. They're picking him up Tuesday, they need to dog-proof their house first.”
“That's amazing!” I beamed at him. “How does it feel?”
Cal's eyebrows lifted slightly. “How does what feel?”
“Finding Hank a home.” I gestured toward where the grumpy terrier had been stationed all day. “You've had him for weeks, right? It must feel good knowing he's going somewhere he'll be loved.”
Something shifted in Cal's expression—not quite a smile, but the tension in his jaw eased. “Yeah. It does.”
“Just 'yeah'?” I leaned against the table, grinning. “Come on, Cal. You can give me more than that.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don't know. That you're thrilled? Relieved? Secretly devastated because you'll miss his grumpy little face?”
Cal's mouth twitched. Almost imperceptibly, but I caught it.
“All three,” he admitted.
My chest warmed. “See? Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating.”
I laughed, and Cal's gaze held mine for a beat longer than necessary. The market noise faded—vendors calling out deals, kids shrieking, someone's terrible folk guitar—and for a second, it was just us.
Then Cal cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “You look tired.”
“Wow. Smooth.”
“I meant—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Long day. That's all.”
“Long week.” I straightened, forcing brightness back into my voice. “But we survived, right? You found Hank a home. I didn't burn down the farm. Wins all around.”
Cal studied me, and I had the unsettling feeling he could see straight through the cheerful facade to the knot of anxiety sitting heavy in my stomach.
“Did I say something wrong?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You're upset.” Cal shifted his weight, looking supremely uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—”
“Cal, no.” I shook my head quickly. “You didn't do anything. I promise.”
“Then what's wrong?”
The genuine concern in his voice caught me off guard. I glanced around the market—vendors slowly packing up, families wandering back toward their cars, the long day finally winding down.
“I just...” The words stuck. Admitting failure wasn't something I did easily. “I thought I'd do better.”
“At the market?”
“Yeah.” I gestured at the half-empty table, heat creeping up my neck. “Walt always came home with the truck bed empty and cash in his pocket. I thought… I don't know. That it would be like that for me, too.”
Cal's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. “How long did Walt run this farm?”
“Forty years.”
“And how long have you been doing it?”
I winced. “Less than a month.”
“So you're comparing yourself to someone with forty years of experience.” Cal's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. “That seems fair.”
“When you put it like that—”
“You sold out of herbs. Most of your vegetables. The eggs are almost gone.” He nodded toward my table. “I wouldn't call that a failure.”
“It's not enough either.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. Cal's gaze sharpened, and I immediately regretted opening my mouth.
“Enough for what?”
I busied myself packing the remaining chard into a crate, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Rosie.”
“I'm fine, Cal. Really.” I forced brightness back into my voice. “Just tired. Like you said.”
He didn't move. Didn't push. Just stood there with that infuriating patience, waiting for me to crack.
And because apparently I had zero self-preservation instincts around this man, I cracked.
“Property taxes.” I set the crate down harder than necessary. “Walt mentioned them yesterday. I already paid the bill—fifteen hundred dollars—but now the farm account is...” I gestured vaguely at my pathetic sales display. “Well, let's just say it's not looking healthy.”
Cal was quiet for a long moment. “And today's sales won't help much.”
“Today's sales are a drop in the bucket.” I laughed, but it came out hollow. “I need to figure out how to make more money, fast. Walt always managed to keep things afloat. I thought if I just worked hard enough, showed up, did everything right—”
“You thought it would be enough.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightened. “Stupid, right?”
“Not stupid.” Cal's voice softened, just slightly. “But you can't expect to match forty years of built relationships and reputation in a month.”
“I know that. Logically, I know.” I pressed my palms against the table edge. “But that still doesn't pay the bills.”
Cal looked at me, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. He was going to offer to help. Or tell me to call Walt. Or suggest something perfectly logical that I'd already thought of and dismissed.
“I do have some ideas,” I said quickly before he could start problem-solving for me. “I've been researching goat milk products—lotions, soaps, that kind of thing. People pay good money for handmade stuff, especially if it's natural and locally sourced.”
Cal tilted his head slightly. “How much time does that take?”
“To make?” I shrugged, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I'm not sure yet. I've never done it before. But there are tutorials online, and Walt's got all the equipment I'd need. How hard could it be?”
The silence that followed told me exactly what Cal thought of that logic.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're giving me a look.”
“I'm not giving you anything.” But his jaw tightened. “You're already stretched thin running the farm solo. Adding a new product line on top of that—”
“Is exactly what I need to do.” I crossed my arms. “Unless you have a better idea?”
Cal was quiet for a beat too long.
“That's what I thought.” I grabbed an empty crate, stacking it with more force than necessary. “I appreciate the concern, but I've got this handled.”
“Rosie—”
“Really, Cal. I'm fine.” I softened my voice, gentling the edge. “I promise. I just needed to vent for a second. But I've got a plan. It'll work out.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth opened, then closed again. Then, instead of speaking, he reached for his wallet.
I watched, confused, as he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
“What are you doing?”
“Buying flowers.” He held out the money.
My stomach dropped. “Cal, no. You don't have to—”
“I want to.”
“You've already helped me today.” Heat crept up my neck. “You don't need to pity-buy my flowers because I'm having a rough week.”
“It's not pity.” His voice stayed level, matter-of-fact. “I need flowers.”
“For what?”
“Does it matter?”
Yes. It absolutely mattered. Because the thought of Cal Sterling buying flowers for someone—some mystery woman who warranted bouquets and thoughtful gestures—made my chest feel tight in a way I refused to examine.
“They're twelve dollars. You're giving me twenty.”
“Consider it a tip.”
“Cal—”
“Rosie.” He stepped closer, still holding out the bill. “Let me buy the damn flowers.”
He's being nice. That was all this was. A kind gesture from someone who'd already spent his entire morning helping me, who'd fixed my irrigation system at dawn, who'd shown up at the market with rescue dogs and stayed all day even though I knew he'd rather be anywhere else.
I took the money, my fingers brushing his for half a second. “Thank you.”
Cal studied the bouquets, his expression unreadable. I'd arranged them yesterday with such hope—wildflowers from the edges of the property, mixed with the cultivated blooms from Walt's garden. Pinks and purples and whites, tied with twine.
He reached for the largest one, the arrangement I'd been most proud of, bursting with color and life. “This one.”
I wrapped it carefully in brown paper, tying it with extra twine because my hands needed something to do. The silence stretched between us, comfortable but charged with something I couldn't name.
“Sharon's going to love these.” The words tumbled out as I handed him the bouquet. “I mean, they're perfect for—well, I don't know what her favorite flowers are, but these seem like the kind of thing she'd appreciate.”
Cal blinked at me. “Sharon?”
“Yeah.” My cheeks burned. “Unless they're for someone else? Not that it's my business. You can give flowers to whoever you want. Obviously.”
Stop talking, Rosie.
“They're not for Sharon.”
“Oh.” My stomach did something complicated. “Right. Of course. I shouldn't have assumed—”
“They're for you.”
The market noise faded to white static. I stared at him, certain I'd misheard. “I'm sorry?”
“The flowers.” He held them out, awkward and stiff. “They're for you.”
I blinked at him. Then at the bouquet. Then back at him.
My brain short-circuited somewhere between for you and the way Cal's ears had gone slightly pink. Relief flooded through me, warm and unexpected and completely inappropriate.
“But you just bought them from me.”
“I'm aware.”
“So you're... giving them back?”
“As a thank you.” Cal's jaw tightened, like this conversation was physically painful. “For today. For finding Hank a home. Possibly Daisy, too—a few people seemed interested.”
My chest did something complicated. “Cal, you don't have to—”
“I want to.”
The words hung between us, simple and honest. Cal stood there, looking like he'd rather be performing emergency surgery on a rabid raccoon than having this conversation. But his eyes—warm brown and steady—held mine without wavering.
“You're thanking me.” I tried to process this. “For helping you find homes for your dogs.”
“Yes.”
“By buying flowers from me and giving them back.”
“Apparently.”
I stared at him. The logic was so backwards, so unnecessarily complicated, so perfectly him that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The laugh won. “That's the most Cal Sterling thing I've ever heard.”
His mouth twitched. I stared at the bouquet, then back at Cal.
Finally, I reached out and took the flowers from him. Our fingers brushed again, brief but warm.
“Thank you.” The words came out softer this time. “They're beautiful.”
“You made them.”
“I know, but—” I held them close, breathing in the sweet wildflower scent. “They're even better now.”
Cal's expression softened, just slightly. Enough that I noticed.
Something warm bloomed in my chest—dangerous and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
Cal Sterling had bought me flowers. My own flowers, yes, but that somehow made it worse. Better. I didn't know anymore.
This gruff, exhausted man who barely strung three words together had orchestrated the world's most awkward gesture just to make me feel better.
And it worked.
If that woman from earlier—the one who'd bought greens and commented on what a lovely couple we made—could see us now, she'd be insufferable about it. Cal buying me flowers, me clutching them like they were precious, both of us standing too close in the fading afternoon light.
We looked like people in love.
Which we definitely weren't.