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Aren’t you forgetting something?
Flynn tore his gaze from the garden and fixed it on Hayley’s slim back as she walked ahead of him. He didn’t have time to indulge this dream. He was responsible for Randall Developments now, and things would only become more intense with his father.
This was too much for him to take on right now. No matter how much a part of him wanted to.
And yet the thought of walking away from this opportunity made him want to grind his teeth. He’d already walked away from Verdant Design and the career of his choice. He needed something of his own. Some way of keeping a small part of his dream alive.
Hands thrust deeply into his jacket pockets, Flynn climbed the steps to the house. For better or worse, the next twenty minutes had the power to change his life.
THEY WERE BOTH QUIET on the way back to the cottage. Flynn was lost in his own thoughts, shuffling things around in his mental diary, formulating scenarios for himself and his parents that would allow him to have his cake and eat it, too.
Not that any of that was going to change the outcome of today’s inspection. At a certain point in the tour he’d given in to the inevitable and admitted to himself that he was going to put in an offer for the estate. It was too rare and precious an opportunity for him to pass up. He had no idea how he was going to make it fit with everything else, but he would work it out.
Somehow.
He turned off the engine when they returned to their accommodation but made no attempt to get out of the car. Instead, he looked at Hayley, who was staring pensively out the windshield.
“What do you think?”
“I think that it’s terrifying, frankly. That house needs new everything. And the garden… I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“I would.” He could hear the relish in his own voice.
She looked at him, a small, curious smile on her face. “Which is why you’re going to buy it, of course.”
She knew him so well.
“Yes. I am.” Anticipation spiked through him as he finally said it out loud.
She opened the car door. “Come on, then. There’s a bottle of French bubbly in the fridge thanks to our efficient hostess. I think this calls for a celebration.”
He followed her into the cottage. She opened kitchen cupboards until she found long-stemmed flutes and he tore the foil and the wire cage off the top of the champagne bottle. The pop of the cork sounded loud in the small space and Hayley laughed and pulled a comic face when the sparkling wine foamed up over the neck.
“Don’t waste it!”
He poured them both a glass and Hayley raised hers in a toast.
“To finally getting something you’ve always wanted,” she said.
They clinked glasses and drank, and Flynn kissed her. She surprised him by deepening the kiss, one hand sliding behind his neck. She wasn’t usually aggressive sexually but she pressed herself against him and kissed him deeply, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder. When she finally broke the kiss she looked at him for a long moment, her gaze very intent and serious.
Then she took his hand and tugged on it. “Come into the living room. There’s something I want to say to you.”
Flynn smiled. “This is all very mysterious.”
“It won’t be for long, trust me.”
She led him to one of the cream couches and pushed him onto the cushion. Then she sat beside him and took his hand in hers. She looked into his eyes, then she squeezed her own shut for a long beat.
“Wow. This is harder than I thought it would be.” Her hand was trembling.
Flynn frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. At least, I hope it is.” Hayley opened her eyes and gave him a small, nervous smile. “Remember what you said this morning about not knowing what you’d do without me and how I told you to hold that thought?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about us. And the future. I’ve been thinking about what I want, how I’d like things to be.”
Flynn tensed. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. “Look, Hales, I know that things haven’t been great lately. I know that I’ve been working all hours and the situation with Mom and Dad has been chewing up my spare time, but—”
Hayley smiled and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Relax, Flynn. I’m not breaking up with you.”
Flynn’s shoulders dropped a notch. “Good.”
“I’m asking you to marry me.” She slipped onto one knee on the floor and opened her hand, palm up, in front of him. A simple gold wedding band rested against her pale skin. “So, will you, Flynn? Will you marry me?”
It literally took Flynn a full ten seconds to comprehend what she was saying. She knelt before him, her brown eyes fixed intently on his face, a faint, hopeful smile on her lips, and his brain simply refused to work.
Probably because this was the last thing he’d been expecting. They’d been seeing each other a little under a year, living together for six months. Things were good between them. Comfortable. But he simply hadn’t gotten around to thinking about marriage. He simply…hadn’t.
The silence stretched. He needed to say something. Now.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a little blindsided here. I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”
“I can tell. You look like I hit you up for a loan.” Her smile wobbled a little and she curled her hand into a fist around the ring. “I was kind of hoping we were on the same page with this. But I guess I was wrong.” She was still kneeling and Flynn reached out to guide her onto the couch.
“I need a minute to get my head around this, that’s all.”
She nodded but didn’t say anything. Flynn took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order, trying to find the one right thing to say that would take away the hurt dawning in her eyes.
“I think you’re great, Hales. You know that. I’ve always thought you were great. We get on well, we understand each other.”
“I know, and I’ll admit I was kind of hoping you would beat me to this. Then I remembered that this is the twenty-first century. Women are supposed to go for what they want, right? And I want you, Flynn. I always have.”
For the second time in as many minutes, he was without words. He’d given Hayley a black eye with his soccer ball when he was six. He’d danced with her at her debutante ball when she was seventeen. He’d laughed with her at any number of parties and theater shows and functions over the years, caught up with her for lunch every now and then—with or without other friends in the mix. He’d always thought of her as a good friend, and only recently had he considered her as anything more than that.
“I didn’t realize,” he said, then immediately kicked himself. Could he sound like more of an idiot? He wasn’t an inarticulate teenager. He was thirty-four years old. He’d had his fair share of lovers and relationships. Yet he was handling this with all the sophistication and finesse of a pro wrestler.
“I guess that means I’m a better actor than I thought. Mom has known for years.”
She was watching him intently. Flynn realized he hadn’t answered her question yet.
It should have been a no-brainer. She was beautiful. Their parents were friends. They had everything in common, from their acquaintances to their educations to their tastes in wine and food and art. She was elegant, clever and kind.
She was perfect and she would make the perfect wife.
So why couldn’t he look her in the eye and say yes? Why was he feeling trapped and uncomfortable and deeply guilty all of a sudden?
An image flashed across his mind’s eye—his mother capturing his father’s face in her hands this morning and telling him clearly and unequivocally that she loved him, no matter what. The love and devotion in her expression had been undeniable, as had the love and devotion in his father’s eyes. They were crazy about each other, always had been. They preferred each other’s company to anyone else’s, finished each other’s sentences, tickled each other’s funny bones…?. They were a matched set. Soul mates. Inseparable.
They were the best example of marriage a man could have, and Flynn had taken the lessons he’d learned from watching them to heart. When he married, he planned for it to stick. He wanted to grow old with the love of his life, to mellow with her, to store away memories and take on challenges and evolve with her. He wanted a forever kind of love, the kind that only increased and grew richer and deeper and broader with time. A love that was strong enough to withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and then some.
He looked into Hayley’s eyes and tried to imagine the two of them twenty years from now. He tried to imagine their children. He tried to imagine the two of them dealing with the tectonic shift that his parents were experiencing.
And it just wasn’t there. He couldn’t see it. Hayley was his dear, dear friend. But she was not the woman he wanted to marry.
His chest was suddenly tight. He was about to hurt her—the last thing he’d ever wanted to do.
He looked at her hand in his, her skin very pale in comparison to his, trying to find the words. “Hayley, I care for you a great deal. You’re one of my best friends. The past year has been great. Really great. But marriage is a big step. And I don’t feel even close to ready to take it with you.”
She was very still for a moment. “One of your best friends.” He could see the disappointment and hurt in her face.
Flynn stared at her helplessly. If it was in his power, he’d flip a switch and love her with the same fervor that she apparently felt for him. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t.
“I’m sorry. There’s been so much going on…?. I never meant to create expectations.” His words sounded lame, even to himself. He’d fallen into a relationship with her, allowed her to move in, shared his days and his nights with her, but he’d never once thought about where they were going, or wondered what she thought their relationship was about. He’d been too busy flailing around in his own crap after his father’s diagnosis—winding down his own company, stepping up to take over the reins of the business, trying to support his mother, trying to do anything and everything to ease his father’s distress.
“You didn’t create expectations. I did.” Her voice was heavy with tears but she was doing her best to hold them in.
“God, Hales, I’m so sorry.” He pulled her into his arms, guilt a physical burn in his chest.
She might be prepared to let him off the hook, but he wasn’t. He’d been selfish, taking comfort where he could find it. Not thinking about the consequences. Not thinking about tomorrow at all.
She rested her head on his shoulder but didn’t try to return his embrace. After a moment he let her go. Her eyes were filled with tears and she brushed them away with her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. Then she stood and rushed from the room.
Flynn heard the bedroom door click shut. He mouthed a four-letter word, angry with himself, angry with the situation. He fell back against the cushions and raked his fingers through his hair.
He had no doubt that right now, Hayley was howling her eyes out on the bed they were supposed to share tonight. He swore again. He was a bastard. A stupid, selfish, thoughtless bastard.
The urge to get up and go gripped him, to walk away from the cottage and the scene that had played out, but he didn’t move. The least he could do was be here if Hayley needed him. The very least.
MEL SPENT THE first half of the afternoon repairing the rotten windowsill. Her thoughts drifted from topic to topic as she chipped away the damaged wood with a hammer and chisel, but she kept coming back to Flynn and his girlfriend.
They were an attractive couple, with his dark good looks and her pale skin and fiery hair. They were socially well-matched, too, both bringing equal clout to the table. No one would look down their noses when they arrived at functions or events. No one would whisper behind their backs or laugh and speculate about how long their relationship would last and what, exactly, Hayley had done to land her man.
The chisel slipped and Mel’s breath hissed out as the sharp metal sliced into the fleshy part of her thumb. She sucked on it for a second before inspecting the wound. Blood welled, but it was a shallow cut. She’d live.
She went inside for a bandage and returned to finish the repair, replacing the excised wood with builder’s filler. Afterward, she made the ten-minute drive to her parents’ place to help her mother finalize the invitations for their upcoming thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She stayed for an early dinner, then drove home.
She was in the bedroom, ready to pull on her pajamas for a cozy night in front of the TV, when a knock echoed through the house. It came from the back door, and she quickly pulled her cargo pants on. She fastened the stud as she made her way to the kitchen and the door.
It was Flynn, his face shuttered, his body half turned away. “Sorry to disturb you. I need to give you this.” He handed over the key to the cottage.
Mel stared at it for a second before lifting her gaze to his. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Is something wrong with the accommodation? If there’s a problem, I can offer you one of the other cottages.”
“It’s nothing to do with the cottage. Everything’s been great. Something has come up.”
She tried to gather her thoughts. She’d had last-minute cancellations, and she’d had no-shows, but she’d never had guests walk out halfway through their stay.
“Okay. Well. I hope you enjoyed your time here. What there was of it, anyway.”
“We did, thanks.” He gave her a small, tight smile before turning and walking down the steps.
She watched him for a minute, frowning. Maybe it was her imagination, but he looked tired. Defeated.
She caught her own thoughts and made a rude noise. Flynn Randall was filthy rich, better-looking than any man had a right to be and in the prime of his life. He probably didn’t know how to spell defeat, let alone how to experience it.
She, on the other hand, was an expert.
On that cheery note, she went to get ready for bed.
CHAPTER THREE
THREE WEEKS LATER, Mel stooped to wrap her arms around the hessian-covered root ball of the orange tree she’d excavated from her front yard. She’d pruned the branches and dug the roots out in stages, giving the tree time to adjust to the brutal surgery she was practicing. But now it was time to haul it to its new home. She felt a little like the horticultural equivalent of Atilla the Hun in uprooting the tree from its old home, but this was a necessary evil—it had been badly sited by the previous owners and would never thrive or even bear fruit in its current position.
Once she was confident she had a reliable grip, Mel flexed her legs and attempted to lift the tree onto the waiting wheelbarrow. As she’d half expected, the tree barely budged, despite giving it her all. Between the weight of the tree and the amount of dirt and clay contained in the root ball, it was bloody heavy. She might have rugby league shoulders, but she wasn’t a miracle worker.
She sat back on her heels and looked up at the shiny green foliage towering over her. She was tempted to call her father or brother to ask them to lend a hand, but she didn’t want them to feel as though she only called when she needed something.
Which meant it was time to move on to Plan B. Not that she was a hundred-percent certain it would work, either. But what the hey.
She headed to the house—the canvas drop sheet she was looking for was in the spare room. After she’d grabbed it and was on her way outside, she glanced into the living room. The clock on the mantel told her it was ten, which meant she had an hour until Flynn Randall was due to check in. Plenty of time to do what needed to be done.
She still couldn’t quite believe he was coming to stay with her again. He’d called on Wednesday and she’d been so surprised to hear his voice it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to respond to his greeting. After his last stay—or, more accurately, his nonstay—she’d thought she would never hear from him again. Even though he’d said the accommodation had been fine and she’d been inclined to believe him, his visit couldn’t exactly have been called successful.
Yet he’d made another booking, and she’d been feeling nervous and on edge ever since she’d marked the reservation in her diary. Which was genuinely pathetic given that she’d long since sifted through her reaction to his last visit and come to the depressing conclusion the reason he put her on edge was because of who he was—a Randall.
Old habits died hard, apparently.
She was determined to get over the anxiety this time around. He was a man, he put his pants on one leg at a time, and she would respond to him as she would any other man. If it killed her. The same went for his girlfriend. They were people, and they were guests, and that was it. They weren’t any more special than anyone else she played host to.
The drop sheet snapped open as she spread it across the lawn. As she’d hoped, the orange tree was a few inches shorter than the length of the tarp. She positioned it at the most advantageous point, then braced her legs and rocked the root ball from side to side, “walking” it onto the canvas. As gently as possible she tipped the tree onto its side. She gathered up the corners closest to the root ball and bunched them together into a big wad. Then she took a step backward, using her body weight and her grip on the drop sheet to drag the tree across the lawn behind her.
By the time she got to the driveway her arms and thighs were burning. She put her chin down and kept hauling, making her slow way along the side of the house and onto the rear lawn. She stopped to peel off her sweater, wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans, then picked up the corners and put her back into round two, trying not to think of how much farther she had to go before she reached the new site she’d prepared.
“Are you all right there? You look like you could use a hand.”
Her head snapped around. Surprised, her grip on the drop sheet loosened as she hauled backward and she fell onto her ass with a painful thud—all while staring straight into the very blue eyes of Flynn Randall.
Her pride urged her to immediately scramble to her feet but her tailbone was vibrating with pain and it was all she could do not to groan out loud.
“Are you okay?” He strode to her side and held out his hand to help her up.
