Page 40

“No. Thanks.”

As he walks out the door, I head into the third room to turn it into a makeshift studio. I set up canvases, paintbrushes, and thefew supplies I brought. I’ll figure out the oil paints later when I know the town better. For now, I need something to ground me.

I stare at the blank canvas in front of me. The stillness of the room is almost deafening. I wish I could paint now, but I don’t have all my supplies.

The sound of the sprinkler running outside breaks the silence, and I smile faintly, remembering the way Mia looked drenched, her shirt clinging to her skin. It’s not just that she’s beautiful. There’s something else about her, something I haven’t been able to figure out yet.

The stillness of the studio is starting to close in on me, and I can feel the weight of the day pressing on my shoulders, so I decide to go into the backyard for a little bit. I step outside, letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thud, and walk over to the side of the house where the garden stretches before me. The plants seem to be waiting for me, eager to be tended to, and I feel a pull in my chest.

I have a love-hate relationship with gardening, and the reason isn’t so far-fetched. As I grab the hose and water the beds of marigolds, petunias, and begonias, my mind takes me far away from here. It’s a faded memory, one that I try not to revisit too often, but it comes to me now, unbidden.

I remember my mother’s hands, delicate and graceful, as she pruned the flowers in the garden, her long fingers dancing around the petals like she was conducting some sort of magic. She always smelled like flowers—like roses, lavender, and the soft sweetness of jasmine. She had a way of making the garden feel alive, like it was an extension of her. My father had planted it for her, created this oasis in the backyard, and she tended to it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

I can almost hear the sound of her voice in my head, soft and soothing, as she hummed while working, her eyes focused on the delicate blooms. I can see her in the garden, wearing her sun hat, a soft smile playing on her lips as she carefully bends down to tend to the flowers.

But I also remember the way she left. It’s hard to reconcile the memory of her with the woman who walked away from us.

I shake the thought away, turning the nozzle of the hose to water a patch of roses just beginning to bloom. They’re delicate, fragile—almost like the memories I’m trying to push down.

I catch myself staring at the flowers for a moment longer than I should. The smell of the soil and the flowers fills the air, and I feel something like peace for a fleeting moment. Maybe I’ve been missing this—missing the simplicity of it all. The earth, the quiet moments, the feeling of doing something that matters.

Again, I realize that I only hate gardening because of my mother. Add that to the list of things Megan Hart ruined in my life.

The thought of Mia pops into my head, and the peaceful moment shatters like glass. I sigh, gripping the hose tightly as I water the roses.

Mia.

I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s gotten under my skin in a way I didn’t expect. Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t put up with my crap. Maybe it’s the way she’s always one step ahead of me, making me feel like I’m not as in control as I thought.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because she’s different. She’s not like the women I’ve been with before. She doesn’t care aboutthe fame or the glitz. She doesn’t care about the nonsense that comes with my world.

And that scares the heck out of me. Because maybe I do care. Maybe I want someone like her, someone who can see beyond all the nonsense and just… be real.

But I can’t go down that road. Not now. Not yet.

I shake my head, refocusing on the flowers in front of me. I’ve got a job to do, and it’s not about her.

As the last of the roses are watered, I let the hose fall to the ground with a sigh, taking in the sight of the garden once more. It’s coming together. Slowly, but it’s coming together.

I decide at that moment that this will be my little project. From now until I leave Bardstown, I’ll make sure this garden blossoms. For the first time, what I touch will turn to gold.

MIA

Aweek has passed, and I haven’t heard from Jack. Or, maybe it’s better to say I haven’t reached out to him. Either way, the silence stretches between us like an uncomfortable gap I’m not sure I’m ready to cross.

I tell myself I’m still busy compiling a list of names, trying to come up with the perfect match for him, but that’s not true. I’ve already compiled a list and sent it to Nova for confirmation. We’ve already had the girls sign an NDA, and all that’s left is for Jack to learn about it. Deep down, I know the real reason I haven’t gone to see him—haven’t checked in on him—is because I’m not ready to face him.

The weird reaction I had when he made me wear his shirt still haunts me. The way my heart sped up, the way I felt strangely exposed, and how I couldn’t get the image of him looking at me out of my head. I hated how his presence left me feeling unsettled, but I didn’t want to think about it. I had to push it aside. Jack Calloway isn’t the kind of guy who should make someone like me feel this way.

I’m way too aware of the type of man that he is. I should be smarter. He’s literally here because he slept with a married woman!

And it’s not like I totally brought him over to my town and ignored him. No. I see Brody around town a lot. He’s been getting acquainted with some of the locals, chatting with anyone who crosses his path, and I find myself liking him more and more. There’s something easygoing about Brody. He doesn’t make my heart speed up. He doesn’t make me lose my breath. It’s easy to talk to him without feeling like I’m about to get tongue-tied.

He’s nothing like Jack.

As news spreads around Bardstown that a celebrity is in town, people are excited. They want to know who Jack is, what he’s doing here, and why he’s staying in a small town like ours. I’ve made sure to let anyone who comes into my shop for flowers know that they should keep their mouths shut. No posting about him online, no gushing about the famous actor in town. I’ve told them all the same thing—Jack is here to lay low, so let’s treat him like everyone else. Don’t act like you know him. Don’t act like he’s anything special.

I’m doing this because I want to show him that no one here cares about who he is. The minute he steps off that high pedestal, the better for everyone. Bardstown isn’t Hollywood. He’s just another person here. He’s not special, not to us. At least, that’s how I want him to feel. But deep down, the part of me that’s honest with myself knows that I’m doing this mainly because I want to protect Jack’s privacy.