Paris had wondered the same thing. “I asked her that yesterday. She doesn’t think that will happen. All it will mean is we don’t have to work seven days a week.”
“I wouldn’t want to be the person who tells our clients we can’t provide the flowers for their special occasions.”
“Neither would I.” Paris opened the last box of flowers. “At least Valentine’s Day won’t be affected.”
Jackie picked up a red rose and grinned. “Regardless of what Kylie does, Cupid will never stop creating happily ever afters in Sapphire Bay.”
“As long as he stays away from me, he can do whatever he wants.”
“For someone who loves Valentine’s Day, that doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“I prefer to watch everyone else enjoy the day.” Paris collected the paperwork from each box. “Can you hand me the list of orders we need to make?”
Jackie reached for the clipboard. “Just because you’ve had some horrible experiences with men, it doesn’t mean they’re all bad.”
“That’s what I used to tell myself, but it didn’t make any difference. I have some kind of defect that makes me date the wrong people. I’m much happier on my own.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Paris grinned. “You don’t have to. Can you pass me the box beside you? I need the lilies for a bouquet.”
“You can change the subject as often as you like but, one day, you’ll meet an amazing man who will sweep you off your feet.”
Picking up a knife, Paris cut through the tape holding the box together. The likelihood of that happening was a million to one. Especially when her superpower was pushing people away.
Chapter 2
Richard’s heart pounded as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his tiny home. He’d had another nightmare, the kind that left him drenched in sweat and lost somewhere between the streets of Kabul and a small town in rural Montana.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, he focused on the photo above him. Jack’s smiling face pulled him away from the horror of losing his leg. The screams of his friends, the panic after the landmine destroyed more than one life. The dawning realization that he might never come home.
“Dad?” Jack’s sleepy voice filled the space between the lofts.
“It’s okay. Go back to sleep, buddy.”
“Did you have a nightmare?”
Richard sat upright and pulled off his wet T-shirt. “I did, but I’m okay now.”
“Do you need anything?”
Tears stung his eyes. His son was eight years old. He shouldn’t have to babysit his dad and make sure he was okay after he broke down. “I’m all right. I’m sorry if I woke you.”
Jack yawned. “I don’t mind. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Positive. Goodnight, Jack.”
“’Night, Dad.”
He looked across the room. Jack’s night-light cast a pale-yellow shadow on the wall, reminding him they were safe.
He used to pray the nightmares would end, that they’d disappear into the black hole he’d crawled out of so many times. But nothing, including two years of intense counseling, had banished them completely.
He rubbed the scars on his right thigh. Sometimes, on nights like this, he’d lie awake for hours, thinking about the well-meaning phrases that dripped off people’s tongues. He knew he was lucky to be alive, lucky to have escaped the constant stress of not knowing if he’d ever see his parents and son again.
But knowing he was lucky meant nothing, when all he wanted to be was normal. He wanted to enjoy living with Jack and create furniture people were proud to own. It didn’t seem like a lot to ask, but after the last eight years, even getting out of bed in the morning was a struggle.
Taking another deep breath, he glanced at where Jack was sleeping and reached for his earbuds. Hopefully, the music would send him into a dreamless sleep. If not, he’d open his laptop, design another piece of furniture, and wait for the sun to rise.
