Ivy sighs dreamily.‘And how was your date with him?’
My throat tightens, I say, “Perfect. He was perfect.”
I catch my reflection in the kitchen window.
“I was perfect, too…”
I skip to the calendar and cross Friendsgiving off the list with a flourish, using two different color markers.
“Greenies, I don’t think I’m going back next year,” I say, but don’t turn around, afraid of the judgment in the shine of their leaves.
‘Did they ignore you again?’Fern asks.
“Worse.” I turn to face the plants. “They mocked me.”
‘Did Rhys kill them?’Basil asks.
As much as he’s a grump, I need to feel his pot and smell his sweet aroma to calm down. I gave Cami away and can’t add her leaves to my tea to relax.
“No, Basil.” I rub one of his leaves, softer this time. “But he would if I asked him.”
‘A morally gray hero with a heart of gold for his girl,’Ivy keens.
“Are you spying on my romance novels over there?” I put Basil on the desk and open my laptop.
From Amazon, I order more planting pots, but these will be glazed in the festive green, white, and red pattern.
“It’s that time of year again,” I warn the plants, spinning back to face them. “We’ll have to make room for new friends from the garden for the Bryant Park Holiday Market.”
Ivy sighs, her vines curling inward.‘I miss Sage.’
“I know.” I press a finger to her crisp, glossy leaves, a bit dry, but still rich with sheen. She’s stubbornly holding on to her summer coating. “We’ll keep one for us this time.”
Chapter 25
Rhys
Istep into Trace’s luxury flat in the Lancaster building to show my face for Sunday brunch the day after Friendsgiving. I’m halfway through a poppy-seed bagel that could make a grown man cry when Mum sidles up next to me.
“So,” she says in her thick accent, “who’s the lass?”
The table stills, but my eyes swivel to my brother, trying to hide unsuccessfully behind a mimosa.
“Thanks, Trace,” I grumble.
His wife Shea-Lynne visibly kicks her husband under the table. “Are you kidding me?”
“Ouch,” Trace shrieks from real pain.
Shea-Lynne, an O’Rourke from Astoria, is as delicately poised as she is lethal in an ivory cashmere wrap. “Our Rhys hasa girlfriend,and you don’t tell me?”
Like her youngest brothers, Cormac and Darragh, she doesn’t speak with an accent.
I swallow too fast and nearly choke. “Hang on.”
“Her name is Fallon,” Trace reports. “She’s his neighbor.”
My father leans back, grinning. “Leave the lad be. If he wants to talk about his girlfriend, he will.”
