The ample front yard made my imagination run wild with gardening possibilities. I pictured Mom and me getting our hands dirty. Working the land with her was my favorite thing to do apart from dancing on my silks and listening to people’s problems. She was an avid gardener who taught me everything I knew. Her specialty was herbs and veggies.
Mine was flowers.
From the time I was a little girl, I had a connection with flowers. I loved digging my fingers in the dirt, carving little holes to drop seeds into, watching them grow. I used to go to our garden every morning, eager to find the seedlings poking shyly through the soil, ready to meet the sun. I’d practically lived in the greenhouse, spending countless hours listening to the flowers, blooming with them. So much beauty and potential waiting to burst open and grace us with their presence.
When I was seven, I became obsessed with the meaning of flowers. Every time something would happen in my life, I’d find a flower that symbolized my state of mind. Then, I’d learn to grow it and help it flourish. Sometimes I’d give them to people, secretly letting them know how I felt about them or about something they’d done. Growing up, everyone had found my penchant for gifting flowers cute, but, to me, it was my second language, one I’d sometimes enjoyed using more than actual words. Over the years, I’d found myself wondering if it was unhealthy to hide behind my flowers instead of using words to express my deepest, scariest feelings, but, frankly, I didn’t care. My wall of flowers made me feel safe and protected.
Three years ago, my flowers wilted with me, signifying the disintegration my soul, psyche, and body were forced to endure. Gardening had been gone from my life for two whole years. When I’d started again, I focused on herbs instead of flowers. Never flowers. Until a week ago. Being back in my childhood greenhouse, nurturing roses, tulips, and ranunculus, fed my spirit, bringing back the good things from that time, before everything had changed. I was taking back what was mine, one petal at a time.
Healing. Rebirth. Daffodils.
Stone steps led to the front door, the porch made of solid wood resembling a drawbridge from a medieval castle. It led to a glorious set of arched double doors that reminded me of the elves from my favorite books. Enthusiasm shot into my veins. This place held promise, and we’d yet to explore it beyond the entryway. The elven doors led to a foyer with two sitting areas and a grand staircase.
“A grand staircase? What’s this, a castle?” Fiona's eyes widened in awe.
“Close,” Carlos interjected, coming from what looked like a formal dining room. “It was designed by a wealthy film producer as a vacation home. A home away from Los Angeles.”
“Expensive taste,” Fiona said.
“Why is he selling it?” I asked, surveying the exquisite workmanship of the massive foyer.
“He died.”
“Oh?” Fiona’s ears perked up, waiting for a dramatic story.
“Damn.” I decided to stop asking about what happened to the man and hoped he hadn't died in the house.
“Don’t worry, no one has died in this house,” Carlos assured us as if reading my thoughts. “His daughter had autism and loved fantasy, faeries, magical creatures, that sort of thing. So, he built her a magical world just for her.”
His daughter had autism? Did she die too? Where was she now? I opened my mouth to ask when a deep, smooth voice came from the front of the house.
“You don't say.” The voice boomed in my ears. I spun to find Lorenzo leaning against the front door, making its beauty increase tenfold. I gawked at him wide-eyed, as my jaw went slack, shocked to see the man who had been in my dreams since New Year’s Eve standing in front of me at an open house two hundred miles away from San Francisco.
What were the chances?
When our eyes locked, a thrill ran down my spine. He stared at me with narrowed eyes. After a few seconds, one side of his mouth curled into a smirk. I held onto the railing of the grand staircase with both hands, my knees wobbly, and my hands clammy.
The man looked delicious, donning dark-wash jeans, an olive-green puffer jacket, and brown winter boots with faux-fur trim. His hair was tucked under a gray knitted hat, and he was wearing black-rimmed glasses that amplified his hotness and my desire to trail my fingers along his strong, stubbled jaw.
He kept staring at me, making my heart thump in my chest. His expression was unreadable, which added to my nerves. I wanted to know if he was happy to see me or annoyed because he remembered my disappearing act the night we met. Shame washed over me, and I turned to look at Fiona for comfort, but she stood there with her chin on the floor. She gawked at me, her bright green eyes displaying the same shock echoing inside my chest. An open house in Tahoe was the last place we ever expected to bump into him.
“Enzo! Good to see you, my brother!” Carlos walked up to him, going in for a hug that “Enzo” returned like they were best friends. Though he never stopped gazing at me.
C turned to face us. “Ladies, let me introduce you to Lorenzo Simonetti.”
“Simonetti?” Fiona sputtered, unable to hide her astonishment. “Do you have anything to do with the Simonetti Ski Resorts?”
“I do,” Lorenzo said, walking up and extending a hand to my baby sister. She shook it, his charms making her giggle and blush. The stab of jealousy in my gut took me by surprise. I didn't know what I hated most, my sister falling under his spell, or the fact that I was jealous.
Lorenzo stepped in front of me with fire in his gaze. “Hello, my name is Lorenzo, un piacere.” Italian. It means pleasure to meet you. I panicked a little at hearing the foreign words but pushed the feeling down.
He extended his large, masculine hand in my direction. It was rugged, the calluses telling me he did some kind of manual labor. I stared at it but didn’t reciprocate. Why was he introducing himself? Did he not realize I was the woman he’d met only a week ago?
He knew who I was but chose to be an ass, which I should’ve hated, but didn’t. Instead, my heart was dancing in my chest, my hand itching to grab his and never let go. But I wouldn’t tell him that. I feigned indifference as I returned his greeting. The sparks flying from our touch could be seen across the mountains. His eyes were sizing me up, so I matched his stare, letting him know he didn’t intimidate me, even though he terrified me. His touch brought back memories, and I tried to push them away, but they refused to leave. Panic surged through me, and I pulled my hand away as I kept staring at my sister, desperate for moral support. She gave me a subtle nod and a smile, encouraging me to be strong and allow myself to live again. I cleared my throat and gathered my courage, looking up at Lorenzo and giving him the most confident smile I could muster. He grinned slightly and raised an eyebrow, his eyes never leaving mine. “You can call me Enzo.”
Enzo, Enzo, Enzo.
The gruffness of his voice and his penetrating gaze turned me into liquid. I found myself unable to look away or speak. The magnetism emanating from him was so powerful, it ignited every atom in my body. I wanted more but also didn’t, my gut telling me it was best to tread with caution when it came to this man. Lorenzo had the potential of quickly becoming the best thing to ever happen to me. Or the worst.
“What’s your name?” His blue eyes searched my face.
I glared at him, my liquid state shifting to ice. “You already know my name.” I didn’t try to mask my annoyance. “Why would you introduce yourself as if we’ve never met before?”