If Bowman dropped him, that said something. He could only imagine the talk. Everyone cluttering the conversation about his career, everyone who thought he was done—they’d have their proof now.
Without this—without skiing, without his reputation—he didn’t belong anywhere.
He flew past Cedar Grove and straight on past a sign that read, Come back home to Harbor Pointe soon!
Home. A place he hadn’t been since he first went pro. He didn’t need the memories or the reminders of who he’d been and what he’d done. It was hard enough just keeping up with Benji every week.
Sometimes his brother would text nothing but a Bible verse. Those texts always annoyed him. How Benji could still believe everything their parents had drilled into their heads when they were kids made no sense to Grady. After all his brother had endured, did he really believe God was merciful?
He zipped around another curve, this one leading to a straightaway that ran right alongside the lake. The road ahead was clear, so Grady pressed down on the accelerator. The engine revved as all parts of the vehicle worked together to throw his adrenaline into high gear.
The back end of the car slipped slightly, and for a split second he imagined losing control—spinning out and ending up in a ditch somewhere, the same way he felt on the slopes. As if at any moment, he could shift an inch in the wrong direction and go down. He’d seen guys carried off on stretchers, retrieved by medical teams, flown off to hospitals. Some had broken bones. Some would never race again. The possibility of those things were always at the forefront of Grady’s mind. But it never deterred him. It only pushed him forward.
He lived for those moments, dangling on the precipice of control. The rush, the thrill—it excited him. He’d been cooped up in this sleepy town for too many days with no release, and it was cutting off his oxygen.
The road had eventually taken him away from the lake, and all around him were cold, brown fields. Occasionally, he’d pass a house or a barn—sometimes run-down and dilapidated. Completely forgotten, the way he’d be if he didn’t figure out what to do.
In the distance, Grady saw flashing lights—an accident?
As he approached, he slowed down, looking for some sign that a car had crashed, but he saw nothing. Only the squad car, lights flashing, blocking his path on the rural highway.
A heavyset deputy wearing a brown uniform and bulky coat stood in the middle of the road beside his car, waving his arms in the air. Grady slowed the car to a stop and rolled down his window as the lawman dropped his hands and approached him. But he reached Grady and kept on walking.
Grady glanced in the rearview mirror and saw another squad car, lights flashing, behind him. He turned his music down and heard the last push of a siren as the squad car came to a stop. The door of the car behind him opened.
Was that . . . ? Gus.
Unbelievable.
The sheriff exchanged words with the deputy, who glanced back at Grady’s car as they spoke.
Was this about him? Were they really keeping such close tabs on him?
Gus must not have anything better to do if this was how he spent his days—chasing after Grady on the highway. He pulled the door handle and got out of the car.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
Gus reached out and shook the other man’s hand. “I can take it from here, Andy.”
The heavyset deputy tipped his hat (what was this, the Wild West?) and turned toward Grady, giving him a once-over before getting in his barricading vehicle and driving away.
Grady kept his gaze firmly on Gus, who leaned against his car. “You goin’ somewhere?”
Grady turned in a circle like a trapped animal, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m going nowhere fast.” He’d mumbled the words under his breath, but they surprised even him. It wasn’t like Grady Benson to admit defeat—ever. “Just needed to get out of that town for an hour.”
“That right?” Gus squinted up at him, the morning sun highlighting his face.
“I was gonna come back.”
“I clocked you doing eighty-five back there.”
Was that all? Grady thought he’d kicked it up to at least ninety. They must’ve caught him just before that final acceleration. “So, what, now you’re gonna slap a speeding ticket onto my record?”
“I’m thinking about it.” Gus eyed him. “Saw the work you did at Hazel’s.”
“Yeah, so?” Grady didn’t have time for this. Any of it. He’d call his lawyer himself as soon as Gus left him alone. He would listen to Grady, even if Pete couldn’t get the job done.
“It’s good work.”
Grady didn’t reply. He’d felt worthless working alongside Ryan Brooks. He wasn’t used to taking orders, and he wasn’t used to feeling helpless.
“Brooks said you were a good help.”
Grady looked away. “You’re surprised?”
Gus ran a hand over his white mustache. “You don’t have a reputation for being a hard worker.”
“Would I be where I am if I wasn’t a hard worker?”
Gus shrugged. “Well, talent can get some people pretty far—work isn’t even a factor.”
“I work.” Grady resented the implication.
“Level with me, son,” Gus said. “What’s really going on with you?”
Was he serious? Did he really think Grady was going to open up and lay all his problems out on the table in front of the man who was single-handedly ruining his life?
“Never mind,” Gus said, before Grady could tell him off. “I get it.”
“You get what?”
The sheriff waved a hand from Grady’s head to his feet and back again as if to indicate whatever it was he got.
“What?”
“This thing you’re doing. This persona you’ve created. Rebellious. Annoyed. The tough guy.”
“You don’t know a thing about me.”
“But I know about regret.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Grady walked back toward his car.
“What is it you’re running away from?” Gus called out.
Grady ignored him and got in the SUV, started the engine, and sat there, stewing. Then he stuck his head out the window. “I’m not going anywhere and I don’t need a babysitter. You can go.”
“I’ll escort you back to town,” Gus called. “It’ll be my gift to you.”
Was that sarcasm? This guy. Good grief.
He turned the car around and sped off, leaving the squad car without a prayer of catching up, and his mind without a prayer of shaking the old man’s question.
What is it you’re running away from?
Quinn had always loved working late at the flower shop. She’d never minded being alone, which was probably why she’d gone so long without a date. Valentine’s Day would be here before she knew it, and that should bring her down, since her only plans always included cookie dough ice cream and chick flicks. But there was far too much to do this year.
Now that she owned a local business, she saw the value of bringing tourists to town in the off-season even more clearly than she had before.
But even she knew her bottom line was not her motivator to knock this design out of the park. The opening ceremonies of the Winter Carnival included the ball in the large outdoor pavilion. There, locals and tourists could enjoy the spectacular winter garden, a mixture of snow and ice sculptures and floral designs meant to highlight the work of the artists.
Last year’s theme had been Alice in Wonderland. Throughout the pavilion were the most beautiful sculptures of scenes from the classic tale. She’d been so inspired by the quirky, whimsical story, it was almost as if the design poured out of her.
She’d chosen large, less-often-used blooms—red and orange dianthus, bright-orange chrysanthemums, and pops of bright-pink orchids. The combination of her flowers and the sculptures had been the highlight of the whole Winter Carnival.
If only she could’ve entered her design in the competition last
year.
“It’s not quite right,” Mimi had said, which had bothered her at the time. After all, Quinn might be a creature of habit, but she still had a creative side.
Mimi did not.
And the Alice in Wonderland display had been the talk of the carnival last year.
Could she make it happen again?
This year, she’d work with the sculptors again, but she had also agreed to take on the main display behind the stage where the opening ceremonies would take place, along with the ice princess contest on the second day of festivities. That competition brought in a number of visitors in its own right, and while Quinn didn’t hope to understand pageant culture, she could appreciate that they needed lots of flowers.
She’d create something truly unique—remarkable, even—and they wouldn’t be able to ignore her.
She wouldn’t be able to ignore her.
Quinn had met with the sculptors, and they’d settled on the theme Secret Garden. The ball would be a masquerade, playing on the “secret” part of the theme. It all catered perfectly to her unique talents. Why, then, was her brain so blocked? It was like her creativity had just given up and gone home, leaving her staring at page after mocking blank page.
She sat on the floor of the shop, only a few lights on, sketching the pavilion, strategically placing the twelve ice sculptures in the ideal pattern from the entrance all the way to the pavilion stage.
The stage. It had to be an explosion of color—something to complement the rest of the display, but still its own unique design.
She glanced up at the shelves she’d brought in from The Rustic Farmgirl, a vintage shop with the perfect look for her new and soon-to-be improved version of the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop. A mix of distressed white and barn wood and vintage pieces with stories of their own to tell would fill her space . . . as soon as she could find time to put it all together.
She lay back on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. Old light fixtures stared back. She’d been eyeing a set of perfect galvanized metal barn lights, but she was holding off on purchasing them until she was certain she could afford them.
Never mind that she had no idea how to install the lights. One problem at a time, right?
And yet her grand reopening was only one week away. If she didn’t hurry up, she was going to end up with a not-so-grand reopening where everything looked exactly like it did when Mimi owned the flower shop.
Someone pounded on the glass door and Quinn shot straight up, adrenaline rushing. Her dad had always told her to pull the shades if she was going to work late at night—but this was Harbor Pointe, where nothing ever happened.
Until now.
She glanced out the window, knowing she was fully exposed, under the cover of absolutely nothing.
Outside, she saw the shadow of a man standing on the sidewalk. Her heart kicked up a notch.
She stood and peered outside, trying not to look obvious. She reminded herself she knew everyone in town, and this was very likely just someone checking on her; after all, it was past ten, and she was practically inviting strangers to meddle in her business.
She approached the door cautiously, her hand on her cell phone, as the figure outside turned around. Was that . . . ?
Grady Benson stood on the sidewalk outside her flower shop. She stared at him through the glass as the seconds ticked by. Somehow she could see, even under the faint light of the lampposts, that his skin was ruddy and tan, his five o’clock shadow was looking a little more like an actual beard, and his piercing blue eyes were leveled squarely on her.
He leaned an arm on the doorjamb and knocked again, even though there was literally only a double pane of glass between them. “Can I come in?”
“What for?”
He lifted his chin to meet her eyes. “It’s cold outside.”
She pulled the door open. “I’m only letting you in because you’re practically yelling, and my neighbors go to bed early.”
He stumbled over the threshold. “All the stores are closed.”
“But there are apartments above the stores,” she said, stepping away from him.
He righted himself and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing in here alone?”
She rooted her feet to the ground and angled her chin upward. “Are you drunk?”
He waved a hand in the air and let out a puff, dismissing her question. “I had a couple of drinks.” He reached over and tugged on the end of her hair. “But I’m not drunk.”
She pushed his hand away and walked toward the back of the store, aware—how could she not be?—that he was following her.
“This is your business?” His words were slightly slurred, his balance slightly off. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up falling into one of her new shelves. That was about the last thing she needed.
But what she needed even less was to be alone with Grady Benson after 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night.
“This is it.” He must think it was all so small—this town, this business, this life. She’d never been embarrassed about where she came from before, so why did she feel that sudden pang to make it all seem more important than it was? She owned a flower shop in a small town. That was her life. And that was enough.
Except that when she was standing across from Grady Benson, Olympic athlete, it seemed anything but.
“What are you doing here?” she finally asked, deciding that it was better to be rude and get rid of him than shrink under the weight of his stare for one more second.
“You’re not so friendly, you know?” He leaned across the counter she stood behind, suddenly very close.
“I’m plenty friendly with my friends,” she said, eyeing him. “You’re not my friend.”
He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.” He pushed himself up and walked over to the wall where the photo gallery hung. Framed images of Forget-Me-Not’s history, including two photos of her mother, one with Quinn and Carly, lined the wall. She had plans to reframe—or maybe get rid of—those pictures, though a part of her didn’t know if she could ever let the memories go.
Never mind that those same memories kept her frozen. Her mother’s long blonde hair, the way the curls bounced when she twirled Quinn around. The way the flower shop had been so full of laughter, so full of life.
How long had it been since Quinn had felt truly alive?
What a ridiculous thought. She’d just bought her own business. She was living her dream. Where were these crazy ideas coming from anyway?
“Why flowers?”
Did he really want to have a conversation? With her? Right now?
“Everyone loves flowers.”
He shrugged and faced her. “I don’t.”
She turned away. Everyone else loved flowers. Apparently egotistical jocks were immune.
“Tell me,” he said. “I want to know.”
She avoided his eyes.
“Come on,” he said. “When did you first know you wanted to do this?”
“When I was a kid,” she said without thinking.
His eyebrows shot up. “Really? I don’t know many little girls who grow up wanting to be a florist.”
“It sounds so stupid when you say it.”
He casually put a hand on her new shelves. He gave them a shake, as if to test their sturdiness. “I don’t mean to make you feel stupid. I was just trying to get to know you a little.”
She wanted to ask him why, but something stopped her.
“Calvin, I think, is the reason I wanted to do this,” she said after a moment of silence.
“Calvin?”
“Calvin Doyle. You met him at dinner.”
“Calvin,” Grady repeated.
“He used to come in here every Friday afternoon, after work. He was a teacher, and I’d watch him pick out the perfect bouquet of yellow tulips every single time. He was very particular. Before leaving, he’d say to my mother, ‘Do you think she’ll like them?’ And my mother always smiled and said, ‘I think she’ll love them, Calvi
n. They’re perfect and beautiful, just like your Anne.’” Quinn stopped. Her mother had such kindness in her eyes, every time she sent Calvin out the door with a bouquet. She’d taken such good care of the people of Harbor Pointe. How, then, had she just . . . left?
“That’s the whole story?” Grady leaned against the shelves now.
“Sorry, no. I always pictured Mrs. Doyle getting that bouquet every Friday. Tulips were a wonderful choice, and my mother always made sure to have some in the cooler. She’d save them for Calvin. He was like a clock. One day, years later, I was walking home from school and I saw him with his bouquet of yellow tulips. He was standing over Anne’s grave, holding them and, I think, talking to her. All that time, he’d been getting flowers to put on her grave. To make sure she wasn’t forgotten.”
Grady didn’t move.
She felt suddenly self-conscious and regretted saying anything at all.
“I can see why you’d like it, I think.”
He could? She wouldn’t have imagined so. “We do all kinds of weddings and proposals and Valentine’s Day flowers, so we’re there for people’s celebrations—and I love that. But knowing that I have something that can bring a little bit of beauty to somebody’s worst day?” She shrugged. “I guess that’s why I always wanted to do this.”
His eyes held hers for seconds in which her heart thumped like a bass drum.
Why had she told him any of that? He was not someone to try to connect with!
He must’ve felt her discomfort, because he started walking again. Walking and picking up things he had no business touching.
She moved out from behind the counter just in time to snag a glass vase from Grady’s grasp. She gave it a slight tug, but he held firm, and the strength of her pull drew him closer—too close.
“Will you let go, please?”
He reached up and touched her forehead, swiping his finger along the length of it, just above her eyebrows. “Do you feel that?”
“What? You poking me in the head?” She swatted his hand away.
“That’s your serious line.” His mouth quirked upward in a lopsided smile.
“What are you talking about?”
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