Page 3 of When Wildflowers Bloom

I’m about twelve seconds into my lies and already confused.

“Sleeping.” I clear my throat, glancing at the clock to see it’s only seven o’clock. “We had an early party because of the time change between the Rockies—where I live—and here in North Carolina where I’m visiting family.” Every word feels like trying to fit a round peg into a square hole. I realize that math makes absolutely zero sense, so I add, “We partied all day and drank alcohol, so now they are tired. I just needed a break. Alone.” I pause, then, “To celebrate myself.”

“Ah,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at me, removing the ridiculous toothpick balancing on his bottom lip. “Well, happy birthday, Pam Beesly,” he says before taking another pull of his beer. “How do you plan on celebrating yourself?”

I smile. “With fine spirits and a one-night stand, of course.”

Bo chokes on the drink in his mouth.

I laugh, waving a hand toward him. “Don’t worry, you don’t meet the criteria,” I say, pressing the sticky note smoothly on the bar top.

His face is a mismatched landscape of amusement and curiosity as he looks down at it.

“What’s this?” he asks, leaning toward me to read it better. When he’s in my space, he smells like so many good fresh things—clean, crisp, evergreen. Winter in summer. A mountain breeze.

“My list,” I say like it’s obvious, leaning away slightly from him and his scent. “For finding the right candidate.”

He rubs a hand across his bearded chin when he leans back. “So to recap,” he starts, amusement spreading more with each slow spoken word. “You are here from the Rockies, alone for your birthday, are going to have a one-night stand, and made a list, on a sticky note, of qualifications?”

My spine straightens defiantly, as if my skeleton is offended by the way he says it.Like I’m ridiculous.

“Yes,” I say defensively, glancing back at my list.

Another scan of the crowd. There are a few couples tangled up in dark corners, but plenty of men who seem unattached. It’s a small town; Bo probably knows everyone here.

“You know,” I say, turning to look at him. “You could help me.”

“Help you?” The laugh that comes with the question is a deep, rumbly sound I feel in my own chest.

“Yes. You probably know everyone here!” I gesture to the people around the room. “And I have no clue where to start.”

There’s a playfulness in his eyes as he looks at the small blue piece of paper and back to me.

“Explain the list and then I’ll help you.Maybe,” he says, bringing the bottle back up to his smiling lips. The look on his face is cunning. Like this is a sort of game.

“Done,” I say, happy to share my well-thought-out bullet points. “One, on a scale of one to ten, I want a seven—max. I’m sure that’s the opposite of what some women want, but I’m looking for mediocre looks here. Attractive enough to hold my interest, but not so good-looking I feel like I’m staring at the sun. Eight and up?” I solemnly shake my head. “Hard no. I’ll just end up thinking about the hotness later, and it negates the purpose. Tonight is it.”

He stares. I continue.

“Two is straightforward. Single. No weird loopholes; they have to be unattached. Not because I’m looking for a future, but because I wouldn’t do that.”

He nods, something flashing in his eyes as his jaw tics. “Of course.”

“Three, mid-level charming. Same as one. I don’t want to cringe at the experience, but I can’t think of the things he says later. Funny, not too funny. Attentive, not too attentive.” I pause, a silentgot it?and he nods again. “Four, he needs to live alone. I’m not doing some weird walk of shame by a mom sitting at a kitchen table reading her newspaper.”

“I can see how that would be awkward,” he says with a smirk.

“And five,” I pause, considering what I’ve written. “Age. Between thirty and forty-five.” I look at him. “I don’t know, I’m thirty-seven today—would it be weird if he was thirty? Is it creepy of me to prey on the young?”

This time he laughs, and for the first time I notice his perfect white teeth. “Prey? Thirty is still a grown man, Pam Beesly.”

I like the way my fake name sounds on his lips.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Thirty-five,” he says.

I shift in my stool. “So would that feel weird? I mean, you being younger than me, if I were to come up and suggest, you know…”

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