Page 8 of The One You Want

Chapter 3

Two Months Later

Hurrying down the street toward town, I could smell the first hints of autumn in theair.

Fall came early on Lilac Bay, as far north as we were. In the middle of September, the nights were already starting to get chilly. It wouldn’t be long until the leaves fully changed color, bringing a final swell of tourists to the island before the bad weather really set in and the world forgot aboutus.

I heard a clopping of hooves on the pavement behind me and automatically stepped out of the way. Dodging carriages became second nature when you lived on an island that didn’t allow motor vehicles. Local transportation was limited to horses, bicycles, boats, and, in the winter, snowmobiles.

It was one of the quirky traits that tourists loved about our island. Stepping foot on Lilac Bay was like stepping back in time, to simpler days. We didn’t have a movie theater or a mall. There was no nightlife to speak of. The most exciting things to do on Lilac Bay involved carriage rides and sampling goodies from the many fudge stores lining the streets. I wasn’t sure how our island had become so well known for our fudge, but it was definitely athing.

Life slowed down up here on this little rock in Lake Michigan, making it the perfect spot to get away from it all. We were inundated with visitors and part time summer residents from May all the way through October or so, all of them eager to escape the craziness of every day life on our islandoasis.

It was a little more complicated when that islandwasyour every day life. For the few hundred of us who lived here year round, Lilac Bay wasn’t just a vacation spot—it was home. And living somewhere without cars, accessible only by ferry and boat, in a northern climate, definitely posed some challenges to everydaylife.

If you were rich and lucky, like my grandparents, you took off for warmer climates as soon as humanly possible. My grandmother had spent every winter that I could remember at their holiday place in St. Croix and couldn’t understand why I insisted on stayinghere.

Thoughts of my grandmother had me hurrying my pace. If there was anything Caroline Hillman couldn’t stand, it was tardiness. I still had a stop to make, and I was sure I would end up chatting with Grant Potter for more than a fewminutes.

Potter’s Blooms was situated just down the street from Libby’s store. Even three doors down, the scent of flowers was nearly overwhelming. I had never been very good at flowers, but I was pretty sure I could pick out lilies. It smelled so good I wished I could bottle it up and bathe init.

There was a tinkle of wind chimes as I pushed the glass door open. The smell hit me all over again, stronger in here, and I took a moment to breathe deeply before lookingaround.

Flowers filled every available space. The shelves filled with vases, sumptuous arrangements of dried blooms, potted tulips and orchids, long, green garlands winding over the free spaces, huge urns filled with house plants covering so much of the floor it was hard to move. Across the far wall stood the floor to ceiling coolers, their glass doors displaying the most beautiful array of fresh cutflowers.

The store was packed. It had been this way just about every time I came in this summer. Potter’s Blooms was a newer business on the island but if this summer’s success was anything to go by, I had a feeling it would be stickingaround.

Glad that I had called ahead, I avoided the crowd by the cooler doors and made my way closer to the cashregister.

“Hey, Kia,” I said, waving at the teenager manning the front. “Is Grantaround?”

“Oh, hey, Jenny,” she said, barely looking up from her task as she rang up customers. “He’s in the workroom. Said you could go onback.”

“Awesome. Good luck uphere.”

She let out a tired sigh as she moved to wrap the customer’s vase. “Thanks, I could useit.”

I made my way through the crowd to the hallway leading to the workroom. I had been back here many times over the summer but I would have been able to find my way regardless—Grant Potter had a tendency to rock out to The Rolling Stones while he worked on hisarrangements.

Grant didn’t notice me come in, his full attention on the flowers in front of him. I leaned against the doorway, watching him. It was always fascinating to me, watching someone who was really engaged in their work. Someone who was truly competent. Grant was like that—when he was with his flowers it was clear that he knew exactly what he was doing and there was nowhere else in the world he would want tobe.

Today was no different as he hummed softly, plucking some leaves off the stem of a bubblegum pink rose. He was dressed, as usual, in a pair of faded, grass-stained jeans and an un-tucked flannel shirt, rolled up at the elbows. With his unruly mop of wavy dark hair, close cut beard, and muddy boots, he always looked like he’d just stepped off his farm—which, honestly, he usuallyhad.

Grant was a cute guy, in a perpetually messy, works-with-his-hands kind of way. He’d only been on the island for a few months and I was glad the Libbies hadn’t seemed to discover him yet—they were going to beobsessed.

“Okay, Miss Cranky,” he muttered, and I startled a little, thinking he’d caught me spying. But then he held the rose up to his eye level, his expression turning stern. “Let’s just try and go with the flow here, allright?”

Oh my God. He was talking to theflower.

“I’m gonna need you to cut out the diva act,” he continued in his rough, low voice. “You need to get along with our peony friend here or the whole thing will fallapart.”

I couldn’t hold back the snort of laughter that erupted from my mouth and Grant jumped, finally catching sight of me in the doorway. His expression quickly morphed from startled to mortified tosheepish.

“Uh, hey, Jenny,” he murmured, running a hand through his messy hair. “How’s itgoing?”

“Much betternow.”

He sighed. “What are the chances you’ll pretend you never heardthat?”