“I am,” she confirmed. “And it will be a surprise.”
I let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “For whom?”
“For the men,” she said simply.
That landed with weight.
“They know planning is happening,” she continued. “They don’t know how. Or where. Or together.”
“That’s …” I searched for the word. “Ambitious.”
Portia inclined her head. “Necessary.”
I didn’t argue, though a dozen questions crowded my mind. Instead, I did what I always did when faced with something enormous.
I focused on the details.
“And the flowers,” I said, gesturing to the tablet. “You still want them flown in. Like we talked about.”
“Yes. From Charleston.”
“From my family’s farm,” I clarified.
“From Wadmalaw,” she agreed. “Your parents grow what we need. As we discussed, the quantities will be substantial. Are you still sure you can accommodate?”
“Yes.”
She moved through the detailed logistics with precision—timelines, climate considerations, preservation strategies. Not sterile. Organic. Untamed. Florals that looked like they belonged to the land instead of imposed on it.
As she spoke, something tugged at the back of my mind.
Montana.
Ranch land.
Men who valued privacy, control, loyalty.
And Micah.
I had questions, but I kept them to myself.
“This place,” I said slowly, pointing to the image of the ranch. “It matters to them.”
“Yes,” Portia said. “It does.”
The way she said it made my skin prickle.
“Did they grow up there?” I asked carefully.
She paused. Just a fraction of a second.
“Yes,” she said.
That was all.
No elaboration. No names. No invitations to connect dots.
Message received.
