Page 95 of Wild Flower

Miranda:Just be patient. She’s still madly in love with you.

Miranda:And yes, I’ll call you later so you can help with the move.

* * *

An hour later, I’m walking up to the front of the mansion Archer is housesitting. I don’t see his car in the driveway, but most of the house is made of glass and there are definitely lights on.

I knock several times and when the deadbolt on the door finally clicks open, I let out a sigh of relief. Good, at least he’s just laying low.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls, man?” I ask as the door swings open, only—

It’s not Archer on the other side.

“Who the fuck are you?” snaps an older man in his fifties with thinning hair and the scowl to match his angry tone.

“Oh, uh …” I step back, completely thrown. “Is—” But I bite my tongue. Is this the actual owner of this house? Was Archer telling the truth about housesitting? Or were we trespassing every time we were here?

“Wait,” the man in the doorway says, pointing at my face. “I know you.”

“You—you do?”

“You’re that fucking photographer.”

My heart leaps into my throat. What is he talking about? I’ve never seen this man before. “Excuse me?”

The man steps back and grabs something from the table in the entryway, turning it to face me. “You’re the asshole who took this picture.”

Clutched in the man’s hand is the local newspaper, the one that interviewed me at the photography opening. Printed at the top is a picture from the event of me standing in my featured section of the gallery, and behind me is the photo of Archer and Becca against the window. The man in the doorway doesn’t point at me in the photo. He points at the image taken in his house.

“It seems you’ve been here before,” the man hisses. “That window might not be recognizable to anyone else, but it sure is to me!”

Oh, fuck!

“Yeah,” the man nods, reacting to the horror on my face. “That’s right. You were dumb enough to put evidence of breaking and entering into your university show, and you even let the paper photograph it. Kids these days are idiots!”

“Wait,” I hold my hands up in defense. “My friend was housesitting for you and—”

“Your friend’s been fired!”

“What?”

“You think I’m okay with this?” He points to the paper. “You stroll up here, banging on my door like you own the place!” He scoffs. “I don’t want to see you or your friend ever again! Now get off my property, before I call the cops and press charges for this bullshit.”

“Do you know where Archer went?” I ask desperately, back pedaling.

“I don’t care.” The man slams the door, leaving me stumbling back as adrenaline pounds through my system.

Fuck.That guy better not press charges. How stupid am I? Why did I put that photo in the show? Archer told me this wasn’t his house, but did I think? Not for a second. I was so blindsided by Katz liking my work that I didn’t even think about the fact that I didn’t have permission to be in this house.

And where is Archer? If he’s not here or Flambé, where else would he be?

57

BECCA

The reception flowers Miranda and I set up in the backyard of the Kaimea Estate are stunning. It’s a smaller, intimate wedding, but we went all out with the monstera palms and ginger heliconias, practically building abstract centerpieces made of flirty tropical sprays. The wedding planner, Kendall, is a new client to us, and she jumps for joy in a cute lemon-colored dress, singing our praises when we show her the finished product. She keeps saying cute things likeJumpin’ jellybeans those are the most amazing arrangements I’ve seen in my whole flippin’ life.She vows to use us for every wedding in the future, and I’m happy for a new client, especially one that will bring us repeat business.

I’m exhausted when Miranda and I return to the van. “I don’t want any more drama,” I confess, eyeing Miranda who’s looking at my phone. “I want a bottle of tequila and bed.”

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