Page 33 of Red Flags Only

So why is she sounding more grump than sunshine right now?

On the other end of the phone, Elodie takes a huge breath in, then blows it out. “No, sorry. We’re talking about you right now.”

My brows furrow. “But-”

“It’s fine, Ly,” she interrupts. “I’m just being my usual drama. You know me.”

My mouth opens, ready to refute whatever nonsense that was, but she keeps going.

“He probably wrote you back, right? Maybe the issue isn’t Jove. Maybe the issue is the postal system?”

Huh. “The postal system,” I repeat, mulling it over. “Usually Brianna is pretty quick with it, but… I could see that.”

“There we have it, then!” she declares. “Problem solved! Your best friend doesn’t hate you, isn’t ghosting you, and definitely still wants you in his life. All of your problems are because of what usually causes all our problems. The government.”

I snort. “You’re so right.”

She laughs too, her pretty fairy laugh, and I remember all over again why Elodie has always been my favorite.

“Don’t think I forgot about your man troubles,” I tell her as our laughter dwindles down. “I want a run down on that.”

She huffs. “Yeah, yeah. When I know something, you’ll know something.”

“Oh?” I ask. “So thereissomething to know?”

“No,” she says. “There is absolutely not one single thing to know.”

My reply is cut short by a distant, distinctly masculine, “Sweet? You home?” coming from my phone. Possibly I choke on my shock.

“Oop,” Elodie squeaks. “Gotta go! Tell Jove I said hi! Love you, bye!”

A beep, and she’s gone.

“Sweet?” I ask the suds in my sink. “He calls her sweet?” I’m not swooning, you are.

The rest of my chore time is spent daydreaming my dear cousin’s whirlwind romance to a man who calls her sweet. These pleasant musings see me through my evening and late into the night, where they lull me to sleep, replacing worries about Jove’s lack of contact, which is sure to end soon.

Right?

Chapter Nineteen

Butterfly! Blessed!

Lyra

“Lyra.”

I scream, throwing potting soil and succulents everywhere as I spin to present my gardening trowel as a weapon. Seeing Jove’s shadow in the open doorway to the nursery deflates me, and I drop the trowel to my side.

“You scared me,” I huff as my racing heart calms.

He moves out of the doorway then, his towering form quickly making the greenhouse feel five sizes too small, and doesn’t reply.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as he weaves through shelves of plants, soil, and gardening tools on his way to where I stand at my work bench in the very back of the nursery.

“It’s Friday,” he answers, as if that is supposed to mean something to me. His brows draw together as he gets closer, stepping into the light while he inspects my dirt-dusted frame. “You’re not ready.”

Soil and compost cover the skirt of my dress, marring the green butterfly pattern where I’ve rubbed my hands against it after forgetting to don my apron. A twig is tucked behind my ear, holding a blooming bluebell in place against my hair. A glance at my reflection in the greenhouse wallsshows my skin freckled with dirt and sweat, a streak of mud gracing my cheek.

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