The kid nodded, relieved, and turned back toward the van. He was halfway to the driver’s side door when Grant suddenly pushed off the beam.
“Wait,” Grant barked.
The kid froze. Naomi straightened up, her eyes narrowing. “Grant, what are you doing?”
Grant didn’t answer her. He stepped past the florist, his boots heavy on the gravel, and reached for the sliding side door of the van. He hauled it open with a metallic shriek.
The young man looked startled, dropping his clipboard. Inside, there was nothing but the cool air of a florist’s van and three other arrangements—a basket of daisies and a small spray of carnations—waiting for their own stops in town. No trackers, no bugs, no messages from the Varga cartel. Just flowers.
Grant stared at the empty space for a long second.
Naomi looked at him, her expression a mix of pity and pure exasperation. “Really, Grant? You’re searching the flower van now?”
Grant slammed the van door shut, the metallic bang echoing through the rafters and startling a yearling in the nearest stall. He stood there, his hands fisted, staring at the dust kicked up by the departing florist.
He turned back into the barn, his boots crunching over the fresh shavings.
Naomi didn’t look up from the grain cart. She just kept moving, her rhythm steady and unimpressed.
“You’re a mess, Scott,” she said, her voice flat.
“I’m being thorough,” Grant snapped, leaning his shoulder against a support beam. “Vance Varga is in this valley. We don’t know how they’re moving information. A flower delivery is the oldest trick in the book.”
Naomi stopped. She set the grain scoop down and finally looked at him, her eyes hard and knowing.
“It wasn’t a trick, Grant. It was two dozen peonies. And you didn’t open that van because you were looking for a wire. You opened it because you wanted to find a reason—any reason—to stop those flowers from getting to that porch.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve known you since you were ten years old,” Naomi shot back. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re acting like a stray dog whose bone got moved. You spent all of yesterday pushing her away, telling her to be ‘realistic’ and treating her like a liability. Well, congratulations. You got exactly what you asked for.”
She stepped closer.
“Cal Hollis isn’t afraid to look her in the eye and tell her she’s the best thing he’s seen all year. He isn’t afraid to send the flowers. And while you’re down here stomping around and playing ‘security guard,’ he’s up there winning. Not because he’sa better man, but because he’s actually brave enough to want her.”
Grant stared at her. The truth of it stung. He looked toward the house, imagining Izzy on the porch, her fingers tracing the petals of flowers he hadn’t thought to buy.
“She’s a target, Naomi,” he said quietly, the anger finally giving way to fear.
“She’s a woman, Grant,” Naomi corrected softly. “Try treating her like one before someone else makes the choice for you.”
* * *
Izzy was standing on the porch when the “Petals & Peak” van pulled up. She watched, confused, as a young man struggled out of the vehicle, carrying a cloud of coral-and-white peonies.
“Isabella Moreno?” the boy asked, a little winded as he reached the top step.
“Yes,” she said, her heart giving a small kick.
“These are for you. Mr. Hollis was very specific that I hand you this personally.” He handed her a small, thick envelope made of heavy cream cardstock.
Izzy took the flowers, the sheer weight of the crystal vase forcing her to brace it against her hip. As the delivery van pulled away, she pulled the card from the envelope.
I was a fool to let my pride get in the way. You’re the most captivating thing this mountain has ever seen.
Before she could even finish the sentence, the phone in her pocket vibrated. She shifted the vase to the porch table and pulled it out.
Cal Hollis:
