Page 41 of Just Let Go

“What for?”

He lifted his chin to meet her eyes. “It’s cold outside.”

She pulled the door open. “I’m only letting you in because you’re practically yelling, and my neighbors go to bed early.”

He stumbled over the threshold. “All the stores are closed.”

“But there are apartments above the stores,” she said, stepping away from him.

He righted himself and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing in here alone?”

She rooted her feet to the ground and angled her chin upward. “Are you drunk?”

He waved a hand in the air and let out a puff, dismissing her question. “I had a couple of drinks.” He reached over and tugged on the end of her hair. “But I’m not drunk.”

She pushed his hand away and walked toward the back of the store, aware—how could she not be?—that he was following her.

“This is your business?” His words were slightly slurred, his balance slightly off. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up falling into one of her new shelves. That was about the last thing she needed.

But what she needed even less was to be alone with Grady Benson after 10p.m. on a Wednesday night.

“This is it.” He must think it was all so small—this town, this business, this life. She’d never been embarrassed about where she came from before, so why did she feel that sudden pang to make it all seem more important than it was? She owned a flower shop in a small town. That was her life. And that was enough.

Except that when she was standing across from Grady Benson, Olympic athlete, it seemed anything but.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asked, deciding that it was better to be rude and get rid of him than shrink under the weight of his stare for one more second.

“You’re not so friendly, you know?” He leaned across the counter she stood behind, suddenly very close.

“I’m plenty friendly with my friends,” she said, eyeing him. “You’re not my friend.”

He laughed. “Tell me how you really feel.” He pushed himself up and walked over to the wall where the photo gallery hung. Framed images of Forget-Me-Not’s history, including two photos of her mother, one with Quinn and Carly, lined the wall. She had plans to reframe—or maybe get rid of—those pictures, though a part of her didn’t know if she could ever let the memories go.

Never mind that those same memories kept her frozen. Her mother’s long blonde hair, the way the curls bounced when she twirled Quinn around. The way the flower shop had been so full of laughter, so full oflife.

How long had it been since Quinn had felt truly alive?

What a ridiculous thought. She’d just bought her own business. She was living her dream. Where were these crazy ideas coming from anyway?

“Why flowers?”

Did he really want to have a conversation? With her? Right now?

“Everyone loves flowers.”

He shrugged and faced her. “I don’t.”

She turned away. Everyoneelseloved flowers. Apparently egotistical jocks were immune.

“Tell me,” he said. “I want to know.”

She avoided his eyes.

“Come on,” he said. “When did you first know you wanted to do this?”

“When I was a kid,” she said without thinking.

His eyebrows shot up. “Really? I don’t know many little girls who grow up wanting to be a florist.”

---