Page 3 of Something Like Sunflowers

DUSTY: You don’t have a sister.

HUNTER: I could have your sister.

DUSTY: And you could have two less balls.

A grin forms on my lips. He’s too easy.

A horn blares, rattling the insides of my ears as exhaust blows in my face, and I’m instantly reminded why I hate the city. It’s the constant noise. You don’t hear that in Pine Forest. We have our share of noises out there. But it’s crickets, cicadas, maybe roosters. All that stuff’s supposed to be there. None of this sensory overload bullshit. If it weren’t for the corporate sponsorships Classy Country could bring to my youth farming program, I wouldn’t be within fifty miles of the stench of this place. Factories and ATMs on every corner. It’s like the whole world’s forgotten how to live with the land instead of consuming it.

I stumble on the corroded sidewalk beneath my feet for the third or fourth time, and I shake my head at myself, feeling right stupid for poking fun at Devyn being glued to her phone earlier when I’m distracted by mine right now.

Looking at her picture. Fuck. I shove my phone in my pocket because I do not need to be looking at that.

Seeing her always has this effect on me. And it’ll undoubtedly be weeks before I get the image of her in that dripping pink fabric out of my mind.

I didn’t mean to run into her and send her coffee flying through the air, but I can’t say I regret it much, because even though it must have been scalding hot—judging by the scream of the older woman who was doused with some of it—Devyn had just enough fire under her skin to ignore the burn and cast me a glare that could damn me to hell right where I stood, those green eyes blazin’ somethin’ fierce.

And with them, a fire I thought was long gone.

I just stood there, stunned, unable to move as the wet dress clung to her tight little body like a candy wrapper, and that is so fucking far from being an appropriate thought I had to drag my eyes from her and walk away. As far away from her as possible. As fast as humanly fucking possible.

Because Devyn is complicated. She’s bratty, spoiled, self-centered, and half the time she’s so far stuck up her own ass she can’t see in front of her face. She pushes my buttons, gets under my skin, and fuck, she’s like a human version of water torture, ya know? She’s just there…drip, drip, drip, drown, repeat.

Devyn is an addiction.

If you don’t have her for a while, you can detox, forget she exists, move on.

Even if the taste of her never does quite leave your lips.

But I’ve slipped up now. I’ve seen Devyn. I’ve seen the fire still burning in her stare. The one that tells me maybe she isn’t all bubblegum pop and Prada like she leads the masses to believe.

My girl is still in there somewhere, and I can’t unsee her.

I grind my teeth as my boots pound against the pavement in the opposite direction of where I need to be going, breathing, and reminding myself of reality. It’s been ten years since we did this dance, and I know I shouldn’t wrap myself up in that kind of thing with her again. Especially with the way things are now. What my life has become. It feels like a knife slicing through me with that realization, but it’s true.

What we once had is forever gone. I made sure of that. And her presence in my life wouldn’t only affect me this time.

That doesn’t change the ache in my chest when I see the spark in her eyes again.

Because Devyn Lynn is and always was two things.

Off limits. And mine.

Chapter 3

Devyn

My heels click on the white marble floors…well, more like clunk. I suck in a breath. Part of it must be how nervous I am to finally meet the interview panel, but my footwear probably doesn’t help. I’m slightly regretting the Miu platform booties with the block-heel ankles, as my every single step echoes through the cavernous hallway of bright whites and muted grays that seems positively endless.

The trim and chair railing lining the walls are purposefully weathered to match the rustic but clean aesthetic of the brand. Braided hemp-roping coils around the sconces that decorate the walls, and each one is adorned with a tiny barn star at the base. We seem to walk—well, clunk—forever, and I wonder how this all fits in the building that seemed a lot smaller when I was on the outside of it.

Studying the floors in hopes of silencing my clunking just a tad, my eyes trace the gold flecks patterned into the marble, swimming around and tying in the golden embroidery of the thick, sage-colored curtains that feature the Classy Country emblem displaying four gold rings linked together to form a clover with a simple CC in the center.

“Here we are,” the receptionist, whose name I learned is Bella, chirps as we stop outside a huge set of barn-style sliding doors. She’s a pretty girl, skinny and tall, with cream colored skin and freckles all over her face and arms. Her naturally red hair curls around her cheeks, spilling free from the tight bun atop her head. Her dress is very office-chic, like something you see on a Macy’s ad, and the muted lavender pansies peppered along the collar and waistline look both basic and professional. I peer down at her hands, clasped tightly around her cellphone and stylus. She picks at her cuticles with her nude-polished nails as we loiter outside the doors.

“Molly Preston is just inside there,” she whispers. “She will conduct your initial interview, and then you will meet with Claudette and James for the remainder of the time. Do you need anything? Have any questions?”

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