Charleston.
The text came through thirty seconds later. A GPS pin drop. A private airfield outside Riga. Departure as soon as I got there.
I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode.
My beer sat on the counter, forgotten and warming.
I'd just become a domino in someone else's game.
And I had no idea who was holding the board.
3
JOY
By the time I locked up at McKinley Flowers, the sky had softened into that late-evening blue Charleston does so well—like the day wasn’t ending, just loosening its grip.
I could have walked the two blocks to my condo. Usually did. It was small but sweet, above a bakery that smelled like sugar and butter in the mornings, close enough to work that I never worried about traffic or parking or being late. Practical. Easy.
But tonight, my hands were buzzing, my chest light with a feeling that refused to stay contained.
So, I pointed my car toward Wadmalaw Island instead.
The drive always worked something loose inside me. Downtown melted into marsh and quiet roads, the air shifting as soon as I rolled down the windows. Salt and grass and warm Earth replaced perfume and exhaust. Spanish moss draped low over live oaks like the land itself was exhaling.
I laughed out loud once, alone in the car, because I couldn’t help it.
Portia Dane wanted our flowers.
Not just any flowers—flowers grown in this soil, under this sun, cut by these hands. Flowers that would be flown across the country and arranged at a wedding that mattered to people who mattered.
It felt ridiculous to be this giddy about it, like I’d been asked to wave from a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade or march in the Rose Bowl with a sash across my chest that readCharleston. I wasn’t the kind of person who craved attention, but this wasn’t about that.
It was about doing it right.
About representing home.
About making sure that when someone walked into that Montana space—wherever it was—they felt a little of what it meant to grow things slowly and carefully in a place that loved beauty as much as it loved tradition.
I turned down the gravel drive just as the sun dipped lower, the McKinley Family Farm spreading out in front of me like a familiar embrace. Rows of flowers caught the last of the light—zinnias in hot pinks and oranges, creamy lisianthus nodding gently, sunflowers already closing their faces for the night. Dahlias stood tall and proud, dark leaves glossy, blooms dramatic without being fussy.
The house sat back from the fields, white and a little crooked, with a wide porch and rocking chairs that had seen better paint jobs. Light spilled from the kitchen windows, warm and golden.
Home.
Before I could even turn off the engine, Sunny came barreling toward me, barking like I’d been gone for months. He was part mutt, part something big and shaggy, all heart. His tail wagged so hard his whole body swayed.
“Hey, boy,” I said, laughing as I opened the door. He jumped up, paws muddy, nose cool against my hands. “I missed you, too.”
“Joy?” Momma’s voice floated out from the porch. “Is that you?”
“In the flesh,” I called back, shutting the car door as Mason and Bo burst out of the house like they’d been waiting for a starting gun.
“Joy’s home!” Bo yelled, skidding to a stop just short of colliding with Sunny.
Mason, taller now—when had that happened?—gave me a lopsided grin. “You eat yet?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But I have news.”
