7. Wildflower

7

Wildflower

What A Cluster

I pull up to the curb and shut off my car in front of Monica's bungalow.

I guess their family lived only a few houses down from my grandmother—where I live now—but she and her husband, Carlos, decided to sell once their kids grew up.

The bungalow they live in now looks like something out of a beach bum's dream. It's small, with only one bedroom and an office, but it's perfect for a retired couple. They live in a private community with direct beach access, and they even have a view of the water from their back porch.

I don't knock as I step inside the light pink home. Monica has been expecting me. She set me up with a number of apartment tours in the area today, and I knew it would bore Lou out of her mind to come with me. Monica offered to babysit, and I insisted she didn't need to spend her entire Saturday with my nine-year-old, but she told me she was painting her office anyway and needed the help. I couldn't imagine how my wild child would be of any help at all in a project like that, but I didn't argue.

I took the day to myself, touring four apartments that were all just okay. I didn't love any of them, but I don't want to overstay my welcome in my sister's home either, so I submitted an application for two and then read a book on the beach while I stuffed my face with a burger. I can't remember the last time I ate a meal or read a book in solitude, and while I don't want to continuously burden Monica with babysitting duty, it was really fucking nice.

"Lucille!" I call as I shut her front door behind me.

Natural light filters through the quiet living room, so I follow the hallway that leads to the kitchen, where I find Monica standing over the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells incredible.

"I had her take a shower because she was covered head-to-toe in Timid Absinthe, and I didn't want to risk her bringing it home in your car."

I chuckle. "So I suppose she was more trouble than help, then?"

Her eyes light up as she spins to face me. "She was perfect. We got the office painted. We just decided to have some fun after too."

"I'm glad you had fun. Thank you for watching her." She gives me a pointed look, and I know she's about to start lecturing me on why I need to stop thanking her for everything, so I quickly nod to the food on the stove. "That smells amazing."

That look forms into a smile, and she opens her mouth to say something but pauses as we both hear a door close from the front of the house. "Mama?"

The smile she gives me is midnight in comparison to the way her face brightens at that voice. She lights up in a way that's only possible when a mother hears her child call out for her, an expression I'm sure has never graced my own mother's face at the sound of mine or my sister's voice.

I've done a decent job over the last two weeks trying to forget the fact that the stranger who unraveled me in a bar happens to be my brother-in-law's brother. I've fought harder to forget that he's the son of the only friend I've made in town. The friend who was babysitting my child while her own kid railed me against a door. The friend who set me up on the date with the man I bailed on so I could fuck my brother-in-law…in-law? In a bar.

What a cluster.

All the effort I've given to shoving those thoughts from my mind fails me when Monica calls out, "In the kitchen, baby!"

My whole body goes stiff. I haven't spoken to Everett since that moment in the surf shop. Leo gave me his phone number that night and told me to reach out to him if my dad showed up at the house. My father called several times that same night and again the next morning. He asked me to meet him for coffee and promised a cordial conversation in a public setting. I ignored him, knowing he'd fly home that afternoon. It has been a week since then, and luckily, I haven't heard from him at all. Even if I had, I wouldn't drag Everett into it again.

I know I can't ignore Everett forever, especially if I want to try and settle down here in California. For the first time in my life, it's starting to feel like I could have a real place to call home. Darby and I have always done a decent job of blocking out the toxicity in our lives and relying on each other to feel whole. Our house in Crestwell did feel like that at times: a home.

Truthfully, though, we didn't have a support system outside of each other. We got by, but I'm not sure either of us were ever truly happy. And while I haven't spent much time with her and Leo together, I can tell just by the sound of her voice on the phone that she's the happiest she's ever been. I can tell she's feeling settled, complete with him.

I want that too. I don't need it with a man; I know I can find that with my daughter and my sister, and Pacific Shores is the closest I've ever found to that feeling. Building that life with Darby and Leo—with Monica—means Everett is going to be a part of it too. I just think I need a little more time to erase the fact that I also know what his dick looks like.

You can't see someone as a brother-figure if you think about how hard they made you come every time you're in the same room as them.

I hear his footsteps echo across the wood floors and, unsure what to do with myself, I grab Lou's backpack off the dining room table and sit down. Monica picked up registration papers for the local youth soccer league after Lou expressed interest in playing last week.

I feel his presence wash over the space like a wave. My head is lowered, pretending to look through her bag for something, but I watch Everett from the corner of my eye.

"Hi, Mom," he says as she steps up to him. Monica raises on her toes to press her lips against his cheek. He hands her a bouquet of flowers. "The market had the lilies you like."

The deep baritone in his voice rakes down my body the way it did when he was whispering in my ear that night.

Physical chills run down my spine, and I work to shake them off. That seems to catch his attention. "It's good to see you again, Wildflower." He leans against the door frame leading to the kitchen and crosses his ankles as he smirks at me.

"Wildflower?" I scoff, ignoring the way Monica's narrowed eyes are darting rapidly back and forth between us. She turns to the stove without a word.

"I mean, your name's Dahlia, is it not?"

I still can't meet his eyes, bending over as I haphazardly shove the papers back into Lou's backpack. "I don't think dahlias are categorized as wildflowers. They're a bit more curated. Proper."

He hums. "Doesn't fit you at all then, does it? Wildflower is much better."

"What? Like a weed?" I snort.

I hear the scuffle of footsteps and look up just in time to watch Everett push off the wall and stride toward me. He pulls out the chair across his mother's dining room table and spins it around, straddling it backward. Crossing his arms over the top of the chair, he rests his head on them and smiles at me.

I don't like the way his fluid movements make my stomach somersault. I don't like the way he smirks at me like he knows what I look like naked.

Like he wishes he could see it all again.

"I was thinking of something more like colorful. Bright. Resilient. Sprouting up in the places you least expect them and blowing away on the wind just as quickly." That wicked smile morphs into a full grin. "Beautiful too, of course."

I swallow, schooling my features to appear unaffected. He can't talk to me like this if I want to forget the way he makes me feel.

" Dios mío, hijo. ?Eres capaz de mantener una conversación con alguien que no consista en coquetear? " Monica gripes from the stove. I have no clue what she just said, but the tone in her voice is one of pure annoyance.

Everett blushes slightly, eyes narrowing on his mother across the room. " Tranquila, mamá. Ahora mismo me estás arruinando el juego. "

Monica turns around and points her spoon at her son. " Deja en paz a la pobre chica. Ella no es una de tus conquistas. " She drops her arm and looks at me, features softening. "I'm sorry my son has no self-control. That's a trait from his father."

I can't help the laugh that bursts out of me.

I catch a hint of a smile on Everett's lips before his face straightens again, and he looks to his mom. "If you're going to bully me, I'm not staying for dinner."

"Yes, you will. I'm making pesto from scratch. Your father would take out your eyes and make you eat those if he found I made your favorite meal and you bailed on it."

He leans back, bracing his arms on the top of the chair. I can tell he's fighting a smile. "Speaking of fathers, tell him to get the hell out of my shop and enjoy his retirement. My workers will never take me seriously if they think they're still supposed to be answering to him."

"He's never going to fully let go of that shop, baby. You know that. He will, however, lose his own eyeballs if he doesn't make it home for dinner soon."

Everett grunts in agreement. "He was working on Mr. Michaelson's old Beetle when I left, but he promised he'd be home before we sat down to eat."

Everett's eyes fall from his mother to me, and I can see the way he's fighting it, the way he fails when that gaze roams over my face–my body. I know he can see as I fail to do the same. I study the tattoos across his forearms that run the length of his hands and peek out the collar of the shirt he's wearing. The veins in his neck strain beneath his perfectly manicured beard, and I can almost feel the way his stubble brushed against my chest.

Chills rush down my spine again, and I catch the tilt of his lips as he watches me shake them off. It's as if he can read my mind, see the moment replaying in it.

Suddenly, his head turns sideways, looking down the hall leading to the back of the house. His eyes soften, and before I can turn around to see what he's looking at, I hear a soft murmur. "Mom?"

I know my face takes on the same expression Monica's did earlier as I turn around and soak in those freckled cheeks, green eyes, and strawberry-blonde locks. "Hi, bug."

I open my arms as Lou walks into me, and I snuggle her against my chest. She smells like whatever body wash Monica keeps in their bathroom and a scent that's uniquely my child. I grasp her shoulders and pull her out from me, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear.

"Did you have fun today?"

She nods timidly, and I know she's quiet because Everett's here. She's always shy around strangers. She tucks her head into my shoulder and plays with the chain around my neck.

"Lucille, can you say hi to Everett?" I run my hand down the back of her head. "Everett is Monica's son."

Her eyes flutter up to study the man in front of me. He's smiling softly as he slowly rises from his chair and walks over to us. "It's nice to meet you, Lucille." Squatting down so he's at her level, he holds his hand out to her. "That's a beautiful name. Does anyone ever call you Lucy?"

She looks at me, checking for confirmation that it's okay to return his handshake. I nod so she knows it's safe. I can't blame her for being uncomfortable around men when she's never had one she could trust before.

She softly places her small hand in Everett's large one. "Monica calls me Lucy. My Aunt Darby calls me Lulu." She glances at me. "My mom calls me Lou."

He chuckles. "You have a lot of nicknames, don't you?"

She blushes, and I understand the reaction. I feel the same way when he smiles at me. Lou nods. "Do you have any nicknames?"

Everett shakes his head. "Nope, I'm not a big fan of nicknames. There are no good ones for the name Everett."

Lou takes on a contemplative look. "I'll think of one. Everyone should have a nickname."

"Maybe I'll have to make a new one for you too, then."

Lou drops her hand as Everett stands tall, still smiling to herself. I glance up at the man in front of me, unable to ignore the way he towers above us both. Everything about him is massive.

"She looks like you," he says.

"Thank you," I respond. Somehow, I know he meant it as a compliment. "You ready to go, kid?" I ask my daughter.

"You two are more than welcome to stay for dinner if you'd like," Monica chimes from the other side of the kitchen.

"That's so kind, but I promised her a movie night," I say as I zip up Lou's backpack and fasten it around her shoulders.

"What movies?" Everett asks.

"Spiderman," Lou says.

He looks at me. "Please tell me it's the originals."

I smile as I shake my head. "We're Tom Holland girls through and through."

He groans as he tips his head back. My eyes get stuck on the way the column of his throat moves at the sound. Looking back at Lou, Everett asks, "Who's your favorite superhero of all time?"

She contemplates for a moment. "Ironman."

He nods. "Alright, good choice."

Their conversation bounces back and forth as I quietly hug Monica and thank her again for watching Lou. I guide my daughter toward the front of the house, Everett on our heels, still entertaining Lou's spiel on Marvel superheroes. She's going through a phase.

Said phase allows me hours to stare at Chris Evans, though, so I can't complain.

"You kind of look like The Hulk," she says to him as we open the front door.

His mouth drops open as he looks at me, appearing almost offended.

I shrug. "Mark Ruffalo's hot."

His features morph into a sly smile, and he winks at me. "Thanks, Wildflower."

"Oh, I didn't say I agreed with her." I wink back.

He frowns as we reach my car, and I help Lou into the backseat. "Bye, Lucille." He waves at her from behind me. The widest smile is on her face, waving back at him as I shut the door.

"You didn't need to walk us out," I say as he follows me around to the driver's side.

"Walking you to your car seems to be a new habit of mine." He grins at me. "Plus, I was having an important conversation."

I can't help but smile at that. It normally takes a while for Lou to warm up to someone new, but she seems to have taken an immediate liking to Everett. While I'm glad for that—glad she's finding people in this new place to feel comfortable around—it reiterates the idea that what happened between Everett and I in that bar can't ever happen again.

I open my door and slip inside the car.

"Have you heard from…" He pauses, eyes darting to the backseat where my child sits.

"No, I haven't." I know what my father wants from me, but I also made it clear that as long as he left us alone, the thing he's so afraid of would never see the light of day. I should've known the man couldn't handle being blackmailed, but I'm hoping once he realizes I'm keeping my word, he'll let us move on.

Everett nods, leaning against the car door and rummaging his eyes over the interior. "You need an oil change."

I glance at the service light on my dash. "Thank you for the observation. I'll get it taken care of eventually."

He shakes his head with a sigh. I watch as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet. He fishes something out of it before handing it to me. I grab a business card with Ramos Automotive sprawled across the top.

"The address is on the card. Bring it in as soon as you have time. Ask for me."

"And if I don't?"

He raises a brow. "If you don't bring your car in, it's eventually going to take a shit. If you don't ask for me, then you'll be putting whoever does help you on their boss' bad side."

I roll my eyes.

He braces over the top of my car, giving me a front row view of his flexing, tattooed arms. He drops his head between his shoulders, flashing that mischievous smile. "Goodnight, Wildflower."

The way he looks at me takes my breath away, and I have to remind myself where I am. Who I am. I'm no longer just a girl in a bar. He's no longer just a guy. We'll never get to be those two people again. I swallow, reaching for my door handle and slamming it shut.

Everett quickly steps out of the way before I can crush his fingers. I hear him laughing through the closed door.

He stands on the curb, watching me drive away until I'm completely out of sight.