“Sign. Me. The. Fuck. Up.”
I step to the side while Orion puts his name on Birdie’s list, scowling all the while. Even if his puppy-like enthusiasm is mildly amusing.
When he’s done, he whirls around to face me, a stupid grin on his face. “You want one too? Any of the lovely ladies catch your eye?”
“Nah, man. I’m out.”
“You’re leaving?” he asks in disbelief.
“I think we both know this isn’t my scene.” I level him with a glare. “Next time you want to chill, let’s actually chill. Being your third wheel at the strip club damn sure isn’t my idea of a good time.”
“Sorry, man.” He has the decency to look remorseful. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? Mom’s been asking.”
I hesitate before nodding, torn between knowing Stella will be there and also knowing Mrs. C will be too.
Deep down, I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. Hell, she wasn’t even talking to me, much less about. But words have power, and hers hit me just right.
“Yeah, man. I’ll be there.”
Chapter Eight
Samson
I’ve slept like shit since coming home—since I left, if I’m being honest—and last night was no different.
If I’m not up all night beating myself up over all the things I could have done differently, then I’m reminiscing about the past, like the sad sap I am.
But this morning, as the clock slowly ticked forward, an epiphany hit me.
Stella isn’t just going to let me slide back into her good graces. She’s stubborn as hell and is absolutely going to make me work for every inch of ground I gain.
Which is why I’m making a small detour on my way to dinner. I may not remember too much about my birth parents, but I can vividly recall my dad coming home with flowers for my mom every single payday. She would smile and fuss and carry on like he’d given her something precious.
I guess, in a way, he had. Not in the flowers themselves, but in his intention.
Things between Stella and me are murky… my intentions aren’t clear. But that’s something I intend to change. She’s going to know exactly how serious I am about fixing this goddamn rift I’ve created, one way or another.
Unfortunately, I’ve messed things up so badly, I know a pretty bouquet isn’t going to cut it—but it sure as hell won’t hurt either.
“Welcome to Sweet Peony!” a deep voice calls from somewhere in the shop. “Over here—how can I help you?”
I round the corner to find a man with long dreads arranging a bouquet over a table in the back of the building.
“I need flowers,” I say lamely.
He grins. “You’re in the right place. Occasion?”
That’s a loaded question if there ever was one. “You got anything that says I know I ruined everything and you hate me, but I still love you and have no plans on giving up?”
His grin morphs into an all-out blinding smile. “Tricky, but doable.”
“Really?”
He nods. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that anything is possible if you just believe?”
“I’m glad one of us is feeling optimistic.”
“Do you know her favorite blooms?”
I chuckle. “She actually loves flowers. She has a garden that she tends to damn near obsessively.”
“Oh.” He hums under his breath. “That changes things. I’m Zach, by the way.”
“Samson.” I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too. Now, what’s your budget here?”
I swallow hard. “Budget?”
“Good flowers aren’t cheap.” Zach raises his brows. “And your girl sounds like she’ll know—and appreciate—the difference.”
Mentally, I tally my checking account balance, and then spit out a number. Judging by the awestruck look on Zach’s face, it’s a good one.
“You must really love her.”
I nod. “I do. Oh, and hey! Could you make a small version for her mother?”
“Smart move, my man. Smart move.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the Cartwrights’, hovering on the front porch, wondering if I should knock or just walk in.
Nine months ago, I wouldn’t have questioned this—I’d have just walked on in and made myself at home. Because for most of my childhood, this house was my home; or at least more of a home than the Scotts’ ever was.
“Fuck it,” I mutter as I turn the knob.
The second I step inside, the scent of Mrs. C’s cooking tickles my nose. The woman may be a teacher by trade, but she could easily put most of the local diners to shame with her food.
“Orion,” she calls from the kitchen, “is that you?”
“No, ma’am.” I enter the room.
“Samson Carter!” She shucks off her oven mitts, races around the island, but I stop her before she can hug me, pulling one of the bouquets out from behind my back. “You little charmer! When did you get back?”
“A few days ago.”
She grabs a vase from below the sink and fills it with water. “Thank you, these are lovely.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Have you seen Orion already? Oh, Stella’s going to be so happy. She’s been in a funk ever since you left.”
I swallow roughly at the mention of Stella. If only Mrs. C knew the real reason for her daughter’s sadness.
“I’m looking forward to seeing her.”
She spots the second bouquet. “Are those for her?”
I nod.
“She’s in her room. Why don’t you go up and take them to her?”
“Okay.” An anxious shiver works its way through me.
“Don’t take too long—dinner is almost ready.”
As I climb the stairs, I only have one thing on my mind—getting Stella to forgive me. Or at the very least, to make her consider forgiving me. Baby steps and what-not.
I rap my knuckles against her bedroom door and wait.
“Come in.”
I push the door open and lean my shoulder against the frame. “Luna.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” She whips around to face me, her lips curled in an angry snarl. “Why are you here?”
“To give you these.” I start to pull the flowers from behind my back, but Stella doesn’t give me a chance.
“No.” She stalks over to me. “Why are you here, in my house?”
“Last I checked, I have an open invitation.”
She mimics the words back to me and rolls her eyes. “Well, the last I checked, that was before you shoved a knife into my back.”
“I got you something,” I murmur, pointedly ignoring her animosity.
“What?”
I pull the flowers from behind my back, loving the ways her eyes widen at the colorful display.
“Oh, wow. These are beautiful.” She crosses the room and snatches the bouquet from me. “But you’re still a double-crossing piece of crap liar.”
I press my right hand over my heart. “Tell me how you really feel, Luna.”