Page 3 of Blood and Buttercups

I take a deep breath, willing the tears to go away. When I have them under control, I breathe out slowly. “That sounds good—but first, let’s do the market. Otherwise, all these flowers will go to waste, and Kevin isn’t worth it.”

She nods solemnly, and we wheel the first load through the chaos. The market doesn’t start until six, but people are already wandering around and checking out the shops along the street as the vendors set up their stalls.

There are over a hundred stands. Farm tables overflow with lettuce, strawberries, and early greenhouse tomatoes.

We also have jewelry artists, bakers who sell frosted sugar cookies that look like mini works of art, and several soapmakers. There’s a young woman who sells organic dog biscuits, a man offering handcrafted shaving supplies, and a woman who claims she can balance your chakras, whatever the heck that means.

And then there’s me. I’m a flower farmer. It sounds like a profession created for social media, but I swear it’s a real thing.

When I told my parents I’d found my calling, they weren’t impressed. My mother tried to persuade me to get a job that would better utilize my business degree. My dad lectured me, using phrases like “paying the bills” and “making ends meet.”

The only one who was supportive was my brother. But he also told me hemp was the new crop du jour, so I think he missed the point.

Despite their reservations, I’ve built a semi-successful little business. I grow the flowers in my backyard and sell them to local florists, grocery stores, online through my website, and at local markets. I’m not rolling in money or anything, but I have enough to “make ends meet.” Especially since my tastes fall in the budget-friendly bracket. I don’t want to say I’m cheap, but I do love a good sale.

“You’re all set, Piper,” Max says, stepping away from my prepped stall as we approach. My older brother then flashes Olivia a friendly smile. “Hi, Olive.”

He’s the only person who can get away with the nickname.

“Hey, Max.” Olivia casts a scowl at the stage. “I wish you were playing tonight.”

“We’re scheduled for next week,” he promises, simultaneously offering a nearby pair of young women a roguish grin. They’re exactly his type, wearing shorts with a negative inseam and shirts that could pass for bathing suit tops. “We have to share the limelight, you know?”

Olivia rolls her eyes.

The girls giggle together, flashing my idiot brother appreciative glances as they hover. I have no doubt they’re fans. His band doesn’t have a lot, but the ones they do have are loyal. They show up every market day, knowing Max helps me out. I don’t know any of them by name, as the rotation changes weekly. They’re a bit like stray cats, waiting around for the table scraps of my brother’s affection.

And scraps are about all they get. After acknowledging the girls, he promptly turns his attention back to Olivia and me.

Fact: Max was born to be a heartbreaker—he doesn’t even have to try. Where I’m painfully wholesome, with a heart-shapedface that’s plagued me since middle school and curves that threaten to grow a dress size if I so much as look at a donut, Max has that lean-muscled, dark-haired, bad-boy vibe going on. Except for Mom’s chocolate brown hair and Dad’s blue eyes that we share, it would be impossible for a stranger to tell we’re siblings.

“Get out of here.” I wave my hands, shooing him away like he’s a pigeon. “I need to finish setting up.”

“What’s that? You’re grateful for my help? Don’t mention it—you’re welcome.” Max grins. “I’ll be back at nine to help you clear out.”

“We have a few more buckets in the truck,” Olivia says. “Would you help me with them while Piper preps the flowers?”

“Sure thing.” Max flashes her his signature crooked smile—the one I caught him practicing in the mirror when we were teens.

Olivia, however, is immune. She shakes her head like he’s ridiculous and waves for him to follow her. Which he does…because even though Olivia is immune to Max, I’m not sure he’s immune to her.

Once alone, my mind drifts back to Kevin and Sugar Baby. My blood pressure rises with my anger, and my vision blurs with tears.

“These are pretty,” a woman in her mid-fifties says as she stops to admire my snapdragons. She’s followed by several more early patrons, and soon, I don’t have time to think about my cheating boyfriend.

The night passes quickly, and I do my best to focus on my customers, grateful it’s busy. Fifteen minutes before it’s time to shut down, Ethan steps up to my stand.

“I was worried you wouldn’t have anything left,” he says.

“You’re here later than usual.”

“I had something to take care of. I’m glad I made it back in time.”

On the stool next to me, Olivia plays on her phone. But she sits a little straighter, telling me she’s highly invested in my conversation, even if she’s pretending to be oblivious.

“What are these?” He brushes his finger over the golden petals of a flower.

“Ranunculus,” I answer. “Also known as Persian buttercups. They’re one of my favorite spring flowers.”

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