Page 62 of Someone to Hold
I load her cash box, business cards, and spools of twine into the basket on her scooter, then grab two more buckets of tulips before looking at her with a smirk. “I made a career out of getting on the backs of angry bulls. Every decision I made for about a decade was a calculated risk, if not a flat-out awful idea.”
She rolls her eyes. “When my mom died and I moved in with my grandparents, it was made very clear that I wasn’t wanted. They’d already raised their kid and weren’t looking to do it again. So I became useful. I helped on the farm and stayed out of the way. Never had much of a social life, but I had a roof over my head and a hot meal every night. When I started this flower business, I didn’t want my kids to feel obligated to carry the load just because I couldn’t.”
“I don’t think you’re in danger of turning them into indentured servants,” I tell her. “They want to help. You’re not forcing anything. Someday soon, they’ll be way too cool to be seen selling flowers with their mom. Take the labor while it’s still freely given.”
She gives me a sidelong glance. “Like yours?”
“I’m an indentured servant.”
“Stop pretending to be an asshole when we both know you’re not.”
“Wow.” I clasp a hand to my chest. “As compliments go, that was weirdly touching.”
“High praise indeed.” She shakes her head, but there’s a brightness in her eyes that makes them shine like emeralds. “Let’s sell some flowers.”
She looks at me from the corner of her eye, like she’s waiting for the moment I’ll change my mind. Like she’s still bracing for the part where wanting the same thing she does turns us into enemies.
I don’t say what I’m thinking—that I want her dream to come true more than I want my own. I’m not there yet. Or maybe I am, but I know she isn’t ready for that kind of risk. Not with someone like me. Someone who’s spent years keeping people at arm’s length because getting close means they can get hurt when the darkness I inherited from my old man decides to surface, like it has before. She’s already been through enough, and her kids don’t deserve a man who is bound to leave wreckage in his wake.
So I just carry the buckets and walk beside her, hoping she knows I’m not going anywhere.
Not yet, anyway.
19
MOLLY
I still don’t understandwhy Chase is so dedicated to helping me. Maybe I’m a fool for trusting him. But my heart, not to mention my body, refuses to believe that.
He remains close while the kids flit about the market, making sure I stay off my feet while he gathers blooms and wraps bouquets. The three hours go by in the blink of an eye, and during that time, more than a few people stop by the booth to talk to him. They all ask about his career or the latest rodeo, inevitably circling back to the same question: when is he getting back in the proverbial saddle?
I can see how much he hates those conversations. He tries to steer them back to me and the flowers, but it’s not easy.
An older man with a bushy gray mustache and a weathered ball cap shading his leathery face strolls up to the booth and plants himself right in front of Chase.
“Calhoun, what the hell are you doing here?” He shakes his head and adjusts the hat. “Why is one of the best damn bull riders in the country slingin’ daisies?”
Chase gives a tight smile. “Helping out a friend, Uncle Walt.”
Walt—as he quickly informs me—is not an actual uncle, butan “honorary” one, whatever that means. My hands curl into fists at my sides as he fires off questions like he’s been saving them for months. Chase is clearly uncomfortable. He keeps his tone polite, but his answers are short, and his eyes flick to mine more than once, like he’s hoping for an escape.
The mother bear instinct that normally only shows up when someone messes with my kids roars to life. For this man, who has been helping me without asking for anything in return.
I stand and use the scooter to move a few steps forward, clearing my throat until the older man turns to me, thick brows furrowed like he can’t understand what I could have to add to the conversation.
“Walt,” I say, voice calm but firm, “if you’re not planning on buying any flowers, it might be time to move on. I’m running a business here, not hosting an honorary family reunion.”
He blinks at me. “Well now, I didn’t mean?—”
“Of course not,” I cut in gently. “But I also need Chase to be able to give his attention to our paying customers.”
Walt rubs his thumb and forefinger across his mustache and gestures toward a bouquet of wildflowers like it’s a peace offering. “Uh…these’ll look nice on the table. For my wife.”
“Lovely choice.” I pluck them from the bucket and then wrap them in brown paper with more enthusiasm than necessary. I see Chase’s lips twitch as he watches the interaction.
Buying the bouquet gives Walt an excuse to linger, but fate throws me a bone in the form of Sadie and Ian. Nobody soaks up attention better than a former NFL star with a movie-star smile. I lock eyes with Sadie then tip my chin toward Uncle Walt, shooting her a silent plea for help.
Without missing a beat, she nudges Ian, who steps forward and claps Walt on the shoulder. “Hey there, buddy.”
