4. Wildflower

4

Wildflower

Get Your Fucking Hand Off Her

Incessant, annoying, obnoxious buzzing comes from my back pocket as I cross the parking lot.

I balance the three containers of brownies into one arm as I pull my phone out. It's my dad again. I know eventually, I'll need to answer his calls. He has been leaving voicemails, but I delete them without listening. It's just a confrontation I'm not ready for.

He has no rights to my sister or myself anymore, but we didn't think he'd try this hard to get a hold of us after we left. Darby ditching her own wedding humiliated him, and knowing that I hold the key to his livelihood, I thought he'd finally let us go. We embarrassed him, hurt his reputation, and possibly even his business. We thought he'd want nothing to do with us ever again, and we'd be able to put our childhood behind us.

Instead, he's been more persistent than ever.

I'm not ready to face it yet.

So, I hit ignore for what feels like the millionth time in the last month. As I move to put my phone back in my jeans, a text message from him comes through.

I know where you are. We need to talk.

I delete it immediately and pocket my phone just as I step up to the front doors. Heathen's Surf Co . is sprawled across the entrance with an emblem of a wave next to it. The entire boardwalk is lined with wooden, beach shack-looking suites that all share walls. It's that charming, classic, California look. The pier stretches out far behind them, with the Ferris Wheel, wooden roller coaster, and a restaurant at its far end. Palm trees line the sidewalks between the boardwalk and Main Street.

Heathen's sits on one end of the boardwalk. The door is painted orange, lines of multi-colored surfboards propped up outside to my left. The rumble of construction hums from next door, where work is being done on what will become my sister's business. As I walk inside, I take notice of the dozens of surfboards hanging from the wooden beams along the ceiling. One in the center of the space has Leo's name written across it.

They don't just sell surfboards, though. They've got everything someone wishing to live the California lifestyle could ever dream of possibly needing. Wetsuits and swimwear, clothing, sun glasses, handmade jewelry. They even sell shoes and skateboards. There are professional photos of surfers framed on the walls, along with some beautiful paintings of beaches and the local coastal towns.

"Hi, can I help you?" a voice calls out from the far end of the store.

I walk up to the cashier and set the brownies on the counter. A cute young man with glasses and a nose ring smiles at me.

"Hi, I'm Dahlia, and I'm going to be working here in a few weeks. I just wanted to stop in and introduce myself to the other staff." I hold out a container to him as my eyes filter around the space behind the desk. "I was told to ask for Everett?" The man nods as he pulls out his phone and begins typing away. "I brought brownies. Everyone tells me I'm a great baker, so I thought what better first impression than to–" My nervous rambling ceases as I freeze, taking in the sight before me.

A huge canvas photo hangs above the counter behind the man's head. Two unnaturally attractive men sit on twin surfboards in open waves, smiling at each other. I know one of them is Leo—blue eyes, dimples, and sandy blond hair. It's the man next to him who has my skin prickling with awareness.

Tan skin. Dark beard. Chocolate eyes. Thick arms covered in tattoos that run the length of his neck to his fingers. From this distance, the ink all morphs together, but I know that up close, he's got roses and thorns on one hand, violets and vines on the other. I took note of them when I watched those hands grip my thighs and lift me onto his…

I try to shake the thought away, but it comes roaring back anyway.

Lift your leg, cari?o.

You're taking it so well. Come for me.

The memories send flutters straight to my core. I haven't been able to get those words, those eyes, or those arms out of my head over the last week. I don't even know the man's name, but he'd obliterated me to pieces. Made me… God, I hate even thinking the word in my own head. He made me lose myself in a way that no other man ever has.

I wanted nothing more than a quick release. I didn't want to know his name. I didn't want anything that could potentially tie me to him again. I don't have the time or energy for a man in my life right now, in any capacity.

I stare at the photo of the stranger I fucked in a bar, and my stomach plummets as I wonder how the hell he knows my soon-to-be brother-in-law. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He's probably a model, I tell myself. Or another surfer friend.

I'm sure I'll never see him again.

The gnawing, prickling sensation in my gut tells me I'm wrong, though.

I realize for the first time that I had stopped speaking mid-sentence, and the cashier has been staring at me blankly for God knows how long.

"Um, who is that?" I ask, pointing at the photo above the desk.

He looks behind him. "Oh, that's—" The bell on the front door chimes as it opens, distracting the employee.

"Dahlia."

I jump at the voice, boxes of brownies falling to the ground. That familiar voice, like a caress of recurring nightmares. It echoes through the chamber in my chest, my past and present morphing together in the worst possible way.

Breath stalls in my lungs, and I become a true statue as I feel his presence at my back.

Too many things are happening at the same time. My mind is going blank. I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid to turn around. Willing him away. Willing him out of my existence.

He can't be here. He isn't here.

"Dahlia." His harsh tone rings through my consciousness again, clear as haunting bells.

I summon all the courage I have left and turn around to face Dane Andrews.

"Why?" is the only word out my mouth.

Why are you doing this to me?

Why can't I escape you?

I thought I was safe here.

"What do you mean ‘why?'" His jaw is set, eyes crazed. He steps toward me, and I step back into the counter. "You know exactly why. You ignore my calls and run away? You don't have the right. I've been searching for you. Had to follow you here ." Disgust drips from his tone as he spits the words.

"How did you find us?" My voice is hollow.

My father has never frightened me physically, but mostly because I think he has never had to resort to it. He doesn't lose his temper or lash out in fits of rage. He's far too composed. Everything he does is calculated and planned. He uses words to cut and blow and destroy. He knows he could slash me far deeper with his voice than with his hands.

This was supposed to be a fresh start, a way to escape that forever.

But he's here. And I'm alone.

Because everything he does is calculated. He waited until my sister was gone, until he knew I was by myself in an unfamiliar town with nobody to protect me—not the way Darby has Leo to protect her—before he came for me.

My parents have never loved me or my daughter, but they shrouded us in a veil of money and power. That made him feel entitled to me, and more terrifyingly, to Lou.

The only thing more potent than my fear of him is my love for her.

So, I stand up straight and approach him. I'm tall at five-foot-ten, and he's almost exactly my height. I used to shrink myself beneath him when I was a teenager, but now, I lift my head and stretch my neck.

"How did you find us?" I ask again.

"My daughter runs off from her wedding with some D-list celebrity athlete. It's not hard to figure out where she went. Then, you disappear after that shit you pulled a few weeks ago? It wasn't a stretch to assume you followed." He sneers. "Darby finds herself a millionaire, Lord knows you'll be riding those coattails."

Bile burns my throat as I swallow. His words slash through my soul like a flaming blade.

I've forgotten the brownies on the ground, forgotten the cashier standing behind me and the fact that this is supposed to be my workplace soon. I've forgotten why I'm even here, and I'm suddenly overwhelmed with the need to leave. I need to pick up my child. I remind myself that she's safe with Monica, down at the beach not far from here, but I won't feel okay again until she's in my arms and nowhere near his.

"I told you all I wanted was for you to leave us alone. I'm trying to protect my sister and my daughter. From you ." I maneuver around my dad. "I don't know what you were hoping for in coming here, but you can leave. Let us move on." I'm impressed at the surprising steadiness in my voice, but I wonder if it's only because I refuse to meet his eyes.

He grabs my arm, holding tightly as I try to wrestle out from under his grip. "Not so quick, darlin'." He smiles down at me, but it's coated in disgust. "We're not done. You've got something that belongs to me."

"No."

He holds me tighter, and it feels like he's about to start dragging me out the door when a slamming noise echoes through the otherwise-quiet shop.

A booming voice follows it. "Do we have a problem here?"

I recognize that voice too.

But right now, it feels more like a beacon than a curse.

Tattooed arms crossed against his chest, stretching his black t-shirt tight. Quiet rage simmers behind those brown eyes as they soak in the scene around us. I'm thankful the store was at least empty, but I'm humiliated that he's witnessing it.The man from the bar, who's looking at the grip around my arm with enough heat to melt through iron.

"Get your fucking hand off her."