by Staci Hart
He gave me a flat look.
“He can’t. He’s not a goddamn magician,” I shot. “I’m sure he’s pissed, but come on.”
“The stakes go beyond Liam. This morning, she told me everything about her aunt, about her job. The life she’s built will be threatened if she chooses me. How can I ask her to sacrifice so much for me? I want to make her happy, not hurt her. And what if choosing me does damage I can’t fix?”
I didn’t have a response to that. “I don’t like how bleak you sound.”
“The best thing to ever happen to me just walked out the door, and I’m not sure she’s coming back. So yeah, things are looking pretty fucking bleak. And don’t chuck me on the shoulder and tell me it’s going to be fine, or I swear to God.”
“I won’t,” I promised. After a beat, I confessed what I hadn’t told him last night for Georgie’s sake. “Wyatt showed up at the party last night.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “What?”
It was one dark word that promised violence.
“He came to see me, to tell me goodbye before he left for work. You had Georgie in the clutch in the back, and thank God. I don’t know what Liam would have done if Wyatt upset her, considering Liam’s reaction to Wyatt when he didn’t.”
“What did Liam do?”
“Nothing, but I’m pretty sure that was only because I stopped them. Mostly, it was a lot of angry words and posturing, but I think it ruined him for the rest of the night, triggered him hard. God, he was such an asshole. And right after that, he found you with Georgie.”
Jett’s hand made a pass down his face, dragging his features with it. “The craziest part of all this is that I’d double the drama if it meant a real chance with her. That’s all I want. A chance.”
“I think that can be arranged,” I soothed. “You might need to climb through wreckage to get to her, but I don’t have a doubt that you will get to her. Who knows? Maybe Darcy will surprise us. Maybe he’s had time to think about what a complete dick he was and will apologize. Stranger things have happened.”
But as we shared a dubious glance, neither of us could think of a single one.
19
Gut Check
LIAM
The only sound was the ticking of the clock and the beat of my heart.
I hadn’t slept.
Last night when I’d come home, I gathered a bottle of scotch and a glass and sank into a chair off the entry where I could see the door. And then I waited. I waited, and I drank, and I thought.
I thought about Georgie, about what I wanted for her and what she wanted for herself. I thought about Wickham and the myriad wrongs he’d committed. But I thought about Laney most of all.
Had I always been so destructive, or did she bring out the worst in me? Or through her honesty, did she unearth what I didn’t want to know, what I didn’t want to see? Was I angry because she was wrong, or was I angry because she was right? She left me exposed, raw and prone, and I didn’t like how that vulnerability felt. So I snapped and shoved her away until she was too far away to see. But she’d only creep closer again, slipping silently into my space like a thief or a savior, I didn’t know which.
The hurt I’d caused her was so visceral, so visible, the imprint of her face was left on my heart. I’d done that. I’d hurt her because I was angry with Wickham, sure. But the truth was, there were things I wanted to say to Laney Bennet that I couldn’t utter and that she likely didn’t want to hear.
And then there was Georgie.
Facts were facts—it probably wouldn’t have mattered who had their hands on her. I would have lost it regardless of who it was. But she knew Jett Bennet was forbidden to her, and she was with him anyway. She’d promised me she wouldn’t, but she did. Which meant it was more serious than I’d realized. She wouldn’t have opposed me so openly without reason.
Another secret she kept—the depth of her feelings for him. Granted, I hadn’t exactly given her a safe place to talk about it. I’d been haunted by the Ghosts of Boyfriends Past, a string of men who’d wanted her money and left her heartbroken. Wickham being the worst offender.
Ruined. He’d ruined her, and for the last year, she’d been trying to put herself back together. Not one man she’d ever chosen had been honorable in the end, only excellent liars. Given that statistic, I couldn’t imagine Jett Bennet breaking the pattern. But that wasn’t the biggest, most undeniable problem in front of her. Never mind his lack of ambition and empty bank account. Forget our class difference.
Because Catherine would inflict pain on us all if Georgie dated a Bennet.
Catherine told us she wanted to protect us, and her brand of protection was control. When it came to opposing her beliefs and passions, she was ruthless on a good day and vengeful on the rest. If she had a vendetta against the Bennets, I could all but guarantee she would make everyone’s lives hell until she got what she wanted.
Everything about Georgie seeing Jett sounded an alarm. Everything about that choice spoke danger. And I couldn’t stand by and watch her get hurt.
I wouldn’t.
That ticking clock—my companion through the long night—marked just past nine when she finally walked through the door, scanning the entryway with wide eyes, stilling when she found me, rumpled and fuming with a scotch dangling from my fingers.
She straightened. Hardened to steel. Prepared herself for battle.
And said, “I’m not sorry.”
The door slammed.
“If you were thinking, you would be.”
“I see. If I saw things the way you did, I’d apologize and praise your rightness.”
“Jesus, George. This isn’t about my ego. These are plain, simple facts. You were with Jett at a company party. You know who told me? Caroline. And if you think for one second that she’s not going to run straight into Catherine’s lap with this, you’re out of your mind.”
The knowledge sank in. “Goddamn Caroline.”
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about what I want.” She leveled me with her gaze. “We’re not allowed to date clients? Fine, but he’s not even a client—he’s an employee—”
“It’s the same thing—”
“And what are they going to do, fire me?” She let out a humorless laugh. “We’re all Catherine has, but still you think she’d punish me for who I date?”
“I know she would,” I said as I stood, disliking being beneath her.
“Then I’ll get another job. If she doesn’t want to see me, that’s her choice. But this isn’t the only option. Running away isn’t the only option.”
“She’s convinced the Bennets put her best friend in jail and asked me to get Laney fired. And that was just because Laney was in the building. You want to quit? You want to walk away from everything Dad left us? Fine. But what about Jett? Do you really believe she’ll show Jett more mercy than she did Laney? You’re smarter than this, George.”
“Wouldn’t know you thought so. Are you sure I can make any decisions for myself? I’m going out later—do you want to pick out my clothes so I’m not too cold? Or make a menu for me so I don’t live on potato chips and ice cream? Should I bring my friends by so you can vet them like a fucking crazy person? Because that’s what this is, Liam. This is crazy. You sitting in that chair all night, waiting for me to come home so you could fight with me is capital C crazy.”
“I didn’t want to fight with you,” I argued. “I’m not trying to control you—I’m trying to save you.”
“What’s the difference?” she fired. “You call it protection, but your method is control. I love you, Liam. But when it comes to who I choose to give my heart to, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to be the angry parent, busting their kid when they sneak out. You don’t get to punish me or choose for me. You don’t get to treat me like a child or make my rules, because you aren’t Dad.”
Her words hung in the air for a long, silent moment but for that fucking clock. My heart split open and spilled
into my rib cage. Her face broke with regret. She reached for me. I stepped back.
“You’re right,” I said, my voice rough. “You’re right. I’m not Dad. But do you … do you see that …” The words jammed in my throat, and I swallowed, forcing them down so I could try again. “You’re all I have, George. You are the anchor, my tether to this world. I know … I know I’m not easy. I know I do more harm than good. But protecting you is the only way I can stop the one thing I love in this world from being broken.” The words cracked, the corners of my eyes stinging. I swallowed again, schooling myself. “Wickham shattered you,” I said, steadier. “If that happened again when I could have stopped it, I wouldn’t forgive myself.”
“But you aren’t responsible for me,” she said through tears, and I let her come closer. “You were for a little while, but you’re not anymore.”
“But I am.”
“No, you’re not.” She took my hand in both of hers. “You have to have faith in me. You have to trust that I won’t make the same mistake again. It was you who taught me, after all.”
I pulled her into my chest so she couldn’t see my face, my control slipping. “He’s important to you.”
“He is.”
“And you trust him?”
“I do.”
This was the crux of everything, the true fulcrum of the situation. It sank in with cold clarity and fear—I had no control over her heart, and if I wanted her to be happy, I couldn’t stop her. Not from this.
The things she’d accused me of were true.
I was wrong.
It was just as unreasonable as Catherine’s edicts, regardless of intentions. And if my father were here, I suspected he’d be ashamed.
There was one last thing to say before I committed to doing whatever it took to defend Georgie’s happiness.
Because my support didn’t mean any of this would be easy.
I sighed, but it did little to vent the pressure in my chest. “I have your back. Always. You know that.”
She nodded, her cheek rasping my shirt.
“If you want to do this, I will trust you. I will back you up. But I want you to listen to what I’m about to say, and I want you to be sure.” When she didn’t speak up, I took a breath and laid it all out. “I will go to battle for your happiness without provocation. But this time, I’m not fighting Wyatt. I’m fighting Catherine.”
She stilled in my arms.
“Catherine,” I said again. “The last living relative we have. The woman who, despite her exterior, took us in like no one else did. We’re the closest thing she has to children, and she’s the closest thing to a parent we have. And you seeing him holds the power to break that irrevocably. It’s easy to say you can walk away. It’s another thing to do it. To leave everything Dad left for us, to abandon your place at the company, to walk away from Catherine … to say you’ll leave it all sounds easy enough. But they’re only words. Can you imagine actually doing it?”
Her shoulders hitched with a sob.
My heart broke with hers.
“And there’s whatever retribution Catherine might lay on you, on me. In her spite, in her pain, she will punish us. She might even punish the Bennets. I will shield you from that as best I can, but Georgie, your happiness doesn’t depend on me like you think it does. It depends on her.”
“W-what if we started over? Started a new company?”
“We could do that,” I answered, still holding her close, “but is that what you want? If he is that important to you, then let’s start over. But what happens when you break up? If it goes badly and you’re alone again, will you regret the choice?”
Another hitch that dissolved into a shuddering breath. “M-maybe I could talk to her. Maybe she’ll see reason.”
“Maybe she will. Let me talk to her. Feel her out. But … just remember who she is. She doesn’t let anything go, not ever. If it were a matter of his status or class, it’d be easier to manage. But a family she perceives as an enemy? A threat?”
I didn’t have to do any more convincing—her fresh wave of tears was enough of an answer.
My own wave of emotion rose again with understanding. I could never have Laney either.
“It’s not fair,” she whispered.
“I know.” I smoothed her hair like I had so many times before. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“It’s going to be all right,” I promised.
But she didn’t answer, didn’t agree. And I didn’t blame her.
I didn’t believe it either.
20
Point. Snip.
LANEY
That afternoon, I headed to Mom’s early to wander around the greenhouse with her before our family dinner, and the date couldn’t have come at a better time.
Bleecker was bustling with weekend foot traffic, and when I reached our flower shop, I found it full. I was sure the window displays had something to do with it—Tess and Luke, the masterminds behind that facet of our shop. This week featured giant suspended butterflies made of tan pampas grass. Flowers of gold and amber dotted the wings in identical patterns, poised mid-flight. They managed to look both fresh and fallish, positioned over a hanging flower box built in the shape of a script font spelling the word autumn in one window and harvest in the other.
My first smile of the day brushed my lips at the sight, and when I pulled open the turquoise door of Longbourne to the sound of the ancient, tinkling bell, that smile bloomed in full.
A jazzy, ’40s tune played over the speakers of the white-walled space, and patrons milled around the tables, weaving in and out of displays of market bouquets. One of the walls had been stocked with single stems in what felt like every color, organized in a gradient of the spectrum, the greenery stocked below.
This was home.
Pride rose in me like creeping ivy, threading through my ribs. Generations of Bennet women had run this store, our family name so vital, not one had taken her husband’s name. In fact, Dad had taken Mom’s when they got married, which had pleased my grandmother to no end. But where the Bennet women had historically grown the shop and our standing in the community, my dear, darling mother didn’t acquire the business gene. She was a genius with bouquets but a self-proclaimed ninny when it came to business, and after years of mismanagement and terrible business advice, Longbourne almost hadn’t survived. But we were nothing if not tenacious—a trait that had both helped and hurt us in life and love.
Currently, we were in better shape than we had been in decades, thanks to my siblings.
I hadn’t done much, just designed the new logo and materials, kick-started social media, gotten a few campaigns running. It was the rest of them who did the work. Luke and Tess handled the store aesthetic, imagining and building and constantly rearranging things to make use of things he’d built. Kash managed the greenhouse with Dad, as he always had, but he’d developed a few new strains of flowers that became a sought-after element in our bouquets. Plus, most of our event business came from Lila, his wife, who threw parties for the richest and most famous names in Manhattan. Marcus untangled the mess that was the store’s finances and put us on a track to recover from the debt Mom had inadvertently racked up over the years. And Jett had run the day-to-day of the store itself, his experience in retail helping him in streamlining the whole operation.
We’d even all moved back home, and as annoying as it was to have my brothers teasing me and my mother with her nose firmly in my business—that business, she excelled at—I now longed for those days. Those months were the last time we had all been there together, just us, before significant others and the subsequent scattering of our locations. That fleeting time brought with it the safety that I’d felt as a child, the house and the noise and the mess the most comforting place I’d ever known.
I’d been so eager to leave, I didn’t enjoy it when I had it.
I wished desperately that I had.
Ivy, who had worked here since she was in high school, waved at me f
rom behind the register, and when I passed the counter, I saw her little girl, Olive, riding a plastic bug on wheels back and forth in the space behind the counter. Olive’s face lit up when she saw me, and her chubby hand shot into the air. It opened and closed into a fist—her current method of waving.
I waved back.
“Want me to take her to the greenhouse?” I asked Ivy, hoping she’d say yes.
“She’s all right for now, but ask me again in five minutes. I might even let you keep her,” she joked.
“Bring her to the back if you change your mind and we’ll pick some flowers, won’t we, Olive?”
She nodded emphatically. “Fow-ers!”
“She’ll just eat them all, you know,” Ivy said as I headed back.
“That’s the best part,” I called over my shoulder. I had at least ten photos of Olive with petals hanging out of her mouth like a cat who was just shy of swallowing a bird.
The workroom was quiet and empty, though trimmings and remnants of wire and floral foam lay scattered across the surface of a table in front of one of the empty stools—Tess’s, no doubt. So back I went, through the swinging double doors that led to our greenhouse.
A wall of humidity hit me, curling around me like loving fingers, drawing me into the cheerful space. Built in the 1800s, the greenhouse spanned the back of six buildings—the shop, our house, and the four properties we’d once owned. The basement of the shop was our storage, packed with generations of antiques that sat unassuming next to hay and mulch and fertilizer. And in the greenhouse itself, long rows ran the length, touting box after box of flowers. Seeds were cultivated in the back and moved into the main greenhouse when their season arrived, the old harvest making way for the new. Currently, a section had been tilled and replanted with spring flowers, the rest full of our year-round crop. Dahlias and gardenias, lilies and pink astilbe. Daisies and marigolds and, this time of year, ranunculus. And of course, bed after bed of roses.
