The genuine emotion in her tone made my deception feel even worse. I swallowed hard. “We’re honored to be considered for the job.”
She tugged the cardigan she wore a little tighter around her. “Come. Let me show you around.”
Mrs. Fairchild led us along brick pathways choked with weeds, her silver hair gleaming in the late morning sun. “Charles planted these dogwoods for our tenth anniversary.” She paused beside the flowering trees. “He said they reminded him of our wedding day—all that pink and white.”
Kellan’s thumb traced circles on my palm as we walked, sending shivers up my arm. “Maybe we should plant something to mark our engagement.” He winked at me. “What do you think, sweets?”
Why was he bringing up our engagement when Mrs. Fairchild had let it go? The point was to focus on the client’s needs, not ours.
“Oh, you must!” Mrs. Fairchild clasped her hands together. “Charles and I marked every milestone in these gardens. Each plant tells a piece of our story.”
We rounded the corner to a pergola draped in wisteria vines. The wooden structure had weathered to a soft silvery-gray, but the purple blooms still cascaded down in lush curtains, their sweet fragrance enveloping us. I’d always loved wisteria—it was one of the first plants Kellan and I had bonded over as children. Because we’d made our clubhouse in what amounted to a wisteria cave in the woods behind the houses where we’d grown up. I’d always appreciated how it could transform simple structures into something magical.
“This is where he proposed.” Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes misted. “Right here under these flowers.”
Kellan pulled me closer, his arm sliding around my waist. “How did he ask?”
I shot him a look, but he just smiled and pressed a kiss to my temple. The casual intimacy made my heart stutter. Awareness prickled along my skin like gooseflesh, and I could feel every inch of where his body pressed to mine.
Mrs. Fairchild’s chuckle drew my attention back to her. “He didn’t actually get the words out. He was so nervous, he dropped the ring in the mulch. We spent half an hour searching for it on our hands and knees in the dark.”
“And you still said yes?” I don’t know why I asked. Obviously, she had.
“Oh honey, I’d known he was the one since we were kids. Some people are just meant to be part of your story.”
Kellan’s fingers tightened on my hip, and I found myself leaning into him, seeking his warmth. The scent of his soap mixed with the sweet perfume of wisteria made my head spin. Or maybe it was the way he looked at me—soft and fond and so convincing I almost believed it myself.
There was a part of me that wanted to believe that the kind of love Mrs. Fairchild described actually existed in the world. For a moment, standing there in that garden full of love stories, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this wasn’t pretend. If his touches weren’t just for show. If we really were meant to be part of each other’s stories as more than mere friends.
The thought scared the shit out of me. Because, in my experience, nothing in romantic relationships came easy. I’d had crap examples from my parents growing up, and none of the boyfriends I’d had over the years had changed that expectation. I didn’t want my friendship with Kellan to get screwed up by having expectations of more. He was too important for that.
Pulling myself together, I made myself smile at the older woman. “Well, let’s talk about what we can do to bring your love story back to life.”
Seven
Kellan
The neon sign of the Huckleberry Saloon cast a turquoise glow across Tate’s face as we stepped inside the bar. Known as Doc Holliday’s or simply Doc’s to the locals, the place looked like something out of a wild west movie set, down to the swinging doors separating the entryway from the saloon proper. We shoved through them to find a band setting up in the corner beneath the watchful eyes of the Tombstone movie poster featuring Val Kilmer. On the exposed brick wall beside it, someone had painted a dialogue bubble and written I’m your huckleberry.
As it was Friday night, tables were already filling up. The scents of fried food and yeasty beer made my mouth water. There was a patty melt with my name on it that had featured in my dreams at least half as much as Tate herself during all those months in the desert.
“I see a high top in the corner,” Tate announced.
“You grab it. I’ll get the beers.”
She wove her way toward the table while I headed for the scarred wooden bar. The thing looked beat to shit, as if more than one drunk cowboy had slid along the length of it during a brawl. Not that such things were actually commonplace here. Last person to try was Tiny Martin, who’d taken exception to Joe Lomax stepping out with his girl—who had declared in less than clear terms she wasn’t interested in being only Tiny’s. All three of them had been banned for six months. In the end, I was pretty sure Tiny ended up missing the onion rings more than he’d missed Suellen.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” Pete wiped down the bar with a rag that had seen better days. “Welcome back, Fox.”
“Thanks, man. Two of whatever’s on draft that isn’t trying too hard to be fancy.”
He grabbed a couple of pint glasses and began to fill them with Shiner Bock. “Heard about you and Tate. About damn time, if you ask me.”
They’d even heard about our supposed engagement here? I’d underestimated how far and wide the news had spread. I wondered what Tate thought about the fact that no one else seemed surprised at the idea.
“Yeah, well, when you know, you know. Who’s playing tonight?”
“Sweet Tea Junction. They do that bluegrass-rock fusion thing. Pretty good, actually.” He slid the first glass across the bar. “Your girl likes to dance, as I recall.”
