by Melody Grace
Lila paused. If she was really honest, that was part of why she’d fallen so hard for Justin. He seemed like the answer to everything: her fairytale prince, whisking her off into the sunset, an excuse to wave Hollywood goodbye. Oh, she’d still take a few roles, in smaller, indie movies—parts she could really sink her teeth into. But the rest of it: the events and photoshoots and gossip columns? That would be behind her for good. She wouldn’t be giving up, a quitter, looking a gift horse in the mouth.
She’d be choosing something else instead. Life as a wife. A mother. And she’d almost had it all, so close, she could still taste the memory of how it had felt, snuggled in his arms at night . . . talking about their future . . . glancing at baby clothes in the window as she passed . . .
Lila shook off the melancholy thoughts and turned her attention back to the recipe. But she was just measuring out the dry ingredients when she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye.
Somebody was in the garden.
Lila froze. She told herself it was just the cat, on the prowl again, but no—he was lazily curled in a patch of sunlight, purring happily.
She went to the window and peered out, her heart racing. Had the paparazzi found her? But how? She’d been so careful this time! Even the rental lease was made out to an anonymous company she’d set up with the help of a local lawyer. Nothing to link her back to Hollywood or show up on an internet search somewhere.
Lila scanned the thick bushes, thickets of overgrown roses and blackberries tangling all the way to the back wall.
Nothing.
She exhaled in relief. It was just her imagination, after all. She needed to relax, there was no reason for anyone to go looking for her here, and—
There it was again.
This time, Lila’s heart dropped. There was a man fighting his way through one of the thickets, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans. He was too far away for her to see his face, but every muscle in her body was screaming at her to run. Jump in the car and get far away. Because if there was one reporter here now, there would be a dozen by morning, swarming all over the small town to find scraps about her life.
But her agent was right, she’d been running too long. She would be damned if she’d let them chase her away. Not before she’d tasted this famous pasta dish.
Springing into action, Lila ducked out the kitchen door and skirted the house, staying low and out of sight. She remembered there was an old spigot around the back, and she found it with the attachment still in place. She grabbed the neck of the hose just as the intruder came around the corner.
Lila gasped. “You!” she cried, recognizing the blonde man she’d bumped into at the grocery store. “You followed me home!”
“What? No—” the man blinked, but Lila was too furious to stop.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, stalking me!”
“But I didn’t—”
“Can’t you just leave me in peace?” Lila cried. And then, before he could say another word, she turned on the hose, full blast.
A shower of water surged straight into his face.
“Arrgh!” The man cursed in surprise and stumbled back, but Lila kept the hose trained on him, soaking him from head to foot.
“Are you crazy?” he roared, trying to duck out of the spray.
“Yes!” she yelled. “I’m sick and tired of cockroaches like you!”
“What are you talking about?” he hollered. He finally lunged forward and found the spigot, wrestling with the rusty tap until finally he could shut it off.
“I’m not a cockroach, I’m your new gardener!”
2
That was the last time Griffin Forrester tried doing a favor for a friend.
“I told you I’d call first!” Alice hooted with laughter the next day, when he told her about his drenched encounter with the crazy lady at Rose Cottage. “Did you really go skulking around her lilac bushes? No wonder she gave you a soaking!”
“It was the bushes I was interested in, not her!” he protested, polishing off his lunch. “Do I look like some kind of criminal?”
“That depends,” Alice mused, teasing. “Were you wearing your filthy work clothes?”
“I work in the dirt. I’m bound to get a little muddy.” Griffin glanced down at his mucky T-shirt. Maybe he hadn’t made the best first impression, but that gave her no right to turn the hose on him like a stray raccoon.
“Anyway, what’s her deal?” he asked, stealing some fries from Alice’s plate. “Don’t tell me you’re serving as lawyer for a crazy cat lady. She was hollering at me for stalking her. I don’t even know who she is.”
“Really?” Alice looked surprised. “I’m not even supposed to say, but since you’ve met her already . . .” She looked around the café, then leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Lila Moore.”
Griffin looked back blankly. “Who?”
“The hottest actress in Hollywood?” Alice frowned. “Don’t you read the papers?”
Griffin shrugged. “Why bother? It’s all bad news.” He turned back to the fries, before being struck by a sudden thought. “What’s she doing here? Are they shooting a movie?” The last thing he needed was a crew of film people descending on the Cape, bringing traffic and mayhem to their sleepy little corner of the world.
“No,” Alice replied, and Griffin let out a sigh of relief. “I don’t think Lila wants anyone to know she’s here,” she continued, “so please don’t tell. I had to sign all kinds of confidentiality forms just to prepare the lease agreement. It’s very hush-hush.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Griffin corrected her. “But still, you were right about the gardens. They could be spectacular.”
Tucked away behind the cottage, he’d seen what looked like the remnants of a classic English rose garden—buried under twenty-odd years of weeds, but still . . .
Alice must have noticed his distracted expression, because she paused. “Maybe if I talk to her, apologize for you—”
“No thank you,” Griffin cut her off firmly. “I have enough work without needing to get involved with Ms. Moore and her hysterics.”
Removing the drama from his life was the exact reason he’d moved to Sweetbriar Cove, leaving his big-time, luxury clients far behind in New York City. He had no intention of inviting it back into his life with this high-strung diva—whoever she was.
“Suit yourself.” Alice gave a shrug. “But next time you decide to trespass and get soaked . . . call me first.”
“So you can bail me out of jail?”
“Nope!” she laughed. “I want pictures!”
* * *
Griffin finished up his lunch, then headed down the Cape to collect some hydrangeas for a client. This one, at least, wasn’t wielding a hose in his direction. Griffin thought again about the blonde, this Lila woman, shrieking in his direction like a woman possessed. Sure, she was beautiful—he’d definitely noticed her in the grocery store, even hidden away under that jacket and hat—but Griffin had learned the hard way that falling for a gorgeous, high-maintenance woman like that was the surest route to heartache and pain.
And one hell of a bill from his divorce lawyer.
With one ex-wife under his belt, he had no intention of making the same mistake again—even professionally. If he’d wanted to deal with clients like that, he would have stayed in the city, or taken any one of the dozens of offers he’d fielded from the West Coast over the years. But Griffin had no interest in magazine spreads or Architectural Digest-worthy homes, not these days, at least. He’d worked hard to build his reputation as one of the most sought-after landscape designers around, and now he could pick and choose his projects.
And he chose the ones that left him in peace.
Today, he finished up planting the hydrangeas, then headed down along the beach road to where one of the old saltbox houses had been lovingly updated and restored into a stunning beach house. The owner, Cooper, was already in the overgrown lot beside the house, clearing some weed
s.
Griffin took one look at the mess and let out a whistle. “Are you hiding Rapunzel away back here?”
Cooper gave a wry chuckle. “Who knows? There could be buried treasure. Or just road kill. It’s been on my to-do list for so long, it just keeps growing.”
“Let’s hope for the treasure.” Griffin slowly looked around. It was a large open plot overlooking the ocean, left wild with blackberry bushes and what looked like a few old fruit trees. Cooper had asked him to stop by and check out the space, and Griffin could already see plenty of possibilities. “What were you thinking here?”
Cooper tossed a handful of weeds aside and straightened up. “It’s Poppy’s birthday coming up, and she’s been talking about an herb garden. Maybe even a vegetable patch. I figured I better talk to you before I dig up something I shouldn’t.”
“Smart man.” Griffin gave a grin. “I had a client call me in tears because her husband decided to clear an entire grove of hundred-year oak trees. So he could build himself a man cave.”
“Let me guess, he’s now an ex-husband?” Cooper joked.
“As soon as the judge signs off.”
Griffin kneeled down, and took a handful of dirt, running it through his fingers as he checked the composition. “You’ve got good soil here,” he nodded approvingly. “And south-facing, too. Plenty of sun. I would put in a low wall here,” he pointed. “To keep the sand from getting in. Then build some raised beds for the vegetables.”
“They don’t just go straight in the ground?” Cooper asked, and Griffin shook his head.
“You want to keep them penned in and separate, so the nutrients don’t leach out. Maybe a couple of trellises, too, if she wants to grow beans or zucchini. Does she want to try tomatoes?” he asked, just as the woman herself emerged from the back door.
“I’d love tomatoes!” Poppy exclaimed, carrying their baby strapped to her chest. “Do you think they’d grow in this climate?”
“Ten years ago? No way. But now . . .” Griffin waved his hand. “Winters are getting milder. You could plant in spring and get a good crop by August.”
Poppy clapped her hands together. “Perfect! I just wrote a book where the heroine had a green thumb,” she explained. “It gave me grand ambitions. Not that I know anything about my surprise,” she added with a wink. “Who knows what you two are doing back here?”
“Nothing at all,” Cooper said, smiling.
“Just two old men, admiring the soil,” Griffin agreed.
“Ahem.” Cooper cleared his throat. “Not that old.”
Poppy smirked. “He found his first gray hairs the other day,” she said, leaning up to kiss her fiancé’s cheek. “But I think he’ll look very dashing. A young George Clooney.”
“Very young,” Cooper added.
“Now, are you done out here?” Poppy asked, turning to Griffin. “Because Summer just dropped by a box of goodies from the bakery.”
“Now who’s going to turn down an invitation like that?” Griffin asked with a laugh.
“See, I knew I liked you.” Poppy smiled. “I’ll be in the house whenever you’re done with your top-secret plans.”
She headed back inside, leaving the men alone.
“I guess your surprise is blown,” Griffin remarked, but Cooper just gave an easy shrug.
“Have you tried keeping anything secret in this town? I asked Hank at the hardware store for your number, and Poppy had already caught wind of it by noon.”
Griffin shook his head. “Small towns.”
“That’s right, you haven’t been here long.” Cooper gave a knowing look. “You’ll see. There’s nothing the gossip mill loves more than fresh blood.”
“Oh, I know.” Griffin grinned. “Every new client I work with winds up quizzing me about my plans . . . and bringing their daughters over to meet me. It’s a pretty efficient system: work and a date, all in one go.”
“Sure, you’re smiling now, but just you wait,” Cooper warned with a chuckle. He checked his watch. “I better get back to work. We’re renovating this big old place past the bridge,” he added. “They were talking about putting in a big Japanese garden, if you’re interested?”
Griffin shook his head. “Not my style. But thanks. I can write up a list of supplies you’ll need here,” he added. “And if you go to the nursery in Weymouth, talk to Bill, and he’ll set you up.”
“Appreciate it.” Cooper said, brushing the dirt off his jeans. “Stop by the pub and I’ll buy you a drink. Or better yet, come by poker night. We could use an extra set of hands, maybe even break Poppy’s winning streak.”
“I’ll do that.” Griffin smiled. “But first, I have an appointment with some baked goods.”
He saw Cooper off then headed inside the house. “Shoes!” Poppy called the moment he stepped through the door. “Sorry,” she added breathlessly, “But Emma’s in her crawling phase. She loves to roll around in whatever’s down on the floor.”
“No problem,” Griffin said. He unlaced his muddy work boots and obediently scrubbed his hands clean in the big farmhouse sink before taking a seat at the kitchen table. Poppy was just setting the baby down in a chair in an elaborate playpen.
“Cooper took one look at the plastic junk at the store, and decided to build one from scratch,” Poppy explained.
“Just wait until she’s old enough for a treehouse,” Griffin smiled. He didn’t know that many people in town yet, but Poppy and Cooper had always been friendly. He knew she was a big-shot author, but she seemed pretty down to earth, with a blankie slung over one shoulder and her hair knotted up with a pen stuck through the loop.
“Oh, believe me, there are already plans. Blueprints. Scale models!” Poppy laughed. She joined him at the table, setting out a bakery box full of treats. “Go crazy,” she said. “Summer is testing recipes again. My favorite time of year.”
“Mmnughnnm,” Griffin mumbled through a mouthful of cinnamon roll. “Lucky you. These are amazing.”
When he looked up, Poppy was regarding him with a thoughtful look. “You did the landscaping at the hotel, didn’t you? That’s how you met my friend Brooke.”
Griffin nodded slowly. Something told him the pastries were about to come with a side of casual interrogation.
Sure enough, Poppy sipped her tea. “It was a shame things didn’t work out with you and Jenny. You seemed to hit it off at Thanksgiving.”
“I think she was spoken for, even then.” He flashed a smile, recalling that short-lived flirtation. “But it all worked out in the end. I’m not looking for anything serious.”
“You’re not?”
“In the slightest. Feel free to pass that along to the matchmakers of Sweetbriar Cove,” he added, and Poppy laughed.
“Busted.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Hey, I don’t mind. If you have any single friends looking for an un-serious time . . .”
“I’ll pass your number along,” Poppy finished with a laugh. “Although, to be honest, I can’t think of anyone right now. Everyone’s paired off . . . Even Aunt June’s got herself a gentleman caller—luckily for you,” she added with a smirk. “Otherwise, I can bet you’d be seeing more of her.”
“Bullet, dodged,” Griffin agreed. He finished up the last morsel of pastry, then got to his feet. “I better be going, before—”
Right on cue, baby Emma let out a wail. “Everybody’s hungry.” Poppy gave him a smile.
“I can see myself out,” Griffin assured her. “Thanks for the coffee break.”
“Anytime,” Poppy replied. “And if you feel like telling Cooper a patio area would be nice for that top-secret surprise . . .”
Griffin chuckled. “Consider it done.”
* * *
Griffin drove the winding country roads back towards Provincetown, on the tip of the Cape. His new-ish home was close enough to the shore to hear the waves crashing on a quiet morning, but set far enough back from the beach that the thickets of tourists should be kept at arm’s length, come t
he summer time. He pulled off the main road, and wove up the gravel driveway, his Jeep tires crunching on the stone. The house itself was a converted barn set in the shade of some old sycamore trees, but it was the gardens that had drawn his eye: a half-acre of tree-lined grassland, perfect for the raised beds and herbaceous borders he had still in progress.
But today, he bypassed the projects waiting outside and made his way around back, to the real star of the property: his row of newly-constructed greenhouses. Despite the warming climate, the Cape was still far too cold to grow from seed outside year-round. Here, protected by the glass, and coaxed along with special grow-lamps, he could cultivate all kinds of hot-house flowers: from tulips to rare orchids, and warm-weather fruits besides.
Plus, of course, his particular passion.
Roses.
Griffin let himself into the largest greenhouse of all, and surveyed his progress. There were dozens of small plants growing in pots, set out in neat rows. Those, he’d taken as cuttings from existing bushes, and now was tending to for use in clients’ gardens. Once they were larger and sturdy enough, he would replant them out-of-doors and let them flourish. But that was simple work compared to creating new varieties from scratch.
Griffin went through to the next structure, and checked on his collection there: from the seedling, baby rose plants, all the way to varieties in full bloom. These were his grand experiments: brand new breeds he’d invented by crossing pollen between different plants, to see what kind of flowers he could create.
It was delicate, precise work, and even the most ambitious gardeners left it to the professionals. But ever since crossing his first varieties a few years back, Griffin had been hooked. It was equal parts science, magic, and pure luck which plants would take, and he loved the idea of doing something that nobody had done before.
One small step for man, one giant leap for rose-lovers everywhere.
These plants were all tagged with tiny codes, and he cross-checked them against his planting guide, checking which were thriving and which seemed to struggle.