Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I say, and my smile takes over my face. No, it steals my entire afternoon.
He bypasses the cooler holding bouquets of flowers. Those are probably tougher to memorize, since they must change more regularly.
But he finishes at a high white wooden table teeming with bouquets of irises. “Lilacs aren’t in bloom now in California. But irises are.”
My heart is too big for my chest. “This is incredible, and I needed this so much,” I tell him, and he deserves to know why. “You asked what’s wrong. The women in the knitting club are placing bets on how fast I fail.”
I tell him everything. His eyes burn with fire.
“They’re not betting on how fast you fail. They’re betting on how quickly we fail,” he says, his voice as protective as it was that day at the romance fair.
My heart softens, but the reality is I know it’s me they’re betting against. “No, Corbin, they think you’re a success. They think I’m a joke.”
Stepping closer, he slides a thumb across my jaw. My chest flips. “But you’re not a joke, and we are going to prove them all wrong. Together.” Then he says, “Do you like flowers?”
“Of course I do.”
“I had a feeling. That’s why I wanted to show you the irises. They’re close to your favorite color. Let’s put them in the bakery. I think we should have some flowers there every day, and they should be in your favorite color.”
All at once, he’s turned my day completely around.
When he buys a bouquet of irises, the woman at the register—Annabelle—smiles at him like she knows something. “Told you,” she says to Corbin, her dark eyes twinkling.
“Annabelle,” he warns.
I don’t know what she knows, but I like her already, especially when she says to me, “That was one hell of a London Fog cake you made.”
“Thank you.” Then it hits me—she’s the someone he asked about the color of the London Fog cake I left on his doorstep as we were getting started. She must matter to him if he put himself out there in that way. A fond feeling digs into my breastbone.
Corbin nods to the back of the shop. “There’s a garden out back. Want to see it?”
“How can you even ask?”
He sets a hand on my back and guides me along a skinny hallway, past boxes of plant food. “I also took the liberty to bring a little something along.”
My brow knits. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe we don’t want to wait for opening day to read another letter. I hope you don’t mind. But I think you popping into other businesses and saying hello is a milestone and deserves—”
“A cookie?” I ask, anticipation bouncing inside of me.
He pats his back pocket as we reach the door and stop. “I took one.”
“Did you read it already?” I’m only a little worried. It doesn’t seem like his style, but I need to ask.
“What do you take me for? A guy who has no patience?”
Considering I’m ahead in the O department, he clearly has plenty of self-control. “Nope.”
He opens the door into a tiny garden, teeming with winter jasmine and white lilies stretching toward the sun. A small Japanese maple stands proudly in a corner, and a green slatted bench commands the center of this emerald enclave.
“This is incredible,” I say, soaking in this refuge in the middle of this small town.
“Glad you like it,” he says, pride and something else in his voice.
Something that makes me feel warm and shimmery. It’s a feeling I could get lost in though. A feeling that could distract me from my business, my plans, my dreams.
“All right. What have you got?” I ask, heading to the bench and patting the seat next to me.
He joins me, takes the letter from his back pocket, and carefully unfolds it. My fingers are tingling to touch it, this lovely artifact from a romance decades ago. “It was already folded,” he explains. “Don’t want you to think I put a crease in it.”
“I would never think such a thing,” I say, eager to learn what happened next for the young lovers.
Corbin hands it to me. “It’s yours.”
But it feels like ours, especially when I read the first two words.
Dear Harriet.
“It’s to her,” I say breathlessly. “He wrote it to her.” I feel like I’m holding a piece of history—someone’s personal history. It’s a privilege, this sneak peek into another century, another love affair.
I offer it to Corbin. “You read it out loud.”
He takes the paper, clears his throat, and reads.
Dear Harriet,
Today was a tough day. Calls like that are always hard. The things we have to do in our line of work are never easy. But you’re brave, and you made a difference in our community.
I sensed it was hard for you, though, the way the other guys didn’t seem to want to let you do things—even things rookie firefighters do, like pulling hose lines.