Sutton

SULLY: It's happening then? Yoga on the farm?

VIVI: Did Sully really just initiate a group chat?

SUTTON: Holy shit, he did!

FINN: A man will do anything for an ass in yoga pants.

CHARLIE: Second that.

JJ: Pigs.

JENSEN: It'll be respectable, right, Sutton?

SUTTON: You know it, brother. Above board and the utmost professionalism. No butts will be harmed on my watch.

SULLY: So when is the class?

JJ: Suddenly have a thing for yoga?

SULLY: It's not sudden, Double J. I've been a longtime fan.

SUTTON: It's strictly a creep-free zone. All of my brothers are banned.

FINN: Boooo.

CHARLIE: Not cool, man.

SULLY: I guess I'll have to find a new favorite sister.

As I read through the text exchange, I roll my eyes and set my phone face down on the table, wishing I'd opted for shorts with pockets instead of the sundress. At least the lightweight material is much more breathable and tolerable in this heat. Gathering all my hair in my hands, I pile it on top of my head and sigh as the breeze brushes across the damp skin of my neck. The temperature is already teetering toward sweltering and it's barely midmorning.

"Why don't you just put your hair up instead of always holding it like that?" Frannie asks as she reappears at our booth at the farmer's market.

Every Saturday we host a farmer's market on the farm, where the locals from Lake Hope and neighboring towns set up booths with their items to sell. The Flower Shop always has a booth, and I take a turn working it once a month. My helper today is the lovely teenager who likes to pretend she's my younger sister rather than my employee.

"I wish, but I always get a headache when I have my hair up. My stupid head is too sensitive."

"What about braids?"

"Braids are usually fine for a while. Although even braids start bothering me eventually. I don't get headaches, but my scalp starts tingling as if its pissed at me for corralling my hair." I release my hair, the locks falling back over my shoulders, the sensation of a warm blanket wrapped around my neck instantly returning. "But I'm pretty terrible at braids, so I don't usually bother."

"Here, let me," Frannie says, pulling out a stool and motioning for me to sit. She digs in her bag, fishing out a brush and a few hair ties. She taps the brush on the stool. "Sit."

Once I'm seated on the stool before her, she parts my hair down the middle, sectioning off one half with an elastic hair tie, and then works her brush through the other part. I can feel her fingers at the top of my scalp as she begins French braiding the left side of my head, and I close my eyes enjoying the sensation. It brings me right back to my childhood with my stepmom doing this exact same thing.

Frannie quickly braids all the way down, secures it, and starts to work on the other section. A few moments later, she taps my head with the brush in the same fashion she had on the stool.

"All done. Two French braids for you just like my mom did every single day for me when I was in second grade."

I laugh. "Every day, huh?" I retrieve my phone and flip the camera around to use it like a mirror. "Impressive, Frannie. Impressive."

"Oooh hottie alert," she whistles between her teeth. It's only the fourth or fifth hottie alert she's issued this morning, so I don't pay much attention. The girl's got good taste, but the hottie usually turns out to be a dead end.

The first hottie today wore a wedding band. The second one was buying flowers for his girlfriend. The third had promise until a beautiful redhead joined him only moments after he arrived at our booth. And so on. You get the point. Plus, there really is only one hottie on my mind these days, and he is the ultimate dead end.

"Are you wanting to buy flowers for a special someone today?" Frannie questions the newcomer, and I busy myself with tidying the flower arrangements on the booth.

The man chuckles, and I still, my body instantly ramrod straight. I'd recognize that sound anywhere, the deep baritone rumble.

"Actually," the man says, and I swear I feel the sound of the voice on my neck, goosebumps prickling my skin. I shudder, and then I try to recover by subtly shimmying my body as I turn to greet the customer. Our eyes meet, his hazel eyes sparkling under the shade of his hat. He finishes his sentence looking directly at me, amusement lifting his lips. "I can't get this particular special someone flowers."

Frannie looks between us, tilting her head as she tries to work out what she's missing. Finally, she asks, "Why can't you?"

Kelly smirks, his gaze still trained on me. "It would be like giving chocolate to a girl who works at a chocolate factory."

"But," I hedge, leaning against a table. I circle the end of one of my braids around my fingers. "If you were to buy this special someone flowers, what would you pick?"

He removes the worn ball cap, combing his fingers through his hair. His cheeks puff out as he takes a gulp of air and blows it out in a rush. Holding his hat by the brim with both his hands, he smiles, and I swear the gesture is a bit shy. I'm not used to seeing Kelly unsure of himself, and I almost rescue him, but he plops the hat back on his head and nods.

"Well," he says as he walks around the varying bundles of flowers, "she's loud and sassy. Some would say she's a brat." He pauses to cock his head in my direction, a smirk dusting his mouth, all signs of insecurity long gone. "I wouldn't, of course. She is my special someone, after all."

He plucks a handful of bright yellow craspedia out of a big vase, and I smile. Billy balls, as they're more widely know, happen to be one of my favorite flowers. He points the yellow balls in my direction. "Yellow because of her sunshiny energy, even when it's annoying as hell sometimes."

He moves around the booth some more, studying the flowers we thoughtfully arranged early this morning. He fingers a red dahlia before lifting a few from the vase and intertwining them with the other flowers in his hand. "Red," he says, lifting his eyes to me, "for her amazing ability to go from cold to hot in a split second. Fiery."

Next, he selects some white cosmos from a bunch, arranging them with the bundle in his hand. "White for youth. Not to be confused with innocence." He quirks a corner of his mouth, and he laughs when he catches me rolling my eyes.

"And to tie it all together," he says, stopping in front of the purple fountain grass container. He runs a finger over the fuzzy foliage before pulling out a small handful of the grass and weaving them between the growing bundle of flowers in his hands. "Something soft and subtle, the secret side she hides from the world."

Kelly messes with the flowers as he walks around the table, stopping just a few paces shy of me. Extending the hand-picked bouquet of mismatched flowers to me, he lowers his voice to an almost whisper as he says, "But, like I said, I couldn't give this special someone flowers. It'd have to be something different."

I take the flowers from him, immediately bringing them to my nose, the scent a distant thought in the turmoil of my spinning brain. "I don't know," I say, blinking away the myriad of confusing thoughts, "I bet the girl at the chocolate factory would still appreciate chocolate. I mean, it is chocolate, right?"

He grins at my words, reaching out to tug on a braid. "Cute hair, baby girl. Suits you."

After Kelly leaves, Frannie collapses onto the stool, her eyes wide. "What. The. Actual. Fuck. Was. That?"

Ignoring her, I fish out a small vase and fill it with water, carefully arranging the bouquet, and set it aside with my purse. All morning I find my eyes roaming back to the flowers, a smile tilting my lips at the sight of it. Yeah, I'm fairly certain the girl at the chocolate factory would definitely appreciate chocolate.

-

THE FAINT WARM GLOW FROM THE BEDSIDE lamp dimly lights my bedroom, casting shadows around the perimeter of the room. Setting my sweating glass of water on my nightstand, I see the bouquet of flowers I set there this afternoon after the farmer's market. I snap a quick picture of it before collapsing onto my bed sideways, and then I text the picture to Kelly.

ME: No one bought this eccentric bouquet and I couldn't stand to throw it out.

KELLY: By eccentric, you mean beautifully unique, right?

ME: The unique part is spot on.

KELLY: Liar.

I admit, although I probably wouldn't have thought to pair those particular flowers together, it oddly works. It may be my favorite arrangement ever judging by the amount of time I've found myself looking at it. See, I'm doing it again, I catch myself and force my eyes away. Just then my phone buzzes with another text.

KELLY: You busy tomorrow?

ME: Just my Sunday laundry marathon to attend to.

KELLY: Want to do me a favor?

ME: Maybe...? I don't know if we're the kind of friends that buries bodies together. If it's not that, I'm probably game.

KELLY: That's just rude. I'd bury a body for you.

ME: Good to know. For next time.

KELLY: Come with me to Maybury tomorrow. I want to pick out samples for the house.

ME: Since we're even now, that means you'll owe me.

KELLY: I can live with that. I'm ok with favors. I might just need help burying a body someday.

ME: I feel like you have friends better suited for that. Like my brother, for example. I may look super strong with these beefy arms, but don't be fooled. I'd be no good with a shovel.

KELLY: Baby girl, those arms are anything but beefy.

ME: Now who's rude?

KELLY: Will you or won't you help me tomorrow?

ME: Fine. But don't think these arms will doing any heavy lifting now.

KELLY: I'll pick you up at 9:00.

ME: AM? As in the morning?

KELLY: Yes, Sutton. 9 am.

ME: Kelly, you realize it's the weekend, right? Sundays are for sleeping in.

KELLY: 9:00 is hardly early. Don't be a brat.

ME: Fine. Now you really owe me, though. You'll have to bring coffee.

ME: And donuts.

ME: None of those boring glazed kind you like. I want chocolate.

ME: And sprinkles.

KELLY: Anything else? *princess emoji*

ME: *eye roll emoji*

KELLY: Sleep tight, baby girl.

-

I'M LICKING THE CHOCOLATE FROM THE DONUT off my fingers while Kelly circles the block looking for a parking spot. As promised, he greeted me this morning with donuts and coffee and I dug in immediately, helping myself to a couple chocolate frosted ones with rainbow sprinkles.

"There's a spot," I call, pointing to an empty space along the curb between two vehicles.

He eyes me briefly as he drives by it, and I grin. "You can't parallel park, can you?"

He ignores me and turns down a less busy road, pulling into a spot and parking. "I guess we're walking 300 miles. Good thing I wore my comfy sandals."

Kelly joins me on the sidewalk after we exit his truck. I'm already regretting my decision to take out yesterday's braids. They had that slept-on look with pieces falling out to frame my face and frizzy curls at the roots and neck. I contemplated getting another day out of the braids, and my poor decision is apparent when the humid August heat instantly sucks the breath out of me. I lift my hair up on top of my head out of habit, but there's no comforting breeze to be had. Just stale air. Like a sauna.

We trudge through the sauna side by side, and I bump my hip to his. "I think I should add ice cream to the list. An added fee on account of the miserable working conditions."

He glances at me briefly, shaking his head. "You're expensive. And demanding. And slightly ungrateful."

"I thanked you. Like a hundred times as I shoved all the donuts into my mouth," I say, grabbing his forearm to stop him, outraged. "Or maybe your old man ears didn't hear me."

He stares down at me as I smirk up at him. I swear his eyes roam down my face, pausing on my mouth for a moment, before meeting mine again. Or maybe it's my eyes that wandered. Shit, that was totally me. I look behind him, and my eyes widen. In my preoccupation with the heat, I wasn't paying attention to our surroundings. It's only now that I notice where we are. I turn around to check behind me. Yep, the little café I've been frequenting for weeks now on and off sits across the street. I can see my usual table; and I stare at it a minute, perplexed.

"Huh," I sigh softly.

I feel Kelly's warm hand on my neck, his fingers weaving into my hair, as he steps up beside me. Staring across the street, he asks, "What are we looking at?"

I glance up at him. "Don't you recognize it?" I ask, gesturing across the street.

Lines on his forehead crinkles. Then he nods, turning his attention to me. "It's where I ran into you that one random day." He squeezes my neck gently once before releasing his grip to partially turn next to me, then raises the hand to point to the building behind us. "So that means this is the place you've been obsessing over."

I turn to take in the large metallic sign on the side of the red brick building: Stiffelman, Ellis & Latham. I sigh. It's been a while since I've laid eyes on this place, and it brings all the feelings to the front again, a heavy, loaded weight.

Everyone keeps telling me to drop it, not understanding my point of view. I have wished several times over the months that I could just forget about it, move on, stop obsessing over it, but I carry it with me and can't seem to let it go. My uncle was trying to tell us something with the contents of his safety deposit box. Knowing him, he probably set this up as a fun postmortem game, but I do believe it's a truth he wanted us to discover after he died. I'm not anticipating a happy story; rather, I'm bracing for the opposite. Uncle Don wasn't really known for his loving character. Not outright hateful, just not super pleasant to be around. So I am almost positive the story we do unfold has the potential to rock our worlds.

Yet, my need to know drives me forward anyway.

"I think I'm going to make an appointment with the dude. Maybe create a fake reason to need a lawyer," I say, turning back to face him to find an odd look on his face. His expression is questioning, almost concerned, with narrowed eyes, clenched jaw and lines crinkling his forehead. My statement resets his face, a slow blink before he widens his eyes, his brows shooting up.

"No."

"No?"

He nods. "No. That's a stupid idea, Sutton. It's stupid on so many levels. And what do you hope to accomplish by this anonymous meeting? How are you going to get any answers by pretending to need legal help? Why can't you just talk to him as you, the daughter of one of his exes?" By the end, he has crossed his arms over his body, his whole demeaner stiff.

It's my turn to blink at him. It's a good question. And I have an answer, but it's not one I want to admit out loud. To him. "Never mind," I sigh. "It was just an idea."

As I look into his hazel eyes, the gold specks burnt a darker color, I can tell he wants to press me; but I clock the moment he decides against it when he emits a soft sigh and his eyes fall down the length of my nose, breaking contact briefly, before connecting again. I duck my head to hide my smile, grateful I don't have to admit that although I'm obsessed with finding answers, I'm also terrified. What if I learn something awful about my mother, a woman I never knew and always harbored a deep curiosity about? What if she turns out to be someone I wouldn't have liked?

As much as I want to learn the truth, I also kind of don't.

Kelly takes my hand in his, tugging me forward. As we walk down the sidewalk, he glances down at me and then shakes his head before looking away. "I'm guessing it's pointless to make you promise you won't set up a fake meeting?"

I shove him lightly, laughing. "Don't worry your pretty face, Kelly." I lunge onto his back, my hands on his shoulders to hoist my body up to circle my legs around his waist.

"What? Are you five?" he grunts, his hands instinctually grabbing my thighs.

"Stop being a grouch. Live a little."

In response, he reaches up to grab my ass and hoists me up on his hips, then secures my legs at his waist, leaving his hand tucked under my knees. I steal the hat off his head and plunk it on mine backwards. Then I rest my chin on top of his head. I'm immediately struck by the smell of his shampoo, the masculine scent causing me to sigh. I sniff openly. "You smell good, Kelly Ledger."

He tilts his head to bring his mouth to my arm that circles around his neck, nipping it lightly. "You taste good, Sutton Anderson."

He carries me the few blocks to the hardware store, patting my butt once we reach the door to signal the end of my ride. I hop down and straighten out the slightly wrinkled mint romper. While I'm distracted, Kelly reclaims his hat, and then, with a hand on my lower back, he ushers me inside the store. The instant the cold air hits me, I physically slump my shoulders.

"Sweet relief," I whisper.

He's grinning down at me, amusement twinkling in his eyes, when he taps my butt lightly. "Let's go."

I skip to catch up to him, my steps double to keep up to his long strides, and it takes me a few moments to steer my mind away from spiraling down the mental rabbit hole threatening to take hold. Later. I can think about the all-too-innocent ass touch later. When I'm alone. Away from the consuming presence of this man. Surely, I'll be more clear-headed then and be able to clearly see there isn't any secret meaning to be found in the inconsequential action. He merely meant to move me along.

He peers over his shoulder at me, then slows his steps to fall in step beside me. His raised eyebrow is the only question he presents me. I roll my eyes at him in an attempt to regain the upper hand. "So," I say, bumping my shoulder into him. "What's the game plan?"

"Game plan?"

"Yeah. Game plan. You know, what is our plan of attack? Stick together or divide and conquer?"

"This is why I shop with dudes. There's no plan. We just show up, get our shit and leave."

I stop him with a hand on his bicep, the muscles hard beneath my hand. I fight the urge to explore the arm further, and push him to the side so we're not disrupting the flow of traffic. "Kelly, do you mean to tell me you don't even know what you're looking for?"

Glaring down at me, he crosses his arms over his chest. "Of course I know what I'm looking for. I need samples for flooring, wall and cabinet colors. I thought that was obvious."

"How was that obvious? You never once mentioned any of that to me. You do know I can't read the thoughts in your head, right? You actually have to spit them out. With words. By talking. Out loud. To me."

He stares, unblinking, at me for a few seconds before reaching out and circling a hand around the back of my neck, lightly shoving my head into his chest. His scent instantly hits me, and I inhale a large gulp, resting my forehead against the fabric of his faded green shirt. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around his waist. We still for a space of a moment that feels like minutes but in reality is mere seconds, but in that time I am almost certain I hear the faintest sound of sniffing and feel the softest caress of his face ghosting over the crown of my head. But then the time resumes its usual speed and feel the rumble of his laugh against me.

"Sutton," he groans, snuffing the moment by separating our bodies with a light push of his hands on my upper arms. With a final squeeze, he severs our connection completely. "I swear you do and say shit just to piss me off."

"Actually, Kelly," I rebut, combing a hand through my hair, smoothing down the rogue hairs, "I can honestly say I do not put that much energy into my days. If something I do or say pisses you off, it's just an added bonus. But, in this instance particularly, I truly do need you to use your big boy words and tell me what you need from me. What am I looking for? What kind of flooring and colors do you want?"

"Here," he says, snatching my hand with a heavy sigh, leading me down the brightly lit aisle of the hardware store. "I'll show you my ideas on flooring and then you can go to town on the paint color selections."

In the flooring section, he points out a few options. "I was initially thinking either whitewashed or gray, like these." He shows me a sample of a whitewashed white oak flooring, but before he can reach another example, I stop him and take the sample.

"This one for sure. It'd look perfect with all that natural light coming in." I finger the engineered wood, the surface smooth beneath my fingers. "What colors are you thinking for the walls and cabinets then?"

He shrugs. "No idea."

"Really?"

He shrugs again. "That's why I brought you. I'm going to find someone to talk to about this flooring if you want to look at paint colors. Then I'll meet you there."

"Ha! You do have a plan. Divide and conquer." I grin up at him and he shoves me away with a gentle push on my stomach.

"Go. I'll be there in a minute."

Chuckling, I walk away from him, but before I can get far, I hear him call behind me, "And, baby girl?"

I pause, looking over my shoulder. "Yeah, Kelly?"

"Try to behave, yeah?"

With a smirk, I resume walking, throwing a hand at him over my shoulder. "No promises!"

I sift through the wall of paint swatches, snatching up whatever color card attracts me at first before narrowing down my colors to either soft neutrals or a bolder blue. I'm looking at a card with a variety of soft grays when a voice interrupts my inner dialogue.

"Are you finding everything you need?" a worker asks. He's a tall, lanky young man in his early to mid-twenties.

The question scares me, and I jump, causing me to drop all the paper cards in my hands. We both watch as they flutter to the floor. "Jesus," I gasp. "You scared me."

"Shit," he cusses. "Sorry. Here, let me help you." He sinks to the ground next to me, gathering up the swatches. When we rise to our feet, he hands them to me.

"Thanks," I say, arranging the swatches by color in my hand.

"So what are you painting?" the guy starts to ask but is interrupted when Kelly walks up on us, inserting his body between us. Kelly's intrusion causes the guy to take a few steps back to make room for the extra person. I feel Kelly's body pressed against me, his hand on my lower back.

"We're good," Kelly says dismissively to the guy, his hand rubbing circles on my back as he turns to me, effectively shutting the guy out.

Once we're alone in the aisle, a laugh burst out of me, and I bury my face in his arm to stifle it. "What the hell was that?" I ask against his shirt. When there's no answer, I look up at him.

"What?"

"That!" I point to the empty spot the worker had occupied. "He was just trying to help."

"Don't play dumb, Sutton. He was practically eye-fucking you. All he was interested in was getting in your pants." His expression as he glares down at me is hard, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

I scoff. "You're a pig. Not every guy is a creep." I assume a defensive stance, resting my hand on my jutted-out hip.

"Oh yeah, baby girl? So you're telling me he wasn't undressing you in his mind? Where were his eyes?" He gestures from my neck up. "Were they here on your pretty face?" He gestures from neck down, his eyes following. "Or here on your hot body?"

I feel my cheeks heat as his eyes do an obvious perusal of my body. I don't look away when his eyes finally meet mine, refusing to show any semblance of intimidation from his actions, although my body thrums and my mind is abuzz. "So maybe he got some material for his spank bank." I shrug with a fake nonchalance. "Good for him."

He curses, pulling off his hat and jerking a hand through his hair. Ignoring my comment, he changes the subject. "Did you get enough samples?"

I look down at the swatches in my hand and nod. "Yeah, I think so."

Before I can elaborate on the topic, he tugs my arm. "Come on. Let's go then."

"Hey, wait," I protest, digging my heels in. "Don't you want to see my ideas?"

"You can show me later."

We walk through the store, his arm lightly gripping my wrist the whole way, and once we're back outside in the stifling heat, he pauses. "I believe I owe you ice cream. Although you just scarfed down two donuts. Are you sure you don't want an actual meal?"

I look at him incredulously. "What kind of question even is that? Who picks a meal over ice cream? And donuts on Sundays are free. They don't count. It's a free day. It's a do whatever the fuck you want day. So on Sundays we choose donuts—plural—ice cream for lunch and whatever else we fancy. Maybe I'll go buy a pie and eat it for supper. That's why Sunday is the best day of the week."

We resume walking down the sidewalk toward his truck. "Sunday is your favorite day?"

I glance up at him and wait until he's looking at me. "Uh yeah, did you miss the part where I can eat donuts, plural?"

After studying me for a moment, he admits, "You seem more like a Friday girl. A woo hoo, it's the weekend girl." His voice rises to mimic a cheerleader.

Rolling my eyes, I swat his arm. "Well, duh, Fridays are fun. But after a long week of work and then possibly—probably—going a little too hard on Friday, filling Saturday up with more shit, Sundays are like the sigh at the end of the week. Finally. We breathe." I take a big breath, exhaling slowly for emphasis.

"Is that what we're doing today. Breathing?" The corners of his lips turn upward, the skin around his eyes crinkling, and I realize he's teasing me.

"Not in this sauna. It's too fucking hot."

He laughs, and I swear I can feel that deep rumble, the ghost of its presence on my body from earlier haunting me. And I know with 100% certainty that I will be entertaining that mental spiral down the rabbit hole tonight as I lay in bed, dissecting this whole day. Every touch. Every look. Every word. Looking for any signs that he is as far gone as me. Hoping and praying and obsessing that I'm not in this alone.