Page 11 of Red Flags Only

So. She knows that I am me, and apparently the me that I am is someone she considered to be a friend before she ever laid eyes on me.

Extroverts, I guess.

Usually I run into her at the grocery store, where she approximately doubles my shopping time. Brandi’s a chatty gal. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I like Brandi. She’s nice and she’s funny and she’s never once made me feel bad about myself. I don’t mind adjusting my Shopping Day Schedule to account for talking to her.

I do, however, mind having to adjust my Running Away From Jove schedule to talk to her. Every minute ofWow, this weather!small talk had me itchy, convinced he was just behind me waiting to pounce. Despite it being unseasonably warm for February, sweat was dripping down the back of my neck while my mind screamedEscape! Escape! Escape!

Blessedly, Brandi’s grumbling stomach cut our gabbing down to half of the usual, and I was able to pedal off to my house without any further delays and – even better – without seeing Jove again.

I park my bike on my porch, then grab the rope and make my way back down the porch steps to follow the mosaic stepping stones through an archway of vines and string lights that lead to my backyard, where I do my work.

Golden Fern is my pride and joy – the business as well as the greenhouse it resides in, which is made up entirely of recycled glass doors and windows. Jupiter, fancy pants rich author that she is – paid for it completely. A gift that wasboth extremely difficult and exceedingly easy to accept. After funding, it still took me ages to gather all of the building materials, and even longer to convince someone to build it for me, but in the end it was worth it.

I built planters along the perimeter of the structure to plant milkweed, honeysuckle, daisies, azaleas, lilacs, yarrow, and a whole host of other butterfly beloved plants in them. More mosaic garden stones create paths winding around the area, passing by benches and dogwood trees as well as a lone black willow tree. My backyard is a butterfly-filled paradise, accessible only through the vined path. Trees and shrubbery border every inch of the yard, making you feel as if you truly have stepped into another world.

I love it. Even now, sweaty and coming down from a Jove-induced panic, I can’t help but stop and admire the beauty I – and an incredibly reluctant contractor – have made.

Earthy, floral air fills my lungs as a comma butterfly flits past, the vibrant colors of its dorsal wings winking at me in the orange-pink glow of evening.

Right. So.

Maybe I won’t need that noose after all.

Chapter Six

To Do: Get Good… or Not.

Lyra

I may not need a noose, but I do need a plan.

I’ve spent the past week wallowing in self-pity like a total loser. So as I organize the ropes, pots, bags of soil, and little baby plants for tomorrow’s workshop, I brainstorm a plan. You know. If by brainstorming a plan I mean obsessively going over my interaction with Jove in the hardware store and checking over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t going to show up at the nursery to throw bricks through the many, many windows because I’ve upset him somehow.

Nevermind the fact that I’m 97% sure he only exacts revenge on people who do his brother wrong or the fact that I didn’t do anything particularly offensive during our short interaction – unless you count raining ropes on him, but that was really his fault, and he surely knows that. He’s scary, not stupid.

No, he’s not stupid, but I might be, looking over my shoulder every five minutes for a man I’m 97% sure isn’t going to actually do anything to me instead of figuring out how to stop crying all the time, get my life together, and generally be the type of person I’d like to be. That type of person being a better one than I am now or ever have been.

I restack a slightly wobbly pile of small pots and nibble at the inside of my cheek.

I wonder if Jove’s ever worried about being a better person.

The thought makes me let go of the death grip my teeth have on the sensitive inside lining of my mouth so that I can scoff. Jove Rogue has most definitely 100% absolutelyneverworried about being a better person. That man walks around broad shoulders firmly back, standing tall and confident in his unhinge. He has more hubris in his left pinky than the rest of the town combined – save Mars, probably, but I’m less sure that Mars is full of hubris about his and his brother’s probably-definitely criminal actions so much as pure, unadulterated glee.

How so much confidence infiltrated their bloodline but fully missed mine, I will never know.

I pause, hands hovering over a tray of tiny little succulents. Am I… jealous? OfJove?

I need to sit down.

Leaving my workbench – and my busywork – I do just that, wandering to the hanging wicker chair in the back corner of the greenhouse. The chain holding the giant, wildly comfortable egg creaks as I drop onto the forest-green cushion and pull my legs up to sit criss-cross-applesauce, flicking the skirt of my dress to hang down out of the chair instead of bunching in my lap. The chain sings another complaint as I lean back, settling against the green, brown, and pink pillows behind me.

As comfortable as I could possibly get in my physical body, I start the onerous task of making myself as mentally uncomfortable as I have ever been.

Jealous.

Of Jove.

For what, Lyra? For what would you be jealous of Joveabout? Because he’s confident? Lots of people are confident. Maybe just… not to the extent that he seems to be.

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