Page 85 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

PLANT CUSTODY IS REAL

Felicity

The entire Lockhart family—plus a few hundred of their closest friends, ranch employees, and most of the town—showed up for Sadie and Dawson’s wedding. Every inch of the barn was decked out in wildflowers and sentimental Pinterest dazzle, hand-lettered signs, mason jars full of fairy lights, custom cocktails with punny names. The ceremony itself happened under a driftwood arbor draped in climbing roses, with the Pacific as a dramatic, cinematic backdrop.

There were tears and laughter and a five-piece band that played “Harvest Moon” as Sadie, stunning in a simple ivory dress, made her way up the aisle on her grandfather’s arm. I’d never seen Dawson look so undone, pink-eyed and glassy, mouthing “I love you” at every pause. It was sweet seeing the romantic side of the moody eldest Lockhart.

Despite my best efforts, I cried like a sap. The entire day was the best, brightest, sharpest kind of ache. I spent it on the periphery, watching Dean from a safe distance, my heart and my head locked in a stubborn stalemate. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to walk over, fall into his arms, and tell him the truth. That I’d made a mistake. That I’d give anything to be a real part of this family, not just a guest, not an employee.

Instead, I did my job, making sure everything ran smoothly, and let the sight of the Lockhart brothers doing a coordinated line dance with Tabby and Blake for Blake’s TikTok break my heart into bite-sized pieces.

The longer I observed them, the more it became crystal clear to me that what I wanted wasn’t just a relationship, or even a happily-ever-after with Dean. I wanted the whole Lockhart package. I wanted a big family, in all its messy, overbearing, unconditional glory. I wanted the chaos and the traditions and the arguments. I wanted to belong so badly it made my chest hurt.

But I also knew I was on the outside. I made my choice, and no amount of wishing or romantic scenery would change that. My last day at the ranch was a countdown, a ticking clock. At midnight, the carriage would turn back into a pumpkin, and I’d be gone before they served the leftover cake.

Needing to clear my head, I slipped outside into the shadowed edge of the barn. The music thumped and the night air was thick with the scent of hay and party goers and something bittersweet. I tried to pull myself together, but the knowledge that this was the last day I’d be here, that I was leaving behind all of this, kept splintering my resolve.

I was supposed to be coordinating the wedding. Instead, I found myself hiding, right between the fire extinguisher and a stack of folding chairs, waging a private war against a full-blown panic attack. I was in the middle of counting backwards from a hundred when a voice snapped me out of it.

“Is this the introvert holding pen?” Mikayla Parsons, who worked with Deacon St. Claire, Selma’s oldest son who she’d given up for adoption, sidled up next to me, balancing two flutes of prosecco and a small plate precariously loaded with those tiny fried cheese balls I’d insisted Selma add to the menu. “Or are you just hiding from small talk?”

“Maybe a little of both?” I admitted.

She laughed, a bright, clear sound that made me want to be her friend more than I already did.

Mikayla was the kind of woman who could walk into any room and instantly become the focal point, not because she was loud or pushy, but because she radiated a rare beauty and unflappable confidence. She looked like Lauren London so much, that I actually thought it was Lauren when I met her at the Cowboys and Campfires event.

“Well, sorry to crash your hiding spot, but I’ve been needing to talk to you about a possible wedding next summer.”

“Oh, you’re getting married?”

“No.” Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “No, not me, my cousin. She’s more like a sister-slash-best-friend. She’s been trying to find the perfect venue, and I think this might be it.”

We spent a few minutes running through all the available options for her cousin’s wedding. Mikayla peppered me with questions, scribbling notes on her phone between bites of cheese ball. Still, even with my best attempts at distraction, I couldn’t quite mask my mood.

I barely had time to finish running Mikayla through the ranch’s wedding package upgrades, sunset Hayride, drone photography, themed dessert bar, when her phone started vibrating off the plate she’d set it on. It lit up the shadows of our little barn sanctuary with an epileptic strobe of notifications. Mikayla’s eyes darted to it, then away, and she turned the screen face-down.

“You can grab that if you need to,” I said, nodding at the phone.

“No. It’s my ex.” She made a face. “I found out yesterday that he was cheating on me. Not for a month or two, it was the entirety of our relationship.” She took a deep breath and exhaled. I could tell she hadn’t meant to make that admission, it had just sort of come out. “Isn’t it amazing how some men can turn lying into a competitive sport? The dedication. The endurance. The truly breathtaking commitment to bullshit.” Her phone started buzzing again. “It’s barely been twenty four hours and he’s texting me like nothing happened. Asking dumbass questions like, ‘when can I come get my plants?’ Sir, I want you to step on a rake.”

“Plant custody is real,” I said sincerely.

She grinned. “Honestly, it’s not even like I thought he was the one. I’m not going to miss him. I think I’m just tired of the dating scene and don’t want to be single again. I don’t know how anyone does it anymore. Every time I scroll through Hinge, it’s just—” She gestured skyward, searching for words. “A wasteland of unemployed, entrepreneurs who list ‘height’ as a personality trait.”

I’d never tried a dating app. I’d sworn off men before Dean, and now I was back on penis-ban, so I had no idea what it was like in the wild west of Tinder, Bumble, and Hinge.

“Is it really that bad?” I asked.

“It’s worse,” she said. “All there are are players, liars, and cheats.”

“Hello, beautiful ladies.” Damon approached, and I noticed Mikayla suck in a short breath when she looked over at him. It was barely noticeable. If I hadn’t been staring directly at her, I would’ve missed it.

Damon’s gaze landed on Mikayla and lingered for a beat before that easy smile of his appeared. “What are you two over here talking about? And should I be worried that my ears are burning?”

“Are you a player, liar, and/or cheat?” Mikayla asked pointedly, crossing her arms.

Damon glanced at me, then back at her, looking far more intrigued than offended. “That depends on your definition?”