Her leaves are green and stems are strong. Healthy as hell—and not a single bud.
I lean over it, hands braced on the table and exhale the restlessness weighing on my mind. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Adjusted the soil, fed it premium fertilizer, and checked the pH balance more times than necessary. I’ve followed every guideline, every recommendation, every piece of advice passed down from my dad and every new method I’ve researched on my own.
Nothing.
“You’re killing me,” I mutter.
My hybrid rose is supposed to set Green with Envy apart from every landscaping business in the county. No one else carries chocolate roses within a four state radius. If I can just get the damn thing to cooperate.
I know better than to let my ego get in the way, but people still talk about the place like Dad’s still running the show. I’m grateful he entrusted the business to my siblings and me, but after Ace branched out with Merry & Bright outdoor lighting and Kinsey left, I’m the one opening the doors every morning and locking up at night. I’m the one hauling soil, managing orders, dealing with suppliers, keeping payroll straight.
I straighten and rub a hand over the back of my neck. I’m not chasing perfection. Just proof I deserve this place. That I’ll leave it better than I received it for the next generation.
I glance at the clock mounted above the door. I’ve got a potting party to teach. Not something that was on my radar, but marketing needs content, and content means events. Kinsey used to handle all of that without breaking a sweat. Social posts,promotions, event planning. She had a knack for making the shop feel welcoming without turning it into a circus. Now she’s working for the mayor’s office in Cranberry Corner, chasing her own dream. I get it. Hell, I respect it. I want the same thing for myself, here.
It’s why I hired a social media consultant to pick up the slack. Kari talks a lot about engagement, reach and branding. She insists classes are more important than the revenue they’ll generate. She designed them to connect with the community, here and everywhere the internet reaches. That’ll be key when I perfect my hybrid roses.
I straighten the pots and adjust the tools at each station. Teaching is outside my comfort zone, and communicating with women isn’t exactly my strong suit. I’ve never understood why they laugh so loud, talk over each other, and act giddy when they greet each other.
The greenhouse doors slide open and it’s just as I expected—loud, voices overlapping, and exaggerated laughter. Their excitement bounces off the walls, and I swear the noise alone will cause my rose bush to go into shock.
I glance toward the door and am gobsmacked when I seeher. She steps inside with the others, hair pulled away from her face, eyes sharp as they move through the space. She takes everything in with quick, assessing glances, like she’s looking for something specific.
Then her gaze shifts and locks with mine. Her lips curl into a devilish grin. A look that could upend my world if I’m not careful. My pulse quickens and an electric zinger snaps my attention fully into place. I’m not braced for the jolt that straightens my spine. An awareness so fast and precise it throws me off balance.
I clear my throat, reminding myself she’s a customer, here to learn with her girlfriends, and then go home with dirt under her nails and a rose bush for her husband or boyfriend.
But against my better judgment, I can’t stop staring at her.
She moves closer with the group, like she’s leading the pack with her energy. Her body language is relaxed, yet focused, not fading into the background. I catch pieces of conversation as they approach—joking, teasing, familiar.
“Welcome. I’m Greg?—”
She steps past the others and thrusts her hand forward. “I’m Darby. My friends call me Darbs.”
She stares at me unblinking as if she’s daring me to take note. I slide my palm over hers, and am instantly aware that noticing her isn’t an issue. But just being friends will be.
“Darby,” I repeat.
2
Darby
I stare at the gnarled, green and brown stubby branches. Its pointy red bits look more like claws than budding leaves. This is the ugly side of roses. The thorns that snag and tear at our skin if we’re not careful. They’re just as tricky as fancy dinners, floral bouquets, and trinket boxes that come with expectations.
I dig in the dirt like everyone else and keep my trap shut so I don’t embarrass anyone. But it’s boring. Like, yawn level of boredom. Our large-and-in-charge instructor is the only thing keeping me from curling up into a fetal position.
If potting parties and afternoon tea time is what happens after women get tethered to one man for the entirety of their lives, I’m out. No thank you. This isn’t what I signed up for.
“So, tell me, Greg. What’s so special about roses?” I poke at the soil lining the bottom of my pot.
Lola and Kari glance at each other before looking at me. Kari’s eyebrow shoots up, a warning.
“What?” I ask a little too sharply. “I can’t ask questions?”
I glance at Greg. His brows narrow the slightest bit.
“It’s genus, Rosa, part of the larger Rosaceae family,” he says. “That’s Latin for–”
