“To what?”
“To what’s in that envelope.” The look on her face is all plea and genuine something. “Please don’t say no.”
CHAPTER SIX
Will
This time for my trip into town, I’m fully dressed. It doesn’t seem to stop everyone from popping their heads out of storefronts to stare. I wave at a lady who emerges from the quilt shop. She blushes and waves back. A little farther down, a man rushes out of the hardware store （I think I remember his name is Phil） and asks if I need any tools. Tape measures are on sale today, he informs me eagerly and with eyes that can only be described as slightly feral.
“I’m good for today, thank you.” I try to step around him, but he steps too. I think maybe he wants some insurance that I’ll only shop in his store for anything handyman related while I’m here, so with a wide smile, I tag on, “But I know where to go if I need anything.”
“Sure you do!” he beams back, slightly over the top in a disconcerting way. He then yells over his shoulder to a guy about his same age writing in chalk on their propped-up street sign. “Todd! I said tape measures are on sale today. Not screwdrivers.”
Todd sighs and silently wipes away his intricately detailed handiwork, starting over. Man—poor Todd.
“Right, well, I’m actually headed toward the flower shop, so…” Kindly get out of my way.
His eyes narrow. “Ah, going to see our Annie, are you?”
“Sort of—but not specifically.” I move to the right of the sidewalk, and he moves with me. Again.
“Sure, sure. I get it. The kids are all against commitment these days. It’s supposedly cool to keep your options open.” He does air quotes when he says cool.
I shift on my feet and eye him, feeling like I’m missing something here. I chuckle in an easy-natured way, though. “Listen, Phil, right? I’m just running an errand for my boss.” Everyone knows I work for Amelia, but I’m careful anyway. “An errand which I really need to be getting to. So if you don’t mind, I’ll need a raincheck on our chat.” Kind but firm. The ever-present tightrope I walk.
I try to edge around him but abruptly stop when I feel Phil’s hand splay out across my chest. I slowly look down at his fingers and every ounce of congeniality I feel dissolves. Now I’m fighting the urge to wrap my hand around his wrist and twist it behind his back. I hate that that’s my first instinct when I’m touched without warning. Part of me wonders if maybe I’ve been doing this job too long. But what else would I do?
I force myself to breathe and relax—because this is Phil, a man who has lived in this town his whole life and has likely watched Annie grow up. So instead of shoving him backward with a warning to not touch me again, I look him in the eyes and listen.
“Our Annie is a sweetie, you know?” He’s saying it in a cheery tone, but there’s an edge to it that I don’t miss. Unspoken words of warning: our Annie is a sweetie, so don’t mess with her, or I’ll cut off your balls with the chain saw we have on sale today for 50 percent off. Phil and his blue-and-white-striped collared shirt, khaki shorts, tube socks over his ankles, and dad tennis shoes is threatening me. Me—a highly trained executive protection agent who specializes in hand-to-hand combat, evasive maneuvering, and weapons training. And guess what? It’s working. Phil has the fatherly stare down that makes my blood curdle.
“I know,” I say honestly, because only one look in Annie’s soft blue eyes is enough to inform a person that she has kindness and empathy spilling out of her soul.
Phil nods. “I don’t want to hear of anyone—and I do mean anyone—hurting our girl. Understand?”
I respect Phil and his tube-sock-wearing self more, even if I am a little irritated at his insinuation that I would purposely hurt her. Or any woman. “I understand, sir.”
He pats my chest and removes his hand. “And wear a shirt when you jog from now on. You about made Gemma pass out into her clearance fabric bin this morning. Woulda never found her after that.”
One month. I can do this for one month. Thirty days. I’ve endured worse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Annie
Heaven will undeniably be made up of flowers.
There’s nothing in the world that boosts my mood like standing in my flower shop and taking in a deep breath of flowers. The morning sunshine spills through the large, shop-front windows and kisses the rainbow of blooms bursting from every corner of my little shop.
I wish my mom could see it. She adored flowers—and was even the one who started the flower crop on our local farm where I buy my wholesale flowers. She’s the reason my shop is named Charlotte’s Flowers. And as strange as it sounds, I tried to match the space to my mom’s smile. Bright, open, welcoming, hopeful. I barely got the chance to know her, and yet I ache for her often. To know what she’d think of the wooden buckets filled with long-stemmed flowers lining the perimeter of the shop. Would she like the light wide-plank flooring? I think she would love the giant old farm table in the back center of the room I found for a steal at a flea market.