Fail Me (Florida Flowers Book 1)

by Elodie Colt

  I shake my head. For some reason, I’d expected Matthew to shoot me a text when he arrived. Stupid. I told him Mom and I would come home late and sent him the code for the entrance door.

  I turn on the lights and check my face in the rearview mirror, making sure the mascara hasn’t smudged. It has. I wipe a finger around my eye, making sure I don’t look like a panda. Seems I’ve used too much of the stuff today, and what for?

  For a guy.

  No handsome face has ever made me question my appearance, my attitude, or my eloquence. No masculine smile has ever sent a spark from my heart to my libido. No dick has ever messed with my priorities, my self-discipline, or my overall conception that eternal commitment is a liability.

  Until a farm boy with a taste for cognac picked me up on the highway only to scorch a direct path into my pants and my life.

  With a grimace, I turn off the lights, fetch my bag, and slip out of my fancy ride. While I punch in the code, I go over all the possible scenarios for tonight. Maybe Matthew is watching TV, and I’ll surprise him by flouncing into his room in my underwear. Or maybe I’ll send him another naked-tit pic, like I already did when he was in Tampa, letting him know that I’m waiting for him in my bed. Or maybe he’s taking a shower, and I’ll slip into the cabin so he can bang me against the tiles.

  Or maybe he’d rather bang your blonde neighbor, I think with a wince when I glance at the adjacent house.

  With a low peep, the entrance door clicks open, and I slink into the hallway. I know Samantha Kent is more than just an acquaintance for Matthew. A weekend flirt, perhaps, that was bound to happen with him parading in her garden half-naked more often than with his clothes on. Something that hopefully comes to an end when he’s finally done with her fucking porch. I swear I was close to pressing five figures in cash into her hands just so she can hire someone else to do her dirty work. Then it dawned on me that I was on a road to become a carbon copy of my haughty mother and quickly erased the thought.

  He wants you, I repeat in my head when I head for the kitchen and fetch my premade dinner. He told you he’d just needed a nudge from your mother.

  And fuck, didn’t I feel his want poking into my pussy that day I rode him as if there was no tomorrow. Sex isn’t something I indulge in frequently. When you’re trying to make a career like me, and work and studies and fitness take up ninety-nine percent of your life, sex becomes an itch you can ignore most of the time. Alas, with a sex bomb like Matthew living next door, and his scorching eyes burning through my clothes every time we cross paths, that itch has turned into a god-awful ache not even my electric toothbrush can soothe.

  Hurling my bag onto the kitchen counter, I dash for the stairs. The day was hectic. My colleague came down with the flu so I had to pull a double at the rehab center, and the only nutrition I had today was an egg salad with guacamole and a kiwi smoothie.

  I ignore my empty stomach as my feet pull me toward Matthew’s room. Making sure my hair sits straight, I hover at the door for a moment and knock twice. I wring my hands as I wait for footsteps, but everything remains silent.

  “Matthew?”

  I knock again, but when there’s no answer, I carefully nudge the door open. The room is empty and dark. His bag is on the foot of the bed with a few shirts spilling out, a laptop buzzing on his desk. My gaze veers to the en-suite bathroom, but no light is streaming from the open door.

  I change directions and check my room, just in case he’s been waiting for me there, but sadly, no naked guy is lying on my bed. Pouting, I turn on my heels and skid back down the stairs. Maybe he’s enjoying a drink outside.

  Another gust of discouragement whooshes over me when I slide open the glass doors and only see empty loungers. I let my gaze swerve over the dark yard until it lands on the neighbor’s property. A fluttery feeling of unease vibrates in my stomach, and I inch a few steps forward, squinting. Lights from inside illuminate a good portion of the space. A space that had been a mess of broken planks and piles of debris when I left for work this morning. Now, the porch is as good as new with a tier bed made of bricks that I swear had been stashed in our cellar.

  My hands ball into fists at my sides. Matthew has done this, no doubt. He spent the afternoon whipping Sam’s garden back into shape. He returned from Tampa earlier.

  Not for me.

  For her.

  I swallow down the traitorous tears threatening to emerge, swinging my gaze to the windows throwing streaks of light onto the porch. I can’t see through them from here, but I bet Matthew is spending the evening with the little bitch. And maybe the night, too.

  Tearing my gaze away, I straighten my spine and march back inside. Self-pity is not in my genes. While Mom is a pro wallowing in her misery, constantly fishing for validation and losing herself in despair, I’ve managed to flick a switch, to concentrate on the things I can change instead of the ones out of my reach.

  With that in mind, I push all thoughts of Matthew Mallory aside, prepare a healthy meal, and resume reading my textbook about the development of cell membrane-coated nanoparticles. Shortly after I finish my studies for today, I start working on the nutrition plan Doctor Glover asked me to get done by tomorrow. The patient is a mid-thirties woman who sent her car crashing into a tree after an attack of stomach cramps. Turned out she’s been suffering from a heavy case of pancreatitis as a result of wolfing down unhealthy doses of pies, sausages, and butter every day for a decade. I was close to slapping her face when I found out her lethal overindulgence almost killed a kid crossing the streets.

  I keep my focus on the papers in front of me when the entrance door clicks open. For an annoying second, my pulse speeds up, but the moment the sound of heels pounds through the hallway, I swallow down the tang of disappointment with a spoon full of hot soup.

  Mom’s perfume reaches my nose before she appears in my periphery, strutting in a neon, red-and-green onesie that would put a shining traffic light to shame.

  “Jillian, honey. How was your day?” She sets her Prada bag onto the counter.

  Leisurely, I shove another spoon full of lentils into my mouth. “Busy.”

  “My hardworking daughter,” she hums with pride, awkwardly patting my shoulder before shuffling into the kitchen to put the kettle on. “I’m telling you, Tasha’s Golf Resort in Port St. Lucie is a paradise. The three-bedroom golf villas all include hot tubs, and the heated swimming pool is bigger than our house. You can come with me next time. We could—”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  My harsh interruption causes her to click her inch-long nails onto the marble counter behind me. “Is Matthew in his room?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I’m not his nanny nor his GPS tracker,” is my flat, though way too defensive answer.

  Something crunches behind me, probably the leathery material of her tight outfit as she crosses her arms. “He’s at Sam’s, isn’t he?”

  I shrug half-heartedly, continuing to slurp my soup. Sighing, Mom makes herself a cup of tea and ambles back to me, but not before I hear her adding a splash of rum. She thinks she’s keeping her addiction a secret, but she’s doing a poor job hiding the empty bottles in a plastic bag beneath the sink.

  I keep my eyes on my textbook when she sits down opposite me.

  “I know you, Jillian. You are a fighter. Always have been,” she says with an audible smile. “I remember the day you tried to learn how to ride a bicycle. I wanted to help you, to hold your waist from behind, but you snapped at me to go away, adamant to do it on your own. You even refused to do your first rounds on the grass and pushed with everything you had on the hard asphalt. You fell from your bicycle countless times until your clothes were torn, knees and elbows scraped raw. You didn’t give up until hours later, when you finally got the hang of it. I will never forget your face when you grinned up at me with blood running down your chin.”

  She chuckles softly at the memory. I remember the day
. Dad wasn’t here, as usual. He promised to teach me how to ride a bicycle when he came home, but his one-week business trip turned into three weeks, so I decided to teach myself. To show him that I’m a big girl, that I don’t need his help, that I don’t need anyone.

  I drag a pink marker over a text passage. “Your point?”

  She puts her hand over mine, prompting me to send her a vacant look.

  “If you want something, you take it. That’s who you are and who you will always be. I know you want Matthew, so take him. He’s living in the same house, for God’s sake. There’s really not much more I can do to help you out here, girl.”

  With a condemning look, I yank my hand away. “I’ve never asked for your help. In fact, I remember telling you to stay the fuck out of this, especially my love life.”

  “You don’t have a love life, Jillian!” she snaps, slapping a hand onto the table and almost spilling her tea.

  I fling my marker onto my textbook, flopping back in my chair with crossed arms. “And what do you expect me to do, huh? Lock him up in his room until he falls in love with me?”

  “Fight, Jillian. Don’t stand back and watch Sam take what’s yours again.” She leans closer, crazed eyes piercing mine. “Fight for him… even if it means you have to fight dirty.”

  I slam the door shut behind me, slinging my textbook onto my desk with a growl.

  Shit. I knew that guy was trouble. I knew it the moment he pulled over on the highway and swung one of his shit-eating grins my way. A plain-as-fuck farm boy who looks good in cheap flannel shirts and needs a full pocket flask to get through the day. He’s a distraction I’ve never wanted but gives me the affection I’ve never received.

  ‘Don’t stand back and watch Sam take what’s yours again.’

  I drop my head back against the door, closing my eyes. Matthew’s face flickers in my mind, the feverish look when I rubbed myself raw on his jeans. Then the picture changes into a cruel version, shrinking my heart in size. A picture that turns my face into Sam’s and Matthew’s into Harvey’s.

  My eyes snap open. Mom dragged up the one memory that hurt about as much as the day Dad left the house for the last time.

  I remember it awfully clearly. The pain shredding my heart to pieces. The flash of undiluted anger that had my stomach in cramps until I sagged to the floor. The horrible feeling of sucking air into my lungs but not getting any.

  Harvey and I had been dating for a couple of weeks. It was the first time I fell for a guy and offered him my heart. He was supposed to take a camping trip with his brother that weekend. I spent Saturday evening binge-watching the newest Game of Thrones season and spilled my yogurt drink over my pillow, so I walked into the guest room to fetch a new one.

  Completely unaware of what I would find.

  I saw them through her window. Samantha Kent, my friend since we were kids, spreading her legs to let Harvey—my boyfriend—bang the shit out of her on her desk.

  Clenching my teeth, I shake my head to get rid of the horrid picture that gave me sleepless nights for an entire year.

  ‘Fight for him… even if it means you have to fight dirty.’

  The fact that I’m considering taking advice from my ruthless mother should set off all alarm bells in my head, yet I find myself leaving my room to halt in front of the opposite door. Checking the stairs to make sure Matthew isn’t on his way up, I sneak inside.

  No idea what I’m hoping to find. Maybe something that proves that Matthew wants me. Or something that proves the opposite.

  The opened laptop on the desk emanates enough light to show me the space, so I kneel on the floor to rummage through his bag. Save for two bottles of cognac and too many flannel shirts to count, I don’t find anything out of the ordinary. After positioning his clothes as they were before, I scuttle over to the nightstand to scour the drawers. I don’t have to search for long before I notice a small, black box that immediately captures my attention.

  Carefully, I open the lid only to find a beautiful ring sitting on dark velvet. Three blue stones, probably sapphires, twinkle in the light, set between tiny diamonds. Not an everyday jewel, that’s for sure.

  “An engagement ring…” I mutter to myself.

  Don’t get your hopes up. You’re still eons away from a proposal.

  Hastily, I stuff the ring into the box, seal the lid, and place it back into the drawer. There’s one thing in here that could hold all my answers. One device that could give me insight into Matthew Mallory’s mysterious heart. And it’s basically begging for my touch with the humming, not-password-protected screen.

  “Oh, fuck it…” I curse under my breath before I move toward the laptop sitting on the desk.

  A quick glance at the browser history from the last three days tells me that Matthew uses the World Wide Web mostly for two things—statistics for citrus cultivation and his personal cloud.

  Fight dirty.

  So, I do.

  But what I hadn’t expected was to find something dirty. Something so filthy, I slap a hand over my mouth as a sudden rush of adrenaline almost makes me puke out my soup.

  This time, I don’t see Samantha Kent naked through the window.

  No, I see her half-naked on a damn picture that Matthew took a few days ago. Marked with a fucking star, of course, as if it was his personal gold trophy. Most of her face is cut off, but it’s undoubtedly her. Her mouth, her body, her fucking dress.

  Stunned but unable to tear my unblinking stare from the screen, I stumble back.

  God, I’ve been so stupid. Of course, Matthew didn’t fix her porch for free. He wanted something in return. Not money, obviously. Ruby told me that Sam was struggling to make ends meet. That girl is broke. And now it’s painfully clear what kind of payment he’s receiving from her.

  My eyes start to water as I hurry to close all tabs, but not before I’ve sent the picture to my phone.

  You already took what was mine once, Samantha Kent.

  You won’t get Matthew Mallory.

  He’s mine.

  Twenty

  Samantha

  Pots clanking and cupboards slamming stir me awake, and I groan into my pillow. Why is someone already up? I’m usually the first to start the day.

  A glance at my phone gives me the answer. Jesus, it’s already past noon.

  I prop myself up, brushing my hair out of my face. How did I even end up in bed last night?

  Then it slams back into me, spinning my belly in a three-sixty. Matthew and I had sex. Hot, dirty, mind-blowing sex. On the dining table. After he slipped into the role of my sweet boyfriend and broke my carefully guarded, darkest secret.

  Before my mind dips into full panic mode, I drag my butt out of bed and down the stairs, rubbing my temple to ease the dull headache.

  “Good morning, sleepy head,” Ruby greets me when I trudge into the kitchen, my eyes hooded. “I was worried you were sick.”

  “No, just a severe hangover. Downed an entire bottle of red wine yesterday.” I glance over her shoulder to the scrambled eggs frying in the pan. “God, this smells delicious. Can I have some, too?”

  “Sure,” she says. “So, how did the evening go yesterday?”

  “It was… peculiarly eventful.”

  I deflate into a chair, debating how to best tread into the I’m-not-an-editor conversation, when Leo carries herself into the kitchen and beats me to it with one of her helpful revelations.

  “She had sex with Matthew,” she says in a voice so blasé, one would think she was telling Ruby where to find fresh towels in this household.

  My head snaps to her, eyes tapered at her green ones. How the fuck is it that this girl is always hitting dead center? I refuse to believe that I’m that predictable.

  “And pray tell me, how would you know what I did or didn’t do with Matthew yesterday?”

  My feeling of defiant superiority starts to waver when she points a finger to where Matthew and I had our second dinner last night. “Your ass cheeks were all over th
e glass table when I came home last night.”

  Well, busted.

  Leo just hitches up a shoulder, but Ruby barks out a laugh. “You had sex with Matthew on the dining table? Oh, wow. Kendra will go through the roof.”

  “You could have at least wiped the table,” Leo mumbles, wrinkling her nose.

  “I fell asleep,” I grumble, but then take in their horrified looks and quickly add, “Afterward.”

  Ruby places a piece of buttered toast and a plate with scrambled eggs in front of me. “And? How was it?”

  Her cautiously worded question mixed with the lack of a smile on her face makes me smack my lips. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?” she counters, coating her words with that layer of fake nonchalance that irritates me to no end.

  “That I made a mistake.”

  “Do you think you made a mistake?”

  I drill my teeth into the toast, but the moment the first bite slides down my esophagus, I lose my appetite. “I’m not in the mood for a therapy session, Ruby. Save your psychology tactics for your future patients.”

  She throws her hands up in defense. “Hey, it was you who said you’d never cross that line as long as Jillian was the other woman in the picture.”

  “Yes, thanks for the reminder.”

  “Relax, Ruby,” Leo throws in, rolling her eyes. “It was about time Sam got laid. As long as she doesn’t fall in love with the guy…”

  She shrugs, oblivious to me dropping my head to hide my face behind my hair. You’re not in love with Matthew Mallory. You’re not in love with the guy who’s supposed to marry your childhood friend. You. Are. Not.

  “Change of subject,” Ruby says when she notices my distraught expression. “Apart from your happy ending, how did the evening go with your parents?”

  “Why, oh why did Kendra not send him away…” I mumble instead, replaying the events at full speed in my mind until my stomach starts to churn.