“Congrats,” I tell him.
I’m happy for all of my siblings. They’ve all found people to love. To spend their lives with. And they all chose well.
“That’s a whole lot of hormones in the family at one time,” Blake says with a cringe. “Alot.”
“At least they’re a little staggered,” Bridger says. “Hey, where’s Connor?”
“Ireland,” Blake says. “Until Saturday.”
We all glance over at Billie, who’s sitting with her feet up and snuggling Birdie. And all of us brothers are wondering the same thing: Does that mean she’s not sleeping well?
Billie’s always been a night owl, but it’s more than that. She doesn’t sleep much at all. Or, she didn’t, until Connor.
And I don’t even want to think about what happens in their bed. I’m the oldest, and Billie is my baby sister.
Nope, not thinking about it.
Two hours later, I swing through the plant nursery on the way home. They’re a few minutes from closing, and Mr. Dugan, the owner, meets me by the hanging baskets.
“Summer’s almost over,” he says as he props his hands on his hips.
I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing here.
“Yeah, I know. Any of these hardy enough to make it through fall? I want to add some color to my porch.”
He nods and points out one with orange and yellow blooms. “Mums should last you into October, especially on a porch or something like that.”
“I’ll take three of those,” I say with a nod, and stow them in the back of my truck before heading home.
Rather than pull into my driveway, I stop in across the street at the big house. First, I have to walk over to my garage and find some hooks and a drill. Then I cross back over, climb the steps of the porch, and install three hooks above the railing, eyeballing the spacing. Returning to the truck bed, I pull out all three baskets, then hang them on the hooks.
Stepping off the porch, I back away to examine my handiwork. They seem to be pretty evenly spaced, and the yellow and orange look nice with the red door.
She wanted flowers.
She got fucking flowers.
I drive right across into my own driveway and cut the engine. Then, with anger simmering in my veins, I walk inside.
What the fuck am I doing?
She’s not my problem. If she wants flowers, she can buy herself fucking flowers. They don’t need to hang on a house I’m trying to fix up so I can sell.
But dammit, ever since I heard her say it this morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It’s as if I’m on autopilot, and whatever Juliet wants, she gets. Like my brain hasn’t read thewe don’t give a shit about Julietmemo.
And it’s pissing me the fuck off.
First, the steps, and now goddamn flowers.
What’s next?
Shaking my head, I head to my bathroom to shower. I don’t want to do things that I think will make her happy. I don’t want to feel bad for her, or help her, orcareabout her.
Fuck, I don’t trust her.
But dammit.Dammit.
Her eyes are still so fucking kind, and she looked so lost when she hurt her leg.
