“Yes. That would be ideal.”
“In that case, you should start with a haircut. You know I hate it when it starts curling over your ears and the arms of your glasses. You look like a shaggy sheepdog.”
“I don’t have time for a haircut. I’ll just brush it.”
“Brushing your hair is a given, Cole. Have you not been brushing your hair?” Bringing her hand up to her face, Trista smacked her forehead in exasperation. “Please tell me you are tending to your basic hygiene needs, Cole. What has California done to you?”
“I’ve been brushing my hair.”
“And your teeth?”
“Yes, I’ve been brushing my teeth. Will you please just help me pick out some pants and a shirt?” He flipped the camera around on the phone and narrowed his eyes. “Do any of those work?”
“Turn me back around. I didn’t really look.”
“Because you were too busy harping on me about my hygiene.”
“Good hair and breath are important when trying to woo a woman, Cole.”
“I’m not trying to woo her.”
“Then what exactly are you trying to do?”
He thought on it. “Okay, maybe I am trying to woo her.”
“I knew it. You’re in love!”
“I am definitely not in love. I’ve hardly known her a month.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve fallen in love in shorter time. When you know, you know. Unfortunately, none of those whirlwind relationships lasted, but man, were they incredible while they did.” A wistful gleam came to Trista’s eye as she reminisced. “I wonder what ever happened to Carlos. Gosh, he was handsome.”
“All I know is that I really care about this woman. More than anyone I’ve cared about in a long, long time. I don’t want to show up at the wedding venue and embarrass her—”
“By looking like a shaggy sheepdog.”
“Sure, whatever. By looking like a shaggy sheepdog. Just tell me what to wear, Trista. Please?”
“I’d go with the gray pants and the navy and white checkered shirt. Not too formal, not too casual. And roll the sleeves up to your elbows. Women like forearms and you have nice, toned ones.”
“That’s weird.”
“Trust me.” Trista yawned. “If that’s it for now, I’m going back to bed. If you need me, don’t call until it’s at least noon, east coast time.”
“I think I can take it from here,” Cole said. “Thanks, sis. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
* * *
COLE FOLLOWED HIS sister’s advice and wore the gingham shirt, even though he felt like a picnic tablecloth. He would just have to trust her judgment on this one.
At 8:30, he left his rental home to head over to the wedding venue, stopping by Heirloom Coffee to grab two drinks on the way: an Americano for himself and a decaf hibiscus latte for Sophie. When he pulled up to the big, red barn just fifteen minutes outside of town, he could see that Sophie had already been hard at work. Even the sign instructing guests where to park was adorned with her flowers. It was a delicate contrast to the gravel road and wooden fencing that welcomed wedding invitees onto the property. Cole parked, rolled up his sleeves as Trista had instructed, and stepped out of the car, coffee drinks in hand.
The property was abuzz with commotion, like the frenzied action of a movie set. Inside the barn, caterers lined up metal buffet trays with unlit warmers underneath. Others spread round tablecloths over bare tables, smoothing the wrinkles before settling napkins and utensils onto the surface. There were stacks of folding chairs being unloaded from vans parked just outside. Everyone was in their designated position with a specific job to do—all cogs in a productive wheel—including Sophie, who stretched up on her tiptoes to fiddle with a sprig of greenery in a centerpiece.
“Brought you a little something.” Cole handed her the cup, leaning in for a hug. He stopped short when he noticed the woman from the Farmers’ Market behind her. Even though it had been weeks, he recalled her bold introduction on opening night quite clearly.
“Cole, you remember Veronica.” Sophie took the drink and lifted it to her mouth, taking a long swallow. “Thanks for this.” She smiled. “Just what I was craving.”
“You’re welcome. And yes, of course, I remember.”
“How could you forget, right?” Veronica interjected. She elbowed him. “I’ve been told I make quite an impression.”
“You got this, Ver?” Sophie turned to her friend. “I’m going to take Cole to the altar and have him help me set up the arbor. Other than delivering the bouquets and boutonnieres, that’s the last thing on our to-do list.”
“Take Cole to the altar,” Veronica snickered under her breath. Sophie’s cheeks noticeably flushed. “Sure, doll. I’ve got this covered. I’ll get the rest of the centerpieces in place and then head out. Great work today, as always.”
Leading the way through the open barn doors, Sophie stepped into the summer sun, the light washing over her in warm, brilliant rays. Deep auburn strands glistened in the hair that tumbled down her back in loose curls.
Cole stared unabashedly.
“What?” Sophie asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Sophie,” Cole replied. “Everything’s perfect.”
She smiled, then took him by the elbow. “Okay. I’ve got the boughs in the back of the truck. Let’s go grab them and get them hung and then we’ll head back to my house to get the rest of the flowers for the wedding party.”
They made quick work of decorating the arbor. Even without Sophie’s flowers, it was eye catching with its white birch branches standing tall and formed into a rustic arch. But when she adhered her eucalyptus boughs to the top corners with dozens of pale peach and mint flowers tucked into the leaves, it became a true work of art.
Sophie stepped back, thumbing her chin. “That cluster of peonies feels too heavy up at the top there. Can you help me spread them out? I think if we move a few to the other corner, it will look more balanced.”
“Of course; happy to help. But you’ll have to tell me which ones they are.”
“You know, for a landscape architect, I would’ve thought you’d have a bit more knowledge when it comes to flower varietals.”
“I’ve never really considered myself a big flower guy, I guess.” Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Give me a shrub or a tree and I can probably name it, but flowers all seem kind of the same to me. Just colorful things with petals. Except for roses, I suppose. Those thorns really set them apart.”
“I think every flower has something that sets it apart.” Sophie said. “And it’s not just the way a flower looks. It’s been said that peonies symbolize a happy life and a happy marriage. I think that makes them so fitting to adorn an altar, don’t you?”
Cole looked down at Sophie in awe. He loved the way she viewed things and how much of herself she put into her work. “I think it makes them the perfect flower. What other flowers have meanings?”
“Oh gosh. Nearly, all of them. Some mean what you think they would mean, like roses symbolizing desire and love. But then there are others like daisies and innocence. Or lavender, which is said to represent devotion and virtue. But my favorite is the yellow carnation.”
“What does that one mean?”
Sophie snickered. “Rejection.”
“Seriously? So you mean if you give someone a bouquet of yellow carnations, you’re essentially rejecting them? With flowers?”
“Well, yeah. In sort of a passive-aggressive way, I suppose.” Her lips curled up deviously. “Not that I’ve ever done anything like that.”
Cole sensed her sarcasm immediately. “Why do I have a feeling even your break-ups involve flowers in one way or another?”
“It was only after the guy had flowers delivered to my house everyday for a week. I told him I wasn’t interested in dating anyone at the time—that I had too much on my plate—but he didn’t take the hint,” she elaborated. “So I sent him a bouquet of my own with a note attached th
at said, ‘Thank you for all of the flowers, but I feel the yellow carnation best symbolizes where our relationship is ultimately headed.’ After that the flowers stopped coming.”
“Ouch!” Cole chuckled. “I’m beginning to see this as a constant thread throughout all of your relationships.”
“What’s that?”
“That the guy can’t take a hint. Tanner. The poor daily flower delivery dude. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m in that same boat and just don’t know it yet.”
“You are definitely not in that boat, Cole. If I were to give you a bunch of flowers, they would be all gardenias. Every single one.”
“And just what do gardenias mean?”
Sophie smirked, then said, “It’s a secret.”
13
Sophie
SOPHIE DOUBTED COLE picked up on the double meaning in her words, but that was okay. It was sort of fun to watch his brain turn as he tried to decipher her intention.
Secret love.
That’s exactly what their relationship had become. Of all the flowers, the gardenia was the perfect expression of that. The last month with Cole had been a beautiful one, but the privacy behind their growing relationship forced everything into a corner of Sophie’s life that she couldn’t share with anyone else. On the nights she would come home from Cole’s house after having dinner together, she would need to formulate a story to feed to Caroline and Derek regarding her whereabouts. That’s what she hated the most: the inherent dishonesty in the secrecy.
Sophie had suddenly taken up hot yoga, wheel thrown pottery at the YMCA, and researching her Irish ancestry down at the local library. All of which were untrue, of course, but she had to form believable reasons for why she had plans nearly every evening. Caroline was a smart woman. Sophie knew she didn’t buy any of it. But it wasn’t Caroline she worried about. It was her brother.
Up until that point, Derek hadn’t even mentioned Cole’s name. Not even Glasses.
She had a feeling all of that was about to change.
* * *
“SOPHIE, EVERYTHING TURNED out better than I could have ever imagined!” Marie grabbed Sophie’s arms and squeezed, drawing her into a huge hug, her billowing white gown bunched between them. “I couldn’t’ve asked for a more perfect florist. It’s all just so beautiful.” Marie’s bottom lip started to quiver.
“No you don’t,” Sophie said, tapping the bride on her chin. “Don’t you dare mess up that beautiful wedding day makeup.”
“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “It’s just so overwhelming, you know? This day has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. I just never thought it could be this magical. I know you’re a big reason it is.”
Just then, Peter came up to his new bride, two glasses of bubbling champagne in his hands. He wore the proudest grin. “Mrs. Niles, we’re being requested back at the head table. Sounds like the toasts are about to begin.”
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Sophie said. “Go enjoy your big day.”
“Thank you again, Sophie. You’re truly the best. I mean that.”
Sophie’s heart squeezed as she watched the newlyweds thread through the tables toward the wall of the barn where the rest of their wedding party had already taken their seats. The way Peter placed his hand low on his wife’s back to guide her made something unfurl deep within Sophie’s stomach. Longing. She hadn’t known it, but oh, how she wanted that in her life. A partner. Someone to walk with and guide her. She swept her finger near the corner of her eye to catch an unbidden tear from escaping.
“That potato bar is out of this world. You’ve got to try it, Soph.”
Turning around, Sophie saw Cole walking up to her, a bowl with tendrils of rising steam in his hand.
“They’ve got all the usual toppings like bacon bits and cheese and sour cream, but I suggest you go with the less traditional smoked salmon and grilled corn. Add the Sriracha and you’ve got a serious party in your mouth.” He froze as he brought his fork to his lips. “Hey, are you alright?”
Sophie sniffed and rolled her shoulders. “Yes. I’m fine.”
“You sure? You know, I’ve heard it’s pretty normal to cry at weddings. At least that’s what Trista always says when there’s a wedding scene in a romantic comedy. She never watches those silly movies without a box of tissues handy.”
“I’m not crying.” Sophie swiped at her eyes again with the back of her hand, surprised when it came back wet. “Okay, maybe I am a little. I’m not really sure what’s gotten into me. I’ve been to more weddings than I can count. Usually I can keep it together better than this.”
Cole set his half-eaten potato down on the ledge of a nearby table. “You don’t have to keep anything together, Sophie. If I’m being honest, I got a little choked up during the vows, too. All of that to have and to hold stuff. Kind of makes you reflect on your own life, I guess.”
“Do you think about getting married?” She couldn’t keep the words from tumbling out and hoped Cole didn’t think she meant getting married to her. That would be entirely too presumptuous, even though he’d once teased Sophie that she was exactly that.
“Do I think about getting married? All the time. This?” He glanced around the barn, at the hundred or more friends and family that came out to celebrate Marie and Peter’s special day. “I’d love to have this someday. A big, public declaration of love and commitment. I always just figured it would happen for me, but then life sort of got in the way.”
“I get that. Mine did, too.”
Sophie suddenly felt Cole’s warm fingertips brush against her skin. Before she could react, his large hand covered hers, his fingers weaving with her own.
They stood there, in the back of the barn, off to the side and nearly out of sight, holding hands throughout the duration of the toasts. When the best man shared a story that garnered a laugh from the crowd, Cole’s hand squeezed just so slightly. And when the maid of honor spoke of one day finding her own true love, Sophie couldn’t help but zero in on Cole’s thumb that swept back and forth softly over her skin.
She felt herself release the breath she’d kept trapped for the last month.
Despite the commotion around them—the hoots and hollers from guests as they clinked their forks to their glasses, requesting the bride and groom to share a kiss—it felt like Sophie and Cole were the only people in the entire space. Sophie could sense a tingle in her fingertips, could feel her pulse thrumming strongly in her wrist, all of her attention zeroed in on just that small portion of her body.
“Lovely reception, isn’t it?”
Sophie yanked her hand from Cole’s grip and spun around.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve formally met.” Tammy Weathers slipped a manicured hand out to Sophie, her unnaturally plump lips forming an intimidating smile. “You might have seen me on T.V. I’m Tammy—one of the Channel 12 News anchors.”
Cole snorted, then attempted to disguise it as a cough.
“Hi Tammy,” Sophie said politely. She took the woman’s hand into her own. “I’m Sophie. And we have met. Several times. My brother shares a desk with you every weekday morning.”
“You’re a Potters? I had no idea. I just came over to compliment you on the flowers. You’ve done a lovely job with them. Just lovely.” Tammy batted her false lashes. “Wow. Small world, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” Sophie replied, tightlipped.
Then, turning to Cole, Tammy’s eyes narrowed. “You, I do know.” She waggled a finger his direction as though trying to place him. “The backyard design contest! You’re one of the architects, aren’t you?”
“I am. I’m landscaping the McAllister project.” Cole’s tone was flat and impassive.
“Right, right. I’d recognize that face anywhere. How are things going? If I’m not mistaken, we should have a crew coming out to the property early next week to film.”
“Things are going great,” Cole said. “Everything’s coming along nicely.”
“Glad t
o hear it.” Swiveling back to Sophie, Tammy asked, “And I heard you grew almost all of these flowers at your farm, Sophie. That’s a pretty incredible feat.”
“I did.”
“Isn’t that something? You know, I’d love to talk with my network to see if they’d be interested in doing an interview out at your flower farm. I’m working on a new segment called Finding Fairvale where we hope to interview and showcase local talent. I think you’d be perfect for it. Is that something you’d be up for?”
Sophie’s throat tightened, making a swallow difficult. “Um, I suppose—”
“Do you happen to have a business card I could take with me?”
Eyes wide, Sophie sucked in a breath. If she gave Tammy a card, she would see right away that her farm was owned by the McAllisters, the address on it betraying her.
“It’s no problem if you don’t have one. I can easily get your information from Derek.” Tammy popped open her clamshell purse and retrieved a small paper, slipping it between two fingers before flicking it toward Sophie. “Here’s mine. Give me a call if it’s something you’re interested in. Could be really great for business.” She turned to Cole. “And I’ll see you next week. Can’t wait to see this project firsthand.”
Once out of earshot, Sophie sputtered a breath. “What am I going to do?”
“Just tell her you’re not interested. Seemed like it was just a casual ask.”
“No, Cole. What am I going to do when the news crew comes out this week to film your project? It’s not like I can hide two acres of flowers.”
“If they give us advance notice, we can just make sure you’re not there. Or I can take credit for your garden. If you like, I’ll even paint my thumb green so it’s more convincing.”
Sophie knew Cole was joking and only meant to assuage her fears, but his comments did little of the sort. Instead, she felt panic bubbling up within her, that awful feeling of getting caught in a lie that seemed to offer no escape.
“This isn’t going to work,” she suddenly blurted, then raced toward the barn doors.
In the Market for Love Page 11