One Bossy Offer (129)

He put so much thought into this and he wants me to know it.

“I appreciate it. It’s a striking gift, but how do I know you’ve really changed? Plants can’t make up for what happened in Seattle.”

His eyes narrow. “Would I be here groveling myself into a crater if I hadn’t changed?”

“You sent Coffee and Cream gourmet treats once. You’re just generous. I know that. The problem is, I need consistency. I need a man who wants a partnership, who can be on the same page, and we’re like characters living different stories. You’re high fantasy, and me, I’m—well, too silly to tame fire-breathing dragons or find forbidden treasure.”

His puzzled look hardens as I shut up.

A crumpled line appears between his eyebrows.

His mouth is twisted, and for a second, I think he might lose his shit like I’m losing mine.

The tears are merciless now, drowning me in a clammy heat that’s so intense I’m blind, even through the rain sprinkling from above.

This is harder than it should be.

I only get through it by remembering the way he gutted me in Seattle.

“We’re neighbors, Miles, and it’s probably best we’re neighbors from a distance. We share a border, but there’s plenty of space. We can live on this coastline without ever having to speak to each other.”

“We can’t even talk?” His bewildered look slays me.

It’s dark and conflicted, pain dredged up from his core.

“It’s just—” I have to turn away to keep from bursting into ugly tears so cruel they won’t let me speak. “It’s too much. Too painful. Look, I want this as bad as you do. In another life where we could merge lives, maybe it could work. But now... now, it’s impossible, and one of us has to admit it.”

I can’t even see straight at this point. So I walk back inside alone, leaving him standing in the garden with the rain dousing his dark hair into an unruly crop against his head.

I don’t get any real work done.

As soon as I head back to the cottage, I grab a bottle of wine and start upstairs, biting my bottom lip to silence the ruthless heartbreak.

I wait for Coffee and Cream to settle next to me before I pop the cork off and drink straight from the bottle.

I’m beyond giving a damn at this point.

For the first time since the inn opened, I realize it’s my entire life, and I don’t want it to be.





The next morning the doorbell rings just before we open.

I assume it’s a new guest showing up to check in or a delivery. But I open the door to find a delivery man with a bouquet of roses arranged in a crystal vase.

“There’s been a mistake. I didn’t order any flowers.”

“Someone must have sent them. You’re Jennifer Landers, right? There should be a card,” delivery dude says.

So begins a daily ritual that lasts for over a week.

The flowers come so often I’m on a first-name basis with the delivery driver.

Marcos.

“I’m running out of space for these and I don’t want to toss them all outside,” I say a few days later. “Any chance you could start dropping them off at a local church or homeless shelter or something?”

“No can do. I gotta go where the delivery gets routed, lady. Sorry.”

I nod. “Okay.”

He hands me another bunch of roses bigger than my head.

“At least all the guest rooms have fresh flowers, I guess.”

At least I no longer have a functioning heart to worry about.

“See you tomorrow, Jenn,” Marcos says with a smile.

The next day, when the doorbell rings before check-in, I just assume it’s more flowers. But when I open the door, it’s not Marcos the flower guy.

A man I haven’t seen before shoves a bulky tablet in my face. “Hi, need you to sign for this, ma’am.”

I blink. “This?”

He hooks his thumb over his shoulder and points behind him. There’s a large trailer parked in my driveway. On it, a shiny new boat in Bee Harbor colors with my logo painted on the side.

I go down leaning against the wall for support, seriously convinced I’ll black out for a hot second.

“No way. No flipping way. This—this is a mistake.”

He looks from the boat to the house and taps his tablet. “Right address. Right recipient. Seems like a pretty specific custom order. Don’t tell me I screwed up?”

“But I-I didn’t order a boat. I think I’d remember that.”

“Well, somebody did, and I just need a signature for delivery. I’m not here to take your money. It’s already paid in full.”

“...but I don’t have anywhere to keep it.”

“I was told there’s a crew restoring an old boathouse. I’m just supposed to leave it in the driveway and come move it once the work is complete.” He smiles.

“I’m sorry... did you say boathouse?”

He nods.

I didn’t even know I had a boathouse.

Then I remember the dilapidated structure near the beach.

Grandpa used to joke he kept his pirate treasure in there, and it looked like an accident waiting to happen. It’s been rotting and falling in my whole life, and now it’s so misshapen I never knew what it was actually supposed to be.