Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

NICHOLAS

I turn off the quiet, shaded road and find a spot to park along a ditch. The sun has just barely risen, gray light fills the sky, and birds chirp to greet the morning in the forest around me.

Tired as I am from working late last night, flower-picking is always best bright and early.

Stepping into the chilly air, I gather my tools, two big woven baskets with my snippers, cooler buckets, gloves, and assorted gardening supplies. After spritzing myself with natural insect repellent, a rumble gets my attention, and I turn.

I'm over an hour's drive down the coast of Lake Erie from Buffalo, and I practically never spot another person in this slice of nature, especially not so early.

An old blue truck comes down the road, coughing and sputtering. The back is loaded up and tied down, hauling something I can't see.

The truck slows to a creep. As it passes, the driver and I make eye contact, and the world seems to slow.

The man is probably my age, a white guy like me in his late twenties or so, with short, dark hair and heavy stubble. He's attractive in a rugged, roguish way. Not my usual type, but a pleasant sight to encounter on this enchanted morning.

He's less than twenty feet away now, and I see the slightly crooked bent of his nose, the heavy furrow of his brow, and the square cut of his jaw. His features delight me, and I'm hit with a peculiar sensation like I've seen him before, although I'm certain I never have.

Just as quickly, the man's expression falls halfway to a frown, and the truck is gone, further into the woods.

I hum to myself, intrigued.

Hopefully, that scowl doesn't mean he's a local, deciding I'm up to no good. I've got the landowner's permission to come here and harvest. She's a regular at my flower shop in the city.

Years ago, she brought in a photograph of the wildflowers growing at her vacation cabin, asking for identification help. When I saw the open woods and meadow, filled with delicate lavender shooting stars, my heart soared. We quickly struck a deal, and she now stops by for a free bouquet every month, while I trot out to gather a sustainable harvest of shooting stars once each year, timed so the plants will send up a second bloom for the butterflies and bees.

I haul my baskets across the ditch and into the forest, heading toward the wildflower patch. It takes a lot of hands-on missions to make ends meet at Blossom. But I don't mind. As I swat mosquitoes and get to harvesting, I'm grateful for the peaceful time in nature as well as for the profit we'll make selling these.

Costs in the gayborhood keep rising, and good flowers are perpetually harder to source. Every dollar I can scrimp together puts me closer to paying off the business startup loans, too, so I can't afford to skip an opportunity like this.

I sing "Work, Bitch" by Britney Spears to myself and quicken my pace, thinking of the tasks that wait for me back in the city.

Complicating everything at the business, a few months ago, the owner of Blossom's building died. Randy lived above the shop for decades. He's a dearly missed friend, and those of us who shared the lot with him were perplexed to learn of his decision to leave his entire estate to his grandson.

Building included.

Not least because everyone was shocked Randy had a grandson in the first place. It took the bank until last week to even locate him.

Now, I'm waiting for this mysterious relative to appear. With the rate of development on our block alone, he'll have no problem selling the building if that's what he wants. And regardless of what happens, no one is going to charge me rent as low as Randy did.

I remind myself that, for all I know, the new owner will want to live upstairs himself and keep things just as they are.

Maybe he's always dreamed of living above a flower shop in Buffalo. You never know.

And relentless optimism hasn't failed me yet.

It might not make me rich, but Blossom is my dream come true. Or at least part of a dream, until I finally find my Prince Charming to settle down and enjoy this life with me. Even without that piece of the puzzle, though, I've surrounded myself with flowers and good friends, and I'm grateful to have exactly the career I wanted, satisfying and enlivening.

A new question mark hanging over my lease can't bring me down now.

The sun rises, and the spring day warms. Shooting stars look like faerie wings, purple hearts that float above a rosette of lush green leaves. Each flower's stamens hang beneath the petals in a pointed cluster, yellow and white and dark pink. Delicate and drooping, the flowers are sturdy, too, and they'll hold up well in the small bouquets that I'll create this morning.

Every spring, customers gush over the bouquets I make from the shooting stars.

When I'm done, I climb back through the woods. It's more difficult with the flowers, which I try to protect. At the ditch, I step gingerly and wobble on rocks to find my crossing, the water just high enough to be a problem.

Wind blows through the trees. I scramble up the other side of the ditch, and my pulse skips when I see that truck rumbling down the road again, returning my way. Compromised by my position, I'm now also sweaty, and there's dirt all over my long-sleeved T-shirt and old, ill-fitting work jeans.

The truck slows as it approaches. I'm curious, and I raise up a smile to greet the man inside. As I do, though, the truck turns like he's driving off the road. The vehicle rolls directly toward me as it coughs out a deep, roaring rumble.

I step backward, startled, and my foot lands on a rock. With a stumble and a yelp, I fall into the ditch, flinging the basket of flowers in the air on my way down.

I groan, now wet in the dirty puddle. Pain throbs where I crashed on my butt, and my hands sting. Heart pounding, I scramble to my feet.

"Hey? You down there?"

The stranger appears at the top of the ditch, the sun behind him so I can't see his face. He's tall and broad, almost hulking, and dressed in jeans and a dark blue flannel.

"There you are," he says coolly.

I scramble up the side of the ditch, keeping a good distance from him in case he has bad intentions.

"I have permission to be here," I say quickly. "And there are people who expect me back very soon! They know where I am."

He arches an eyebrow. "You hurt?"

When he doesn't make any moves to murder me, I shake my head. "Not seriously. It just startled me when you drove your truck at me."

"I didn't drive my truck at you. I was pulling over to ask for directions," the man says. His voice is steady and low, like the motor he's left running behind him.

He should have kept his vehicle on the road, but I'm not here to argue. I'm mainly just relieved to know I'm not in danger, and maybe slightly embarrassed that I yelped my butt into a ditch in front of this burly stranger. "A misunderstanding, then," I tell him.

After an awkward second, the man plunges a fist into his pocket. "Sorry about that," he mumbles.

I relax a little more at the apology. It's hard to imagine how anyone could have ill intentions on a morning like this, truthfully.

I bend to start collecting flowers, at least some of which appear unharmed. "Apology accepted," I say, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

He grunts and bends down, grabbing a handful of flowers. "About those directions," he says, but I don't let him finish.

"Careful!" I blurt out. I see that he's crushing the stems as he gathers them, roughly knocking the heads together. It's painful enough to see flowers harmed, but this is like cash that I can't afford to lose burning before my eyes. I'll barely pay for the gas out here at this rate.

I abruptly snatch the flowers from his hand and step back. "Please just let me," I say, flustered.

The man frowns. "Fine. I shouldn't have stopped in the first place."

Noting that he is trying to help, despite the seemingly permanent furrow to his brow, I try another smile. "If you wouldn't mind handing me that other basket, please? And you can tell me where you're trying to go."

He bends, hitching his jeans up at the thighs as he lowers himself into a slight squat, which is distractingly sexy for thick thigh reasons. Not at all where my mind should be right now.

We both step forward for the handoff, and my muddy shoe slips, causing me to briefly lose balance. I catch myself as I take the basket, but the stranger goes reeling. He grabs wildly at the air, and the next thing I know, we've crashed into the ditch together.

I roll off him in a huff, further soaking myself in the process. "Can't blame anyone but myself for this one. Sorry!"

The man stands. He looks down at himself and snorts. "Fuck."

We both scramble up the side of the ditch.

"I'm just going to leave now," he says.

I pull myself onto flat land. "I usually have no problem with this ditch. Or ditches in general."

He shakes mud off of his jeans. "Just my lucky day, I guess."

I laugh. The entire thing has gotten ridiculous, so we might as well find the humor in it.

But then I remember the money I just lost, and my stomach tightens. More than ready to shower and get back to work, I gesture the way the man was just headed.

"If you're looking for the highway," I tell him, "it's that direction. Keep driving and you'll hit it."

"Oh." He looks around at all the flowers, which are now scattered to the earth, some floating in the water beneath us. I can't read any emotion on his face, and I realize I want to. That I'm curious what he thinks of this whole muddy scene.

He crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. The stranger takes me in, giving me one last, long look back. The sensation of it goes straight through to my core.

"Cool." He goes to his vehicle. "You should probably check the tread on your sneakers!" he yells as he hops in the truck. A moment later, he rumbles away.

I'm sure he can't hear me, but I still yell after him. "Lovely to make your acquaintance!"

That's not exactly true, considering the ditch. But I hope he has a smooth ride to his eventual destination, regardless.

I kick out my leg, sending mud splattering against my little green car.

With no other options, I collect what flowers I can salvage and load my wet butt into the vehicle. It's an hour's drive back to the gayborhood. That should leave me with just enough time to clean up and start on this morning's bouquets before I open the doors at Blossom.

It's set to be another beautiful day, and I'm not going to let some random guy or spilled flowers ruin that.