Page 10 of Fletch

She shakes her head. “No. We were getting close and . . . well, I had to go away for a while. We stayed in touch, and when I returned briefly, we had a thing, but with him at university and me in the police cadets, it took us a while to get together.”

“Why did you go away?”

“My father,” she mutters. “He thought it would be best.” She takes a breath and releases it slowly. “Anyway, I’ve been with Pete for three years.”

“And now, you’re at the top?” I add.

“Not the top, that would be taking my father’s job,” she adds a laugh, “but I’m where I want to be for now.”

“What happened to the dream of opening your own shop and selling flowers?”

She smiles, and for the first time, it lights her blue eyes. “You remember that, huh?”

“Of course. You loved flowers and opening a shop was your dream. You were gonna tell your dad, if I remember right?”

Her smile fades. “Well, reality set in and I realised flowers wouldn’t pay the bills.”

I frown. “So, what happened to that huge plot you rented and filled with bright flowers?” She’d saved money from her part-time job at sixteen to rent an allotment space so she could grow her plants. Her father didn’t know about it, and it was the one place she loved to be, spending all her free time there. It’s how we hid our two-year relationship from him, often meeting up there.

“I grew up,” she says.

I frown. “Bullshit. You don’t stop enjoying stuff like that. You loved that place.”

Sadness passes over her. “He found out,” she admits. “He made me pull them up.”

“What?”

“My father.”

“Gemma, I’m—” She cuts me off before I can say how sorry I am. He was always a prick, from what she’d told me.

“It’s fine. It was for the best. Besides, I went away for a year, so my plants would’ve died anyway.”

“I bet you have a garden full of colour now to make up for it?”

She gives a slight shake of her head. “Pete hates flowers. He gets terrible hay fever, and we chose a place with a tiny garden. Low maintenance.”

“You don’t have a garden?”

“Does it matter?” she suddenly snaps. “My father only found out about the bloody garden because of you.”

“Me?”

“He read my text messages. You talked about meeting there.”

“He must be pleased you’re a cop,” I say, changing the heavy subject.

She gives an empty laugh. “He’s not pleased no matter what I do. Anyway, what about you? Tell me about your life now.”

I scrub a hand over my nine o’clock shadow. “I work the garage and sometimes help the brothers in their businesses.”

“Yeah, I saw the Demons own a few.”

“All legit,” I tell her. “Where is lover boy tonight, anyway?” I ask. “Doesn’t he mind you meeting a biker for a drink?”

“He’s working late,” she says, and there’s something in her eyes that tells me she’s not happy about it.

“You didn’t tell him you bumped into me?”

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