Wallflowers:Three of a Kind

by CP Smith

  He grinned slowly with just a hint of cocky mixed in. “Now you’re talkin’.”

  “You’re impossible,” she chuckled as she closed her door then rolled down her window before leaving. “Will you be at Nate’s later in the day? I’ll bring Greg by to say hi if you are.”

  Nate Jacobs had been his best friend in college, and they’d stayed close after graduating. Like Devin, Nate also had had a drive to make something more out of his life after growing up on the wrong side of the tracks in Savannah. They’d hit it off immediately.

  While Devin had studied criminal justice with a minor in forensics, Nate had studied business management with dreams of converting one of the old historic buildings into a gambling hall once the State of Georgia legalized the sport. Devin had made detective within six years of joining the Atlanta PD, and Nate had his investors lined up and ready, waiting for gambling to be legalized. But for now, while he bided his time, he owned a sports bar.

  Jacobs’ Ladder sat in the heart of River Street, just down the block from his new office and apartment. The close locale to Nate was one of the reasons Devin had chosen the location.

  “I plan on it,” Devin answered. “I haven’t met Gertrude yet.”

  “Oh, Dev, you’ll adore her. She’s just the right mix of bull and princess,” Megan laughed as she started her car and shifted into reverse. “See you later.”

  Megan blew him a kiss before pulling out of her parking spot, her fingers wiggling an excited good-bye as she left.

  Devin looked down the hill at the old brick building that was now his home and place of business. It was time to get on with the next chapter of his life. The first thirty years had been in or near Atlanta; so he was curious to see what Savannah brought to the table.

  Office first, he thought, climbing back on his bike and driving the short distance back down the ramp toward River Street. After securing his Harley in the alley, he made his way around to the crowded street and took in the river. The location of his office was perfect. In the heart of the historic district, he’d get plenty of foot traffic passing by. Free advertising was a boon for a man on a budget. And there were worse views. He could be stuck in an alley staring at a brick wall. Instead, he had a waterfront view with steamboats and cargo ships passing by on their way out to sea.

  Directing his attention down the street, he stopped in his tracks before he could take another step. In front of Frock You was the woman from the window. Shop girl was bent at the waist, digging through boxes next to a delivery truck with her ass on display.

  Jesus.

  Peeling his eyes off temptation, he moved to his office and unlocked the door, but looked back one last time before he entered to catch her turned at the waist, watching him. Jerking his head in greeting, he pushed through the door and shut it firmly behind him.

  Then he bit out, “Fuckin’ hell.”

  She had the face of an angel, the lips of a seductress, but an innocent quality that called to his baser needs. His needs to pursue, to claim—to fucking protect.

  And she was taken by another man.

  Two

  Three of a Kind

  WANDERING LAZILY TOWARD THE company picnic, I took in my surroundings. The bright Georgia sun couldn’t hold back the beauty of Forsyth Park. The deep-green color of live oaks, dripping in a blanket of sage-colored Spanish moss, still captivated me no matter how many times I laid eyes on them. Their huge diameter and broad-reaching limbs created a tunnel of intertwined branches that transported me back in time, harkening back to the days of sugar plantations and cotton fields. In contrast, billowing pink, white, and red azalea bushes were now in bloom, casting vibrant color into the darker foliage and scenting the air with floral perfume. This park was one of my favorite places in Savannah. I could spend hours here reading beneath an oak tree or people watching as tourists gathered at the fountain to take pictures.

  I’d arrived on time for Poe Publishing’s annual employee picnic rather than dragging my feet per usual. I couldn’t avoid the picnic since it was mandatory, per Poe’s Grand Dame: unless you were in labor or had a severed limb, she expected you to be there with your game face on for an evening of hot dogs, camaraderie, and baseball.

  Normally, any activity that required me to stand in front of a speeding ball wasn’t my cup of tea, and in previous years I was content to cheer on my department rather than play. However, this year, I decided I would take Bernice’s advice and try to live my life rather than hide from it.

  Since the revelation that I’d like to have more in my life besides my job and books, which included friends as well as love, I figured putting forth effort into relationships at work might be a better first step. Men could wait; friendships could not.

  I’d hired on with Poe after graduating from Emory with a BS in English Literature, minoring in Editing. I’d started out as a fact-checker then slowly worked my way up the ladder, keeping to myself and proving my worth one book at a time.

  I’d recently been promoted to content editor, working under a seasoned senior editor who’d produced hundreds of bestsellers for Poe Publishing. Jolene Cartwright was a no-nonsense, take-the-bull-by-the-horns forty-year-old who turned overly dramatic novels into works of art. She was tireless, vivacious, and amazing to work with. I knew after my first day working under her I’d be lucky to be half as good as she is by the end of my career.

  My love for the written word was the reason I’d chosen to be an editor. I didn’t have the imagination required to be a writer. But I knew I could help craft tension, find plot holes, and cut fat where it was needed, taking a rough draft full of errors to a shining diamond readers could immerse themselves in for years to come. I had the education to correct dangling modifiers or verb tense reversals, but my love for a beautifully emotional, well-written romance drove me. It fueled my fire in a way that copy editing never could.

  Scanning the crowd, I smiled brightly at anyone who looked in my direction. After one pass, I didn’t see anyone I’d consider possible friendship material, so I took in the men. Even though I was nervous about dating, and fraternization was against company policy, I studied the men for research purposes. Most were either too old or too weak-looking for my taste.

  An image of Devin Hawthorne floated to the surface as I took in one of the only men my age in the company. His name was Alex, and where Devin was tall, muscled, and intimidatingly rugged, Alex was lean, short, and a little too polished. He was definitely the opposite of intimidating, like most of the men of my acquaintance.

  “Rugged, muscled men are overrated,” I lied to myself.

  “Rugged, muscled men are never overrated,” Jolene chuckled beside me. “Who are you referrin’ to, Cali? I don’t see anyone in this crowd worthy of that title. Nothin’ but a bunch of fancy peacocks in their designer shirts.”

  I side-eyed Jolene, then giggled. She was right, of course. We were surrounded by a bunch of peacocks.

  “I was just makin’ an observation, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’re good at observin’,” Jolene replied. “If you do see rugged and muscled, send them my way. I’m long overdue for an illicit affair.”

  Jolene towered over my five foot three inch frame. Lithe and glamorous with honey-blonde hair and olive green eyes, she had a quick wit and smart mouth that men found irresistible.

  Maybe I should take lessons from her?

  “Did you see the manuscript I left on your desk?” Jolene inquired.

  “The one with family connections to Poe?”

  “That’s the one.” She exhaled dramatically. “You know I’ve always been a firm believer that everyone has at least one book inside them. I may have to rethink my stance after skimmin’ . . . What was the title again?”

  “The Way to a Man’s Heart is Through His Dick,” I answered with a cringe.

  “Yeeees,” she replied, drawing out the ‘yes’ on a long slow hiss. “Simply charmin’. I do hate layin’ that on your shoulders, sugar. However, bein’ the senior editor
does have its perks.”

  I had no doubt she was thrilled not to have to deal with a ‘family connection.’ One with questionable taste in, and I use this term loosely, literature.

  “Tell me,” she continued. “How many blow jobs were there in the first two chapters?”

  “I didn’t count.”

  She raised a brow. “The hell you didn’t,” she scoffed.

  I sighed before stating, “Ten.” She raised her other brow, and I sighed again. “Or twenty. I lost track.”

  “Darlin’, you should encourage her to write a non-fiction manual instead of a romance novel. That or have the protagonist die of lockjaw.”

  I choked on a laugh, but lost my battle. Throwing my head back, I let out a hoot of laughter that turned heads.

  “Cali Armstrong, laughter looks good on you. You should do it more often,” Jolene drawled, stroking my shoulder gently with her hand before walking away to speak with someone else.

  Wiping tears from under my eyes, I turned toward the baseball field to see how soon the game would begin.

  I’ll admit I’ve never played baseball. But I’m athletic enough, and the new and improved Cali was up for new experiences.

  As I made my way past the tables filled with hot dogs and chips, I looked to the right to my favorite oak tree and caught sight of Poppy Gentry, one of the graphic artists with Poe Publishing, heading in the direction of the shade tree. Poppy was new to the publishing house, and I’d only met her once. She was a stunning dark-haired woman about my age with jade-green eyes that seemed guarded. Guarded like the ones that stared back at me daily in the mirror.

  On a hunch, I changed course and headed in her direction.

  I smiled as I watched her sit with a book in hand beneath the same tree I would have chosen just a day ago.

  I always carried a book in my bag, so I pulled mine out. It was Devil’s Bride. I’d brought the copy I’d been holding when I realized I’d been stuck in neutral for far too long as a reminder to let down my guard. To let fate guide my path instead of hiding from the world.

  Poppy looked up as I approached and smiled openly.

  That’s encouraging.

  “Care if I join you?”

  “No, of course not,” she answered genuinely.

  Definitely encouraging.

  I dropped my bag and then squatted to my haunches before I plopped to the ground. Once I was settled with my back against the tree, I turned my head and reintroduced myself.

  “Cali Armstrong,” I said, putting out my hand. “We met last month at Elle Reynold’s book launch.”

  “I remember. You were wearing the cutest vintage halter dress with polka dots.”

  Smiling because I couldn’t remember what I wore yesterday, I snickered and replied, “That old thing?”

  “Exactly. It’s my experience that that which is old is far superior to anything the world has to offer nowadays. Books included,” she answered, raising a well-read copy of a paperback.

  “May I?” I asked, pointing to her book.

  She turned it over, and I saw that it too, was a historical romance, one written by Loretta Chase titled Lord of the Scoundrels.

  “Nice. Sebastian Ballister is one of the best anti-heroes ever written.”

  “It’s fiction. Men like him don’t really change their stripes. My favorite part is when Jessica shoots him,” Poppy said with a sly grin.

  “I’m sensing some animosity,” I chuckled. “Is that your opinion based on experience?”

  Instead of answering, she leaned forward and grabbed my book. “Devil’s Bride? They don’t make men like that either.”

  “Don’t they?” I watched her mouth pull tighter as she shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been too busy with my career to find time,” I lied.

  “It’s not been my experience,” she finally answered. “Save yourself some time and stick with books and a sturdy vibrator. Men will only complicate your life and leave you cryin’ in your beer.”

  My excitement at the idea of pursuing love came to a screeching halt. “I’ll bear that in mind,” I answered, looking down at my copy of Devil’s Bride, running a finger across Devil’s profile.

  “I do miss the excitement of a relationship, though.”

  I turned my head and looked at her. She was staring off into the distance, her face relaxed and wistful.

  “Excitement?”

  “Yeah. The way it feels when they call for a second date. The butterflies you get in your stomach when they enter a room. Or the heat that pools between your legs when they pin you against a wall and kiss you so thoroughly you don’t ever wanna come up for air.”

  I shifted a little and cleared my throat. The images she described left me restless. Definitely wanting. That’s what I dreamed about when I thought about love. What I now hoped to find.

  “Maybe you’ve just dated the wrong type of men?”

  Poppy thought for a moment, then nodded “Probably. But as my sweet momma used to say, ‘You can’t live with them, and you can’t skin them alive and feed them to the gators.’”

  “What was your father like? Surely she didn’t include him in that philosophy?”

  “No idea. I never met him.”

  “Never?” I asked, surprised.

  Shrugging, she opened her book and turned the pages until she found her bookmark. “Nope. He left before I was born. He didn’t want anything to do with Momma or me.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, not entirely sure what to say in the face of her father’s desertion, but a shout distracted me. Looking toward the baseball field, I saw Sienna Miller— personal assistant to the CEO of Poe Publishing, not the actress—waving as she headed in our direction. Poppy put down her book and waved back, smiling. I’d dealt with Sienna on several occasions, but only in the capacity of forwarding emails and manuscripts for the Grand Dame of Poe Publishing to approve.

  I didn’t envy her job. Alexandra Poe could be ruthless and short with her employees, yet fair at the same time. At seventy, she was a legend in the publishing world. Born and raised in Savannah, she was the daughter of a newspaperman who started Poe Publishing for his daughter so she could publish her romance novels. When Alexandra’s books didn’t sell, her daddy said, “Acquire some authors and run the damn thing yourself.” So she did. Alexandra had an eye for talent, a nose for bullshit, and a mind for numbers. She had as much of her daddy in her as she did a romantic side, and soon Poe was competing with New York and Chicago.

  When Sienna was close enough, I waved as well.

  “What’s up?” Poppy asked.

  “Alexandra saw you sittin’ over here and sent me to tell you to get your firm, young asses off the ground and play baseball.”

  Sienna was a few inches taller than me with light-blonde hair and espresso-colored eyes she hid behind Wayfarer sunglasses. She was highly efficient as an assistant but seemed quiet. And she was stunning. Heads turned when she entered a room, but I doubted she noticed.

  “Oh, come on. I don’t want fast-moving balls thrown at me,” Poppy complained.

  I snickered. That was my opinion as well.

  “You think I do?”

  “Why don’t you tell Alexandra to play if she has a death wish?”

  “She is. Now get up, they’ve already started.”

  Poppy and I both gasped at that announcement and jumped to our feet. No way was I missing Queen Alexandra play ball.

  “Can you play ball, Cali?” Sienna asked as we headed to the field.

  “Define play.”

  She looked down at my book and grinned. “I guess not. You do have your nose in a book anytime I see you.”

  “It’s what I’m paid to do.”

  “No, I meant around town. I’ve seen you on your days off, and even then you have your nose in a book.”

  The sharp crack of a bat broke through the air, and someone yelled, “Catch it.” I looked up and saw a baseball on a trajectory for the three of us, so I dropped my book and raised my ha
nds. Unfortunately, for me, the ball passed through my fingers, bounced off my palm, and clocked me on the cheek.

  I grabbed my face and dropped to my knees as pain exploded across it. It wasn’t a direct hit, more of glancing blow I’d feel in the morning and the one after that, but it still hurt like hell.

  “Jesus,” Poppy shouted. “Are you okay?”

  “She got knocked in the head with a ball, do you think she’s okay? How many fingers am I holdin’ up?” Sienna asked, waving her hand in front of my face.

  “I’m fine. Nothin’ a little ice won’t cure.”

  I could hear voices shouting as my co-workers came running toward us. My cheek was killing me, but I needed a beer and to escape from the heat more than I needed ice.

  I glanced around the field looking for a way to leave. My attention landed on Sienna and Poppy, and I studied them. I liked them. A lot. They were friendly, smart, and exactly what I needed in my life right now.

  Since I was looking for friends, and these two fit the bill perfectly, I made a split-second decision and prayed I wasn’t making a mistake.

  “I think I need both of you to take me to the doctor.”

  “What? How bad is it?” Poppy asked, trying to look over Sienna’s shoulder.

  “I need you to take me to see Dr. Budweiser.” I smirked and then winked.

  A sly grin pulled across Sienna’s mouth and she nodded.

  “Poppy, get some ice. We’re goin’ to see a man about a bruise.”

  ✿✿✿

  Turning in her seat, Poppy blurted out, “Okay, spill,” as I held a bag of ice to my cheek. Since I’d ridden my bike the mile to Forsyth Park, we’d thrown it in the back of Sienna’s car and climbed in to go see a hypothetical doctor for my bruised face.

  “Spill?” I asked, confused.

  “Yeah. I’ve seen you at Poe, but you keep to yourself. And Sienna here says you’ve both worked there for years, yet you don’t know each other. So spill. What’s your story?”

  “Hold that thought. First, where do you live?” Sienna jumped in before I could answer.