Wallflowers:Three of a Kind

by CP Smith

  Table of Contents

  Wallflowers: Three of a Kind

  Copyright

  Titles by CP Smith

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 by cp smith

  All rights reserved

  Published by CP Smith

  Wallflowers: Three of a Kind is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's ridiculous imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  First Edition: November 2016

  Formatting: CP Smith

  Cover design: Dark Waters Covers

  Cover Photograph Depositphoto Fresh lilac flowers

  @ daffodil

  Information address: cpsmith74135@gmail.com

  Titles by CP Smith

  A Reason to Breathe

  A Reason to Kill

  A Reason to Live

  Restoring Hope

  Property Of

  FRAMED

  Wallflowers: Three of a Kind

  Acknowledgements

  This section is for those who helped me while I wrote this book. To say it would also have to include my readers is an understatement. You stood by me while I grieved the loss of my mother, and encouraged me to keep writing even when I wanted to stop. Thank you!

  To my family, who feeds me when I don’t eat, tells me to go to bed when I don’t sleep, and loves me even when I forget to shower, all of this is for you. I love you!

  Julia Goda and Mayra Statham. What can I say? You’re my rock in this crazy publishing world. Soul Sisters. You held my hand while I cried. Yelled at me when I needed it, and put up with my crabby ass even when you shouldn’t have to. I LOVE you both. To the moon and back.

  Deb Hawblitzel Schultz, you treat me like family, always have my back, and bring me tiny cans of Mountain Dew on book signings! You’re the tops! Best PA out there. I love you, my hooker . . . Oh, yeah!!!!

  Angela Shue, Kelly Marshall-White, Sallie Brown Davis, Michelle Reed, Allison Michaels, and Joanne Thompson. You, ladies, are the best bunch of betas out there. Thank you for taking time out of your busy day to help bring my stories to life.

  Julia Goda, besides being my sister you’re also the best damn editor out there. Thank you!

  Tracie Douglas-Rabas, you took my hopes and dreams for this cover and made them a reality. It’s stunning. Thank you!

  Nikki Worrell, your knowledge about Harleys impresses me, and I’m eternally grateful for your help. Devin thanks you for not making him look like a beginner.

  And to my original Dream Team. You ladies are never far from my thoughts. All of this is because of you! You encouraged me to publish, and because of your faith in me, I did! That’s a debt I can never repay. Thank you!

  Dedication

  For my favorite Wallflower Kellyann Armstrong

  One

  2B

  NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE ONCE WROTE in the preface of The Marble Faun that “Romance and poetry, ivy, lichens, and wallflowers, need ruin to make them grow.” Hiding behind a flowering lilac bush near my aunts’ back garden, frozen in place as my new neighbor worked out in the courtyard, I stared at a single wisteria vine, reflecting on Hawthorne’s words. The vine had worked its way down the side of the wooden pergola, then through the cobblestone path to break free from its prison. It had been trained carefully over time to flower in one spot, but this single branch had defied its current state, sprouting through the crumbled ruins, just as Hawthorne had written.

  I envied that vine’s courage. It had fought against what life had dealt it, searching for a better one outside the confines of the pergola—unlike me . . .

  The doorbell ringing.

  An officer speaking in hushed tones.

  The wailing sound of a child screaming for her parents.

  I closed my eyes against the echoes of my past and tried to block them out.

  The sound of male exertion resonated throughout the courtyard, so I opened my eyes and turned my head, shaking off the memory that had held me hostage my whole life.

  An unexpected spark of excitement bubbled in my chest, working its way down to settle in my gut as I watched the black-haired stranger. The sensation was foreign to me—unsettling. I’d spent so much time avoiding life that my immediate attraction for this unknown man caught me off guard. But I couldn’t deny the truth. The evidence was in the racing of my heart and the moisture collecting in my palms as my mouth ran dry. All my carefully laid plans to protect my heart seemed childish now; and in that moment of sexual awareness, I wondered what it would be like to be in love.

  Peeling my eyes off the stranger, I looked back at the vine growing through the crack in the path and wondered if I could take a chance like it had and change the course of my life.

  I knew if I wanted a life outside my books, a life that also included a man like the one currently shirtless in my aunts’ back garden, I, too, would have to break down the walls I’d hidden behind so I could grow from the rubble of my past . . . To bloom.

  Just like those wallflowers.

  However, as much as I wanted a different course for my life at that moment, I wondered if I could truly let someone in. Let someone scale the walls I’d built.

  Looking up from the courageous root, I scanned the private flower-covered courtyard abutting my aunts’ three-story building—which sat in the heart of historic Savannah, Georgia—until my eyes once again landed on the black-haired man. This courtyard was my favorite place in or out of Savannah. My aunts had spent years cultivating the area until it was an oasis from the world. Flowers of every color bordered the fence while overgrown lilac bushes scented the air. Pink and purple wisteria wound tightly around the pergola, providing shade from the Georgia heat, as a small water garden with a replica of the Bird Girl—a statue made famous by the book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—sat in the center. The trickling cascade, combined with the heady scent of flowers, always relaxed me, focused my thoughts, and helped transport me into the worlds of the books I read.

  Today, like every Saturday of my adult life, I’d decided to read. So I’d picked up one of my well-read copies of Devil’s Bride by Stephanie Laurens and headed downstairs to the courtyard for a relaxing afternoon of reading before heading to a mandatory company picnic that night. But the flowers and historical romance were immediately forgotten the moment I’d walked out the back door of my aunts’ store and laid eyes on my new neighbor.

  Still hiding behind a flowering lilac bush, I watched each descent and ascent as the new tenant in 2B lifted his hard body with ease. I was fully captivated by the sheen of sweat coating his body, and tracked the sweat dripping down his brow in tiny droplets. This man was beautiful, and I was utterly transfixed by his graceful movements as his biceps contracted with each rise, but none more so than when he lifted his head and looked up. Eyes the color of brilliant blue topaz glowed in the morning sun, blazing with crystalline fire like a diamond yet holding the coolness of ice.

  He’d moved in the day before while I was at work, and all I knew about my new neig
hbor was that he was a man—though the common term used to describe the opposite sex wasn’t strong enough for this particular male—who liked to listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd late at night. No, he was no ordinary man; he held an air of danger that smoldered just beneath the surface—and every inch of me approved.

  When he looked in my direction I inched back further to avoid detection, bumping into a familiar warm body liberally doused with Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

  “He’s a fine specimen, isn’t he?" I jumped at my Aunt Bernice’s whispered voice and nodded slowly as I continued to stare. “And, I might add, from what I’ve seen of the gentleman in question, you could do a far sight worse.”

  “Bernice, I’m just . . . I’m not . . .” I stopped and gave up. She knew what I was doing, so it was a waste of time to argue.

  “Of course, you are, butterbean. You’ve been livin’ a half-life, barely breathin’ except for your books since your family died,” she whispered low. “You and I know better than most that life is a fleetin’ moment in time, every moment extraordinary and priceless. So don’t waste it because you’re scared to let people in.”

  “Are you readin’ my mind?” I asked back, turning to look at her.

  “So you agree you’ve hidden from the world long enough?”

  “It may have crossed my mind,” I whispered, folding my arms about my chest.

  “I’ll bet,” she snorted. “If I were you and knew I had a man like that livin’ right next door, I’d take a breath and start livin’ pretty darn quickly.”

  “I’m not sure datin’ my neighbor is a good idea,” I replied, jerking my head in 2B’s direction.

  Bernice’s eyebrows shot skyward, and she laid me out with a look of pure disbelief.

  “Sorry?” she replied dumbfounded. “Did you just say you don’t think a man who’s as gorgeous as the devil himself, seems like a Southern gentleman, and has a body that would tempt the purest of virgins isn’t a good idea ’cause he lives next door?”

  I snorted at my fifty-six-year-old aunt then threw my hand over my mouth and looked back at 2B to see if he’d heard.

  Nope, just up and down and up and down.

  Lord, that man is strong.

  “Since when does bein’ a Southern gentleman garner points in your book?” I asked quietly, not taking my eyes off the perfection that was 2B. “You preferred bein’ single your whole life.”

  “Since your daddy would have wanted that for you.”

  I froze at the mention of my father and curled my hands into fists so hard that my nails bit into my skin.

  “You know I loved my brother somethin’ fierce,” she continued, “so I plan to honor his wishes. He instructed us in his trust to make sure you were happy, and you’re not. Don’t follow in my footsteps, sugar. What I wanted for my life is entirely different than what you want for yourself,” she lilted with a drawl, but with an edge of sophistication that would have put Scarlett O’Hara to shame. “So go on now. Take the first step.” She nudged me forward, but I locked my knees and shook my head. “Lord, you’re stubborn,” she huffed. “Calla, if you don’t introduce yourself, I’ll do it for you, and you won’t like it.”

  “I need a minute.”

  “Well, make it quick. There’s a truck comin’ soon with a load of clothes we bought at an estate sale, and we’ll need your help unpacking it,” she ordered before turning to leave.

  I nodded again, ignoring her parting comment. My focus was on 2B’s hair. It was longer than most men wore, and the bangs had fallen into his eyes, creating a frame around the brilliant blue.

  “Calla Lily!” Bernice shouted out my given name. I startled at the sound as 2B looked in our direction. Jumping back further so he wouldn’t see me gawking through the lilacs, I turned to find Bernice standing at the back door of Frock You, the vintage clothing store she and her sister Eunice had owned since 1984.

  “Ma’am?” 2B asked in a gravelly Southern drawl that was as smooth as molasses and just as dark and delicious. The deep timbre of his voice was like an aphrodisiac, so I turned back to soak in the sound of it.

  “Don’t pay me any mind, Mr. Hawthorne. I was just tellin’ my dear sister we needed more Calla Lilies in the garden. You just keep workin’ those fine muscles of yours as if I weren’t here.”

  He’d paused mid-pushup and began again, grinning wickedly at my aunt as he dropped down.

  Turning back, I waved her on, shushing her with a look that begged her to stay quiet, then turned back and watched who I now knew was Mr. Hawthorne finish his pushups.

  Hawthorne?

  The fact that I’d just been thinking about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s quote seemed like a sign from above.

  “Maybe I should introduce myself,” I whispered.

  I looked down at my worn-out jeans, flip-flops, and light blue, vintage peasant top I’d grabbed in the last haul my aunts had bought for their store. It wasn’t an outfit that encouraged men to look once, let alone twice. I would need help with my wardrobe if I was going to venture forth into the world of dating.

  Just as I had with my books, I’d used clothing to hide from men. The loss of my family in a car accident when I was six was the reason why. I’d purposely avoided the opposite sex and intimate friendships as a way to insulate myself from further heartache and loss. If I didn’t put myself out there, I couldn’t be hurt. At least that’s what the child inside me reasoned anytime someone tried to get close. Of course, she was silent in the face of 2B’s presence. Instead, she’d turned into a hormone-driven adolescent.

  Mr. Hawthorne grunted low with exertion, so I peeked through the bushes again. Framed in the morning sun he stood and began stretching an arm across his chest, tugging with his other hand to loosen the muscles he’d just worked. I watched in silence as he repeated the action with the other arm then bent at the waist to stretch out his legs. He was the finest-looking man I’d encountered in my twenty-seven years. Well over six feet, his proportions were perfectly symmetrical, perfectly muscled—perfectly male. All the way down to the deep V in his lower abdomen. He was, in my mind, Devil Cynster come to life from the pages of Devil’s Bride.

  “Be bold, Cali,” I whispered, moving forward a step. “It’s time to start livin’.”

  Besides needing to take the first step toward shattering the walls I’d built and move forward into a brave new world, he was my neighbor. It was only polite to introduce myself. The fact that I’d watched his body rise and fall like a lover in the heat of passion shouldn’t affect my manners in the least.

  Taking another step toward revealing myself to him, determined that the ruins of my past should be felled that very instant, I stopped short when the gate that opened to the side alley swung wide, and an attractive blonde dressed to the nines walked into the courtyard. I watched as my Devil come to life turned, leveled a sinister smile at her, and then wrapped her in a hug that spoke of affection and love for the woman.

  “Well?” Bernice asked with humor laced in her voice. “Are you gonna take the plunge and talk to the man or let another woman have first dibs?”

  Frozen like a statue, I watched as Mr. Hawthorne and the blonde conversed with each other, completely absorbed and unaware of my presence.

  Too late.

  Turning away from the couple, I marched toward Bernice, brushing past her, and kept walking through the back door of Frock You.

  “There are other fish in the sea,” I mumbled as I passed.

  “True enough, sugar. But I’m not sure the other fish would taste as good as Devin does.”

  I stopped in my tracks and looked back at her. “Devin?”

  “Devin Hawthorne,” she confirmed. “Former Atlanta police detective. He’s hangin’ up his badge to become a private investigator and moved to Savannah for a change of pace. He also rented the office space next to the store, so I imagine we’ll be seein’ plenty of him,” she explained. “You sure you don’t wanna go back out there and introduce yourself, butterbean?”

  The twink
le in her eyes as she relayed this information was as infuriating as a mosquito in search of blood.

  “I’ll pass. I’m not so desperate for a man as to make a ninny of myself.”

  “Spoken like a true Southern lady. A gentleman should always do the pursuin’ anyhow.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bernice, since when do you hold to the ways of the South?” I asked while heading for the store’s kitchen and a cup of coffee and biscone. “You fought Granddaddy at every turn when it came to me bein’ raised by him and Grandmother so I wouldn’t turn into some snooty debutante.”

  “True, but my daddy raised a lady to begin with, butterbean. I may have thumbed my nose at borin’ cotillions and charity events, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hold to the ways of the South when it comes to my dearest niece and men. I raised you, wanted what was best for you just like any mother would, because you, my dear sweet girl, are magnificent. You deserve a man who knows how to treat her.” She ran her fingers gently across my cheek as her eyes softened. “So don’t jump at the first chance you have with any ole man. Hold out for a true gentleman, hold out for someone like Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Bernie,” I whispered, grabbing hold of her hand as it cupped my cheek.

  “No tears, sugar. We’re Armstrongs, not bleedin’ heart liberals. Suck it up,” Bernice admonished with a wink.

  As I tried to hold back the tears, my Aunt Eunice came rushing in with a look of sheer delight plastered across her face, dragging her longtime friend Odis Lee Wilder in her wake.

  My aunts were two years apart in age. Eunice was the older of the two. Both were Southern beauties with shoulder length, blonde hair—they kept it that way thanks to Miss Clairol—with bright blue eyes and peaches and cream complexions.

  They were rebels from what I liked to refer to as ‘The Madonna Generation.’ My aunts believed in doing whatever the hell they wanted whenever they wanted. And they’d done it with gusto for years until it all came to a screeching halt when my family died and they took me in.