Jamie
Marceline and Bubblegum knew where they were going before I did. They pulled me down Main Street like tiny sled dogs, the January wind cutting through my jacket and reminding me that Colorado winters hit different here than in Denver. Colder up here, sharper. The kind of cold that found every gap between your clothes and your skin.
We made a quick pit stop at the small park across from the Copper Kettle, where I'd eaten breakfast three times this week. Prospect Ridge wasn't big, just four blocks of Main Street,a handful of residential neighborhoods at the base of a ski lodge, mountains in the distance like they were keeping watch. Everyone knew everyone.
That was going to be a problem.
A month in this town had taught me a few things. The Copper Kettle had better pastries than the chain near the highway. The coworking space above the old hardware store was the only place with reliable wifi. And this situation I'd found myself in—following my ex to his hometown for shared custody of two corgis—might actually work.
The florist's shop had been a discovery. I'd walked past it a dozen times without noticing, but this morning something pulled me to that building. Was it the urge to treat myself? Yeah, maybe I'd been a little down last night, simultaneously mourning the death of my love life by moving to this tiny town, feeling hurt that Landon ignored me when we ran into each other at the grocers, and oh yeah, my still bruised and tender heart.
Sending flowers had sounded like a great plan at the time.
Then there was the florist himself. I hadn't been prepared for that. For him.
Flower Guy was the tallest person I'd ever seen up close. Not just tall—towering, the kind of height that made the shop seem smaller, that made me aware of every inch I didn't have. Standing near him felt like being next to a building. My head had tilted back at an angle that should have been ridiculous just to meet his eyes, and something about that, the vulnerability of the position, or maybe the way he'd straightened when I stepped closer, had done something to my brain.
Dark hair cut short. Dark eyes that gave nothing away. Broad shoulders, long limbs. Hands that had caught my attention when he reached for the order form—large, careful, with a small scar on his left thumb I'd wanted to ask about. The muscles in hisforearms shifting under rolled-up flannel sleeves. He moved with a precision that seemed at odds with his size, like someone who'd learned to be gentle with the world because he knew he could break things.
Handsome wasn't the right word. Too simple. He was handsome the way old buildings were handsome, something you had to look at properly to appreciate, something most people probably walked right past. He had an old-fashioned kind of face, like those movie stars of old.
And I'd said “you're tall” like an idiot. Out loud. To his face.
What a fucking loser I was. Landon was right.
But he'd made a joke. A dry, deadpan thing that had surprised a laugh out of me, and for a second his face had shifted into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't quite not one either. His ears had gone red when I'd looked at him too long. I'd noticed that—the flush creeping up from his shirt, the way he'd looked away first.
Interesting. My gaydar was usually impeccable, and something told me that Flower Guy played for my team.
But the attraction was inconvenient. I was supposed to be focusing on myself, on rebuilding, on figuring out if Prospect Ridge could be home, and not just 'home for now.'
After the girls were done with their business, we crossed the street and I ducked into the Copper Kettle, dogs in tow. Mags behind the counter raised an eyebrow at me; she always did, like she was perpetually waiting for me to say something interesting. But today she waved me through when she saw I just wanted a to-go cup. The usual, which now meant a large coffee with extra cream and sugar because, alas, I couldn't get my beloved venti iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot and light ice within an hour's drive of this town.
“Cold one today,” she said as she poured. Mags was somewhere in her sixties, gray hair pulled back in a practicalbun, the kind of woman who'd seen everything twice and wasn't impressed by any of it.
“Getting used to it.” I took the coffee, wrapping my hands around the cup for warmth. “Slowly.”
“Denver boy.” She shook her head, but there was something almost fond in it. “You'll toughen up.”
Let's hope so.
The coworking space was up a narrow staircase, the sign on the door reading PROSPECT RIDGE CREATIVE in letters that were starting to peel. Inside, Brandy Branson was at her desk, surrounded by real estate listings and a mug that said BRANDY SELLS PROSPECT RIDGE! in aggressive pink lettering.
The large room was divided into four smaller areas, separated by tall movable walls, though right now only Brandy and I were renting space here.
“Jamie!” She looked up over her reading glasses—bright fushia today, matching her blazer. “You look flustered, hon. What happened?”
“Nothing.” I unclipped the dogs' leashes and let them find their spot under my desk. Marceline circled three times before flopping down; Bubblegum waited for her to settle, then curled up against her side. “Just stopped by the flower shop on Main. Hutchinson's?”
“Oh, you met Holden.” Her eyebrows rose. “How was that experience?”
Holden. The name fit him somehow. Solid, a little old-fashioned. I filed it away.
“Fine.” I dropped into my chair, pulling my laptop from my bag. “He's tall.”
Brandy laughed, warm and knowing. “That he is. What else?”
“He barely said ten words to me.” I took a sip of coffee. “Is he like that with everyone, or did I do something wrong?”
