And though I was a shameless flirt, it never went anywhere with Tess. But somewhere along the way, something changed. I always chalked it up to the loss of her mom since the events happened within a few weeks of each other. After that, Tess locked it down like Fort Knox, complete with an armored guard and automatic weapons.
Didn’t stop me from trying though my efforts seemed to piss her off even more.
Mostly, I exercised my impulses on Ivy, who in turn exercised hers on me. We were never a thing, not really. Friends, sure. Hookups? Absolutely. But never anything more. I hadn’t seen her in five years.
Tess either, and my, what a pleasant surprise that had turned out to be.
I’d always been averse to the word no—respectfully, of course. With Tess, it was more of an itch I couldn’t stop scratching. I wanted her to like me. I wanted her to want me. I could count the people who didn’t like me on two hands, and Tess occupied the right hand, index finger.
And that was something I decided to rectify.
As the youngest of five, I’d learned early how to get my way, a skill that proven useful in life and lust. Not so much in love. In that department, I’d failed miserably.
Sadly, I seemed to be the only one who was surprised.
I pushed open the door, chiming the bell to mark our exit from the store, and around the sidewalk we went, to the grand stoop next to the shop that marked the Bennet family home.
The Longbourne Flower Shop had been a staple of Greenwich Village since the nineteenth century when my industrious British ancestors purchased a handful of buildings and made it their home and business. Greenhouses were built on the roof and spanned the backyards of all five properties—the shop, our home, and three tenant buildings which had been sold in the 90s to fund Longbourne’s expansion. It was our claim to fame, our draw. We were the largest greenhouse in Manhattan, and that we provided our own flowers rather than the Chelsea market or Long Island made us famous. Once, at least.
Home was a modest word for the building we occupied. Nearly five thousand square feet of Victorian brownstone stood proudly on Bleeker, our home passed down through five generations and grandfathered in by New York’s generous laws and codes. Six bedrooms, two parlors, servants’ quarters, a library. And as we passed through the grand doorway, the house seemed to be untouched by time, just like the flower shop. Although, rather than roller skates and skateboards and backpacks like when we had been kids, the entryway was littered with a jumbled pile of shoes, gym bags and purses, coats and scarves in the dead heat of July.
Laughter and chatter floated through the walls and doorways, the chaos of the house as familiar as Mom’s arms around me and the scent of the flower shop.
I’d always hated the quiet. Wendy hated that I couldn’t sit in silence. There was always music going, no matter the time of day or what I was doing. Even when I slept, I slept with white noise. It used to drive her crazy.
Then again, everything drove Wendy crazy.
It was just that the Bennet home was never quiet, nor was it clean despite a crew of three women who came weekly to try to manage the mess. Really, it consisted of them moving piles of things from one place to another in an effort to clean around them.
Mom and I headed into the dining room, which brimmed with raven-haired Bennets.
Our mother had an odd—and for some of the Bennet brood, inconvenient—taste for Roman names. The eldest was Julius, who went strictly by Jett. Calling him Julius would result in one of several reactions—a black eye, a popped nose, or a fat lip. Once, I’d earned all three along with an atomic wedgie. His twin sister was younger by three minutes. Elaine—Laney, which was our grandmother’s name—was as irreverent as she was headstrong and opinionated, a Bennet gene that streaked strong and loud. And then there was Marcus, who lounged at one end of the table in his suit with a newspaper in hand like some relic from the past—no one other than Dad read newspapers anymore. But there he sat with his nose in the crease like the dork he always was. At his side stood Kassius, my twin by Irish standards. Kash and I had been born eleven months apart and shared a room until I left for LA.
By all accounts, he was my best friend on the planet.
At the other end of the table sat our father, and though his expression was closed, his eyes shone bright and brilliantly blue—another Bennet trademark. As was typical, his shirt was smudged with greenhouse dirt, the beds of his nails always packed with soil, no matter how well he’d washed them. His hair was the color of freshly fallen snow, and his lips quirked at the corner like they held back some secret they’d never let go of.
Their faces turned to us, coupled with a bawdy burst of noise, and before I could say hello, they were out of their seats and swarming me.
Jett hooked me around the neck and pulled me, twisting me into an awkward hold. “Hey, little brother. Had enough tofu and bikinis?”
“Never,” I said, twisting out of his grip.
Laney flung herself at me, wrapping her slender arms around my chest. “I love that he calls you little when you’re taller than all of them.”
I wrapped her up in a hug, laughing. “He’s just jealous. It’s hard being this beautiful.”
Marcus wore a sideways smile as easily as his Italian suit, offering a hand for a shake. God forbid his shirt get wrinkled. “Good to see you, kid.”
I rolled my eyes, keeping Laney in my grip with one arm when I took his hand. “You’re two years older than me.”
“That’s dog years in maturity.”
Before he could argue, Kash busted into the mix like a puppy, making a sandwich out of Laney, who squealed between us like a giggling piglet. Kash laughed into my ear, clapping my back.
“Missed you, man.”
“You missed me being your wingman,” I corrected.
“Please—if anybody was the wingman, it was me,” he said with a smirk, shoving me in the shoulder when he let me go.
Dad nodded, his sideways smile firmly in place and his hands in the pockets of his scuffed-up pants.
“Look, Mr. Bennet,” Mom said proudly. “He’s here! California’s too far. Always said it was, didn’t I?”
“Glad you’re home, son. Hopefully the lack of miles between you and your mother will serve you as well as it will her.”
“Oh, you,” she huffed playfully, swatting at his chest. “It’ll suit him just fine. It’ll suit all of them, won’t it?”
We offered our agreement to appease her, as we always did. Truth was, four out of five grown Bennet kids moving home had been born out of necessity rather than desire. Though not our own necessity—that of our mother’s.
It was the only way we were going to save the flower shop, and it would take all of us to do it.
“Come sit down, Lukie,” Laney said, pulling me toward the table. “How was your flight?”
“Long, but the flight attendant had a crush on me.”
Marcus rolled his eyes as he sat. “You think everybody has a crush on you.”
“Well, with bone structure like this, who wouldn’t?” I asked with a shrug. “Besides, I’m never turning down free drinks.”
“You are girl crazy, Lucas Bennet,” Mom said with a tsk and a smile.
“I can’t help it. I got all your charm and good looks. I was doomed from the start.” I jerked my chin at Laney, who sat next to me. “When’d you get in?”