Noah
Scarlett, my Scarlett,
How are you, my heart? Do you think you could bring the roses here? I hate to think you and Constance put in all that work just to leave it behind. I promise you, when we get to Colorado, I’ll build you a garden you never have to move from and a shady place to sit and write on sunny days. I’ll build your happiness with my own two hands. God, I miss you. Hopefully I’ll find us some digs in the next few days, because I’m losing my mind here without you. Kiss our sweet boy for me.
I love you with my entire soul,
Jameson
Use the opt-out.
That wasn’t going to happen. I signed a contract that I’d complete the book, and I would. But keeping my word meant getting closer to the only woman who made me want to kiss the shit out of her as she drove me up a wall.
This was dangerous territory, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. Georgia had me just as knotted up about her as I was the damned book. The two were so closely intertwined that I couldn’t separate them. She was just as stubborn as Scarlett had been the first time Jameson met her, but unlike Jameson, I didn’t have a Constance to help me out.
Unlike Scarlett, Georgia had already had her trust and heart broken.
I was zero for two when it came to Georgia, and at an impasse when it came to the book.
Georgia was right. Scarlett wasn’t a character; she was a real person
who had really loved Georgia. Given what I’d seen from her mother and the asshole ex, she might have been the only person in the world who had truly, unconditionally loved Georgia.
That’s what I kept in mind as I stood on Georgia’s front porch with one last pitch and an armful of what I hoped would be goodwill. I’d been in Colorado for two weeks, climbed two easy fourteeners, and as of yesterday, I had two plot lines ready to write. In a few days, I’d only have two months until my deadline.
“Hey,” she said with an awkward smile as she opened the door.
“Thanks for seeing me.” One day I would get used to those eyes knocking me off my feet, but today was not that day. Her hair was up, too, revealing the long line of her neck. I wanted to run my lips along the column, then— Knock it off.
“No problem, come on in.” She stepped back, and I walked through the door.
“This is for you.” I handed over the muslin-covered root ball carefully so she didn’t prick herself on the thorns of the plant above. “It’s an English tea rose, aptly named Scarlett Knight. I thought you might like it for the garden.” It was quite possibly the most awkward gift I’d ever given, but here I was giving it, because I somehow sensed that even a tiny blue box wouldn’t move this woman.
“Oh! Thank you.” She smiled, real and true as she took the plant, appraising it with a gardener’s eye. I knew that eye well. My mother had it. “It’s lovely.”
“You’re welcome.” My gaze skipped over the table in the entry, catching on the vase. The edges of the glass wave had the same frothy texture as the piece in New York. “You made this, didn’t you?”
Her attention shifted from the rosebush to the vase. “Yes. Right after I got back from Murano. I spent a summer apprenticing there after freshman year.”
“Wow. It’s remarkable.” How did someone capable of doing that just stop? And what kind of man married a woman with that kind of fire and
then systematically snuffed it out?
“Thanks. I love that one.” A wistful look crossed her face. “Do you miss it? Sculpting?”
“Lately.” She nodded. “I found the perfect space for a studio, but I can’t justify the cost.”
“You should. I’m sure you’d have no trouble selling pieces. Hell, I’d be your first customer.”
Her gaze jumped to mine, and there it was again, the indescribable connection that kept me up at night, thinking about her. “I should put this in the greenhouse.”
“I’ll come with,” I offered, swallowing back the ball of nerves that had worked its way up my throat like I was sixteen again.
“Okay.” She led me through the kitchen and out the back door, but instead of heading straight into the garden, she turned left, walking me along the patio to the greenhouse.
The blast of humidity was almost enough to make me homesick as I followed her into the glass building. Both the size and variety of flowers in here were impressive. The floor was cobblestoned moss rock, and there was even a small fountain in the center, blocking out any potential noises from the outside world with the steady trickle of water.
“Do you maintain this yourself?” I asked as she carried the rosebush to a potting bench.
“God, no.” She snorted. “I might know a thing or two about plants, but Gran was the gardener. I hired a professional about five years ago when she finally started to slow down.”
“At ninety-five,” I added.
“She was pretty unstoppable.” Her smile was instant and had the added bonus of acting like a vise around my chest. “She got so mad at me, too. Said I was making assumptions about her health. I argued that I was simply freeing up the time it took her to water.”
“You were making assumptions about her health.” The corners of my lips tugged upward.
“She was ninety-five; can you blame me?” She set the rosebush down on the bench. “I’ll pot it later.”
“I don’t mind waiting.” Or delaying what I was about to offer her. Somehow Georgia had mastered what college and deadlines had failed to do: she’d turned me into a procrastinator.
“You sure?”
“Positive. And I’m the last person to tell you about rosebushes, but I thought this guy was more of an outdoor one?” At least that was what the picture online had shown.
“Well, yeah, usually. But it’s almost October. I’d hate to stick him in the ground and hope for the best when his little root system wouldn’t have had a chance to develop before the first frost.” She opened the large cabinet next to the shed and hauled out a container and a various assortment of small bags.
“So you’re saying it’s a bad gift?” I half teased. Shit. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
Her cheeks pinkened. “No, I’m saying it has to live in the greenhouse until spring.”
“Can I help?”
“You don’t mind getting dirty?” She took in my athletic pants and long- sleeved Mets tee.
“I prefer dirty.” I shrugged with a grin.
“Grab the potting soil.” She rolled her eyes as she rolled up her sleeves.
I pushed my sleeves up and walked over to the cabinet, which was much deeper than it initially looked. There were at least three different bags along the bottom.
“Which one?”
“The one that says ‘potting soil.’”
“They all say ‘potting soil.’” I met her teasing gaze with a raised eyebrow.
She leaned around my side, brushing against my arm as she pointed to the blue bag on the left. “That one, please.”
We locked eyes, and the inches between us charged. She was close enough to kiss—not that I was going to do something that reckless, but damn did I want to.
“Got it.” My gaze dropped to her lips.
“Thanks.” She stepped away as color flushed from her neck to her cheeks. She wasn’t immune to me, either, but I’d known that from the second our eyes met in the bookstore. It didn’t mean she wanted to act on it.
I grabbed the right bag, then ripped the top open and poured it into the container when she told me to.
“That’s perfect.” She stepped in and added handfuls from the various smaller bags, then mixed it all together.
“This feels very complicated.” It was fascinating to watch her pick and choose from the soil amendments.
“It’s not,” she said with a shrug, using her bare hands to plant the rosebush. “Plants are way easier than people. If you know what plant you’re working with, then you know what pH it likes the soil to be. If it likes it well drained, or saturated. If it prefers nitrogen or needs a calcium boost. Does it like full sun? Part sun? Shade? Plants tell you what they need right off the bat, and if you give it to them, they grow. They’re predicable that way.” She leveled the soil out carefully, then washed her hands at the potting bench sink.
“People can be predictable, too.” I hefted the now half-empty bag back to the shed. “If you know how someone was damaged, you have a good idea of how they’ll react in a situation.”
“True, but how often do you know someone’s damage before you start that relationship? It’s not like we all walk around with warning labels on our foreheads.”
I leaned back against the bench as she filled the watering can. “I like that idea. Warning—narcissist. Warning—impulsive. Warning—listens to Nickelback.”
She laughed, and an ache flared in my chest, demanding to hear the sound again. “What would yours read?” she asked.
“You first.”
“Hmm…” She shut off the faucet, then lifted and tipped the watering can over the rosebush. “Warning—trust issues.” She lifted a brow at me.
That made perfect sense. “Warning—always right.”
She scoffed, finishing up with the can.
“I’m serious. I have a really hard time admitting I’m wrong, even to myself. I’m also a control freak.”
“Well, you’re wearing a Mets shirt, so at least you chose the right New York team.” She smiled and put the can back on the bench.
“I grew up in the Bronx. There is no other team. I keep forgetting that you lived in New York.” The pictures I’d seen of her from the net showed a glossed and polished Georgia, not the gardener with a messy bun and ripped jeans. Not that I should have been looking at her jeans or the way her ass filled them out…but I was.
“From the day I got married until the day I met you, actually.” Her smile faded and she crossed her arms over her chest. “So what exactly did you want to talk to me about? Because I know you didn’t go to the trouble of ordering that rosebush just to deliver it. I saw the label.”
Here went nothing.
“Right.” I scratched the back of my neck. “I want to make a deal.” “What kind of deal?” Her eyes narrowed. That was quick.
“The kind where I ultimately get more than you do, admittedly.” My lips flattened.
Her eyes flared with surprise. “Well, at least you admit it. Okay, shoot.” “I think we both need to get out of our comfort zones when it comes to
dealing with each other and this book. I’m not used to having someone dictate my endings, let alone an entire story, since two-thirds of it is already written, and you don’t trust me farther than you can throw me.”
Her head tilted slightly, not bothering to deny it. “What do you have in mind?”
“I will spend some time getting to know Scarlett—not just the character
she wrote herself as in the book, but the real woman, and then I’ll write two endings. One will be the one I want, and the other will be what I’m known for—what you want. You can choose between the two.” I grabbed my ego in a choke hold to keep the asshole quiet.
“And I have to…” She lifted her brow.
“Go rock climbing. With me. It’s a trust thing.” Smooth. Real smooth.
“You want me to put my life in your hands.” She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable.
“I want you to put Scarlett’s life in my hands, which I think starts with yours.” Because she valued Scarlett’s more. That’s what the trip to the gazebo and the internet had taught me. She was ruthlessly protective of her great-grandmother, while she’d allowed her husband out of their marriage with little to no consequence.
“And the final decision is still mine?” she clarified, her forehead crinkling.
“One hundred percent, but you have to agree to read both endings before you decide.” I’d win her over one way or another. I just had to get her to read it my way.
“Deal.”
