Was she up for this?

Flynn’s gaze was intent on her face as he closed the distance between them. He stopped a scant few inches away. Mel could feel his body heat. His beard was starting to grow through and shadowed his chin.

Her gaze slid to his mouth, tracing the sensuous curve of his lower lip. She’d been too scared to allow herself to even think about kissing him before, but now she let herself go there, wondering how it would feel to press her mouth to his, to feel his tongue inside her mouth, to taste him.

The thought alone made her knees weak. Hot desire unfurled inside her, foreign and familiar at the same time.

He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone, his fingers cradling her jaw. She swallowed, awash with nerves and lust and anticipation and fear.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“I do. I think it’s the best idea I’ve had for a long time.”

Dear Reader,

I’m not going to lie to you—this was a tough book to write. I’m not sure exactly why, but it took me a while to work out what Mel and Flynn both needed in life and from each other—but I’d like to think I got there in the end. By the time I’d finished writing, these people had become very real to me, and I hope that you feel the same after you finish reading.

I did a lot of research into Alzheimer’s disease for this book and read some incredibly heartwarming and moving stories written by both sufferers and their caregivers. I’d like to acknowledge the people who have shared their time and stories, and if this is something that is or has affected you or your loved ones, my best wishes go out to you—it’s a sad, tough road to travel.

The Summerlea Estate as imagined in this book does not exist in Mount Eliza, although there are a number of homes on the Mornington Peninsula that open their gardens to the public as part of the open garden’s scheme. I have been to one of them and could only marvel at the owners’ dedication to their six acres of beautifully landscaped and maintained gardens, complete with bridges, lily ponds and topiary. Edna Walling was a real person, and her gardens are still celebrated in Australia. As described in the book, her style was very “English,” with rustic stone fences and rambly pathways and lovely vistas.

I love hearing from readers, so drop me a line via my website, www.sarahmayberry.com.

Until next time, happy reading,

Sarah Mayberry

All They Need
Sarah Mayberry

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Mayberry lives in Melbourne with her husband in a house with a large garden by the sea. She loves to cook, read, go to the movies, shop for shoes and spend time with her friends and loved ones. She’s starting to love gardening, which is just as well, and she’s hoping to begin a major renovation on her house in the near future. Exciting times!

This one is for Wanda and Chris, the two best

hand-holders in the business. Thank you for the

long phone calls, the patience, the humor, the

meals, the tissue-passing and for your faith in me.

There were times when I was ready to sink rather

than swim, but you two were my lifeline.

Bless your little cotton socks!

Special mention also to Lisa

for brainstorming over the fence and

listening to my rambling monologues.

Go the steam press!

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

FLYNN RANDALL SWALLOWED a mouthful of champagne as he stepped through the French doors onto the terrace.

It was February and even though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, it was still warm. Sweat prickled beneath his arms and he tugged at the collar of his shirt as he surveyed the sea of people. Like him, the men were all in formal black and white, the perfect foil for the women in their colorful gowns. There must have been close to two hundred people congregating on the wide, long terrace and the sound of their laughter and chatter drowned out the jazz band playing on the lawn below.

He searched in vain for a familiar face but everyone looked the same in their penguin suits. He shrugged. The perils of arriving late.

He was about to start down the stairs to the lawn when someone called his name. He glanced over his shoulder. A tall redheaded man was waving at him.

“Tony. Good to see you,” Flynn said as he joined his friend.

“Bit late, aren’t you?” Tony said, tapping his watch.

“I’m a popular guy,” Flynn said, deadpan. “Gotta spread the love around.”

“I bet.”

Flynn kissed Tony’s wife, Gloria, before turning his attention to the tall, blond man standing next to her.

“This is a bit of a coincidence,” Owen Hunter said as Flynn shook his hand. “I’ve been trying to get an appointment to see your old man all week.”

It was said with a grin, but Flynn could see the glint in the other man’s eyes. What was that Shakespeare line his mother was always quoting? Cassius has a lean and hungry look.

In Flynn’s experience, Owen always looked hungry, despite the fact that there was nothing lean about him. He was as tall as Flynn and built like a football player. Flynn guessed women probably found him attractive, with his square jaw and very white teeth.

“Well, you know, my father’s a busy man.” Flynn raised his glass to his mouth.

“Don’t I know it,” the other man said ruefully.

Flynn smiled but didn’t pursue the subject, well aware that Hunter was waiting for Flynn to offer to set up an appointment. Owen Hunter had political ambitions; no doubt he planned to ask Flynn’s father for a donation.

Maybe Flynn was getting cranky in his old age, but he couldn’t help thinking that Hunter could have waited a few minutes before hitting him up for a favor. A little civility never hurt anyone.

A cry rose over the general hubbub, drawing people to the balustrade. Flynn drifted over with the rest of his group, idly curious. The lawn was six feet below, a lush green carpet dotted with yet more people. A large marble fountain sat in the center, decorated with cavorting cherubs and nymphs, many of whom spouted plumes into the wide, deep basin. The thing had to be well over ten feet tall, easily dominating the formal garden. Flynn winced, wondering where his hosts had found the monstrosity, before he shifted his attention to the source of the scream.

A couple he recognized as Andrea and Hamish Greggs were standing at the edge of the fountain, Andrea gripping the edge with both hands as she peered into the bubbling water. In their fifties, they were old friends of his parents and regulars on the social circuit. Towering over them both was Melanie Hunter, wearing a blush-colored gown, her hair in a sophisticated updo. Her face was creased with concern as she talked to the older couple.

She was easily the tallest woman at the party—at least six feet tall—with broad shoulders that would put a lot of men to shame. Her breasts were full and round, her hips curved. As much as Flynn was wary of Owen’s naked ambition, he’d always liked the other man’s wife. There was something about Mel Hunter that always made him want to smile. Maybe because she was often smiling herself.

“I wonder what happened?” Gloria murmured.

“Looks like someone’s lost something in the fountain,” Tony said.

“Isn’t that your wife, Owen?” Gloria asked.

“Yes, that’s Melanie,” Owen said. He was frowning, his gaze intent on the trio by the fountain.

“Shit,” Owen said, so quietly Flynn almost didn’t hear him.

He glanced at the other man briefly before returning his gaze to the lawn. He soon realized what had made Owen swear—his wife had stepped out of her shoes and was hitching up the skirt of her long dress. A crowd had started to gather, drawn by the promise of a spectacle.

Still talking to the older couple, Mel put a knee onto the waist-high rim of the fountain and boosted herself up so that she was balanced on both knees. She held out a hand and Hamish grasped it. Mel laughed, the sound floating up from the suddenly silent lawn—this was gripping stuff, much more interesting than any gossip that was being exchanged.

“Oh, dear. This has the potential to end badly,” Tony said with a smirk.

Flynn didn’t take his eyes off Mel as she leaned out over the water, while the older man used his weight as a counterbalance.

The crowd held its collective breath as she dipped her hand into the water and leaned farther and farther away from the rim, straining for all she was worth.

“Almost got it… There!” She pulled her arm from the water and the floodlights threw sparks off what looked like a diamond bracelet.

The crowd started to applaud—then Mel gave a startled yelp and fell into the fountain with a mighty splash. There was a communal gasp, followed by a wave of titters as she broke the surface. Her elegant updo had dissolved in the water and her dark hair hung in a tangled mess down her back. Mascara ran down her face as she pushed herself to her feet. Another round of titters washed through the crowd. The water had turned her blush gown translucent, leaving very little to the imagination. The dark outlines of her nipples were clearly visible, as was her underwear—which appeared to be bright pink with white stripes.

She should have looked ridiculous, standing there wet and bedraggled in her silly underwear, but she looked magnificent. Like some kind of mythical goddess rising from the mists of time.

Statuesque, utterly feminine. Breathtaking.

Flynn couldn’t take his eyes off her and only remembered to blink when she threw back her head and laughed. The sound—loud and boisterous and incredibly sexy—echoed across the lawn. She wasn’t alone in her amusement—Flynn couldn’t keep the smile from his own face and everyone around him was either smiling or laughing.

Except Owen Hunter.

Without saying a word, he pushed his way through the crowd and headed toward the stairs to the lawn. Flynn barely registered his departure—he was too busy watching Mel fling a long, athletic leg over the edge of the fountain and extend both hands forward in an unspoken request for assistance. Two men rushed forward, and within seconds she was standing on dry land, dripping from head to toe and thanking her rescuers.

She presented the bracelet to Andrea Greggs with a little bow, which earned her more laughter, then turned and held up her hands as though accepting a standing ovation.

“Thank you, you’ve been wonderful. I’ll be here all week,” she said.

Her audience was still laughing and applauding this show of chutzpah when her husband pushed his way to her side. Shrugging out of his coat, Owen flung it over her shoulders and leaned close to say something in her ear. The smile fell from her lips and she nodded, then ducked her head. The crowd cleared a path for them as he led her away from the fountain.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Gloria said with a quick, expressive lift of her eyebrows.

“It was hardly her fault. Hamish shouldn’t have let her go,” Flynn said.

“Or she could have let the Hollands take care of it,” Gloria said, referring to their hosts. “Like a normal person. They could have easily arranged to have the bracelet retrieved tomorrow morning.”

Flynn drank the last of his champagne instead of continuing the discussion. Melbourne society was notoriously stuffy for a supposedly egalitarian culture. Old Money only very grudgingly accepted New Money, and No Money didn’t stand a chance in hell. There was an unspoken social hierarchy and a set of rules that were only bent for the right people—and Melanie Hunter was not one of them. Personally, he thought she was bloody gutsy, the way she’d waded in to do her bit while everyone else stood around watching. And he definitely wasn’t going to object to the view he’d enjoyed when she’d stepped out of the fountain—he had a pulse, after all, as well as a healthy appreciation for the female form.

He glanced at his glass. “I’m hitting the bar. Anyone else want a refill?”

A series of head shakes meant he was on his own as he made his way into the house. The bartender was working at full pitch to serve a slew of people and Flynn stood to one side, waiting for the crush to subside. He nodded to various acquaintances and friends and lifted a hand to acknowledge an ex-girlfriend, but didn’t go out of his way to connect with anyone.

He was tired. He probably should have gone home instead of come to the party. As a rule, however, he liked to honor his commitments and he’d said he’d attend.

His thoughts drifted to the conversation he’d had with his mother earlier in the week. She’d asked him to meet her for lunch and then surprised the hell out of him by asking if he’d noticed anything “different” about his father, Adam, lately. She’d cited several instances of finding things in odd places around the house—the kettle in the fridge, shoes in the washing machine—as well as a number of memory or attention lapses on his father’s part. At the time, Flynn had been quick to assign his father’s slips to stress. His father’s property development business was closing a deal to build several apartment towers on government land in a former industrial suburb and his father had been working around the clock. Still, Flynn couldn’t get his mother’s concerns out of his head. She knew his father better than anyone, after all.

But his father was only fifty-eight. Way too early to be hitting the panic button over a few memory lapses.

Flynn stared into his empty champagne flute, brooding. He made a snap decision. He’d put in an appearance, done his duty. Now he was going home. Life was too short to waste time at parties talking to the same people about the same things, over and over. And he had a garden to view tomorrow with an eye to developing a design. If he was successful, it would be yet another win for Verdant Design, the landscaping firm he’d founded nearly three years ago.

He set his glass on the nearest flat surface and wove through the crowd. It took him five minutes to find his hosts to say goodbye, then he made his way to the foyer and out through the open double doors into the portico. He was about to start down the drive when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye.

It was Mel, standing in the shadows beneath the carefully manicured hedge that bordered the driveway. She was facing the street, her husband’s tuxedo jacket draped over her shoulders. Gravel crunched beneath his shoe and her head swung toward him. They locked gazes across twelve feet of driveway.

There was no mistaking the unadulterated misery in the depths of her gray eyes. After a few short seconds she looked away.

He opened his mouth to say something—what, he had no idea—as his phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and saw that it was his father. He glanced at Melanie again. Her focus was once more on the driveway. Waiting for her husband to bring the car around, he guessed.

He hit the button to take the call. He kept his gaze on her tall, straight back as he spoke. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“Flynn. Thank God. You have to help me. I’ve tried to get home but none of it makes sense. The roads have all changed…?.”

Flynn’s grip tightened on the phone as he heard the panic in his father’s voice. “Sorry, Dad. I don’t understand. Where are you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. I was driving home. But the roads are all changed. Nothing’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

Dread thudded low in his gut. This man did not sound like the assured, confident father he knew. This man sounded scared and confused and utterly lost.

But he was only fifty-eight.

Flynn pushed his own panic from his mind. There would be time for that later.

“Okay, Dad. Listen to me. We’re going to work this out, okay?” Flynn said, keeping his voice calm and clear.

“Why can’t I recognize anything? Why has it all changed?”

“We’ll sort this out, I promise. I want you to look around. Are you on a highway or in a residential area? Are there houses around you?”

“Yes. Lots of houses.”

“Good. I want you to pull the car over. Turn off the engine, and walk to the nearest corner to find the street sign and tell me what it says.”

He could hear his father’s panicked breathing. He dug in his pocket for his car keys and started down the long driveway at a jog.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way, Dad. We’ll do it together, and I will be with you as soon as I can. No matter what happens, I will find you. So take a deep breath, pull over and find me that street sign.”

CHAPTER ONE

Eighteen months later

MEL PORTER GLANCED UP as she exited her house. A smile spread across her face as she took in the clear blue sky.

Despite the fact that it was barely June, Melbourne had been in the grip of winter for over a month—including overcast skies, rain, bitterly cold wind, overnight frosts—and it had been particularly bad here on the Mornington Peninsula, where her turn-of-the-century farmhouse was located. Today, however, the weather gods had granted the huddled masses a reprieve. The winter-bare liquid-amber tree in Mel’s front yard stretched its branches toward the sky as though worshipping the unexpected warmth. She wondered what the neighbors would say if she did the same.

She settled for turning her face to the sun and closing her eyes.

She’d never been a winter person. Summer was what it was all about as far as she was concerned. Long days at the beach, barbecues, zinc on noses and the smell of coconut-scented sunscreen… She couldn’t wait for the warmer weather.

Rubbing her hands together, she walked down the porch steps and across the driveway to the letterbox to collect the morning’s mail. She pulled out a number of smaller envelopes with transparent windows—bills, hip hip hooray—and one larger, thicker envelope. Curious, she turned it over.

Everything in her went still when she read the words typed across the top left corner. Wallingsworth and Kent, Lawyers.

She stared at the envelope for a long beat. Then she started walking to the house.

Strange, after waiting and waiting for this moment, it had snuck up on her.

She waited until she was standing at the battered wood counter in the kitchen before she tore open the envelope and pulled out its contents.

There was a short covering letter, but she didn’t bother reading it, simply flipped to the next page. Divorce Order, the heading said in crisp black font, accompanied by an official looking seal from the Federal Magistrates Court of Australia.

Mel’s breath rushed out in a woosh.

There it is. It’s over. Finally.

Her knees felt a little weak and she rounded the counter and sank into one of the oak chairs she’d inherited from her grandmother.

Six years of marriage, gone. At thirty-one, she was single again. Free.

She blinked rapidly and tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. This was a good thing. She’d had a lucky escape. There could have been kids involved, it could have been so much messier and uglier. No way was she going to cry.

This was a good thing.

The urge to call her mother or her sister gripped her, but she resisted. She’d leaned on her family and friends enough in the past few months. They’d comforted her, held her hand while she negotiated to buy the old farmhouse and holiday cottages that now constituted her combined home and livelihood, pitched in whenever she needed help…

It was time to start standing on her own two feet.

Her gaze found the clock on the kitchen wall and she gave a little start. She needed to get moving—she had guests arriving before lunch and she needed to clean Red Coat Cottage in preparation for their arrival.

She grabbed the keys on her way out the door and took the scenic route via the garden path to the first of the four cottages on her four-acre plot of land. The property had once been part of a vast orchard that had stretched along Port Phillip Bay from Mount Eliza to Mornington. The land had been broken up and sold off years ago for residential development, and Mel’s plot included the old manager’s residence as well as four of the compact workers cottages that had once housed the pickers and other laborers. The former owner had reconfigured the latter to appeal to vacationers, and when Mel bought the property six months ago she’d revamped all four cottages, updating the decor, kitchens and bathrooms so that they would appeal to a more affluent market.

At the time, her parents had said she was crazy, wasting money on antiques and fancy bathroom fixtures when the cottages had been attracting perfectly good business for many years as they were. But if there was one thing Mel knew about, it was people with money. She might never have been fully accepted by them, but she understood what they liked. She knew that if she wanted to increase the income from her business by attracting a wealthier client base, she needed shiny, imported things that screamed of luxury and exclusivity.

Once she’d renovated the cottages to a higher spec, her good friend Georgia—the only one of her so-called “friends” to maintain their relationship postseparation—had used her network of contacts to spread the news. Between word of mouth and the ads she’d been running in various publications, Mel was hoping she was in for a busy year.

She pondered today’s guests as she cleaned the bathroom. She’d met Flynn Randall a handful of times during her six years as Mrs. Owen Hunter. He’d always struck her as being halfway decent for someone who had been born with not just a silver spoon, but a whole cutlery service in his mouth. Owen had done his damnedest to turn their casual acquaintance into a friendship, but Flynn had perfected the knack of being friendly while somehow keeping people at a distance. A necessary evil, Mel imagined, when your family was amongst the richest in Australia.

Georgia had secured the Randall booking for her—she and Flynn were old friends—and Mel had already sent her flowers as a thank-you. Next time she made the trek into Melbourne she planned to take her friend out to lunch as well.

She gave the bathtub a final swipe with the sponge before stepping back and giving the room a last inspection. Everything looked good, so she moved into the kitchen. Once she’d finished there, she laid out fluffy white towels and made the bed with high-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. She arranged luxury-brand soaps and toiletries in the bathroom and hung matching robes on the back of the bedroom door. She fluffed the king-size quilt and arranged the down pillows, then spent ten minutes in the garden gathering a bouquet of flowers to go on the tallboy.

There was champagne in the fridge, along with Belgian chocolates and a selection of gourmet teas and coffees. The living room boasted the latest magazines—cars and business for male guests, home decoration and fashion for the women—and there was kindling and wood for anyone who wanted an open fire.

Mel did a last check to ensure everything was in place before locking the cottage and heading to the main house. It occurred to her that Owen would be horrified if he knew what she’d done with her divorce settlement. The thought made her smile grimly. The notion that his ex-wife routinely got down on her hands and knees to scrub away other people’s dirt would make his eyes roll back in his head.

Mel made a rude noise and offered a two-fingered “up yours” gesture to her absent ex as she crossed the rear lawn. She didn’t care what he thought anymore. It was one of the many blessings of being a divorced woman—along with having the whole bed to herself, never having to argue over whether the toilet seat belonged up or down and the luxury of reading into the small hours if the mood took her without having to worry about keeping her husband awake.

Oh, yeah. Divorced life is one big party.

Mel paused. She didn’t like the bitter note to her own thoughts. She’d fought hard to claw back her confidence and her sense of herself in recent months; she hated the thought that she might still be grieving the loss of her marriage in some secret part of her heart, that she might miss Owen in any shape or form.

Her marriage had been unhappy for a long time and very ugly toward the end. Her husband’s constant criticism had shaped her days and her nights. She’d bent over backward trying to please him—but it had never been enough. In hindsight, she’d come to understand that it never would have been.

Her chin came up as she entered the kitchen. She regretted the failure of her marriage, but she knew she’d done her damnedest to save it and she wouldn’t go back if her life depended on it.

So, no, she didn’t miss her ex. A fairly important realization to acknowledge on this, of all days. A realization that surely called for a celebration.

She walked to the fridge and opened the freezer door. A box of her favorite Drumstick sundae cones was on top and she grabbed one and tore off the wrapper.

If she were still married, Owen would have warned her that she risked getting fat if she ate ice cream full stop, let alone for breakfast. She took a big, defiant bite.

After all, she only had to please herself now. And what a glorious thing that was.

ROSINA ANSWERED THE DOOR, her face a mask of worry.

“Any change?” Flynn asked as he entered his parents’ house.

The housekeeper shook her head. “Nothing.”

Flynn nodded tightly and strode down the hallway. His father’s study was at the rear of the house, at the end of a short hall. The door was almost always open because, even when his father was hard at work, he always made time to talk. Today it was closed and his mother, Patricia, sat in a chair beside it, her usually stylish salt-and-pepper hair a disheveled mess, her face streaked with tears.

She stood the moment she saw him and walked into his open arms. “I’m so sorry for calling you over,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt.

“We talked about this. We’re all in it together.”

“I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve begged, I’ve bullied, but he won’t unlock the door. I keep talking to him, making him answer because I’m so scared he’s going to do something…?.”

He kissed her temple. “I’ll break the door down if I have to, don’t worry. But Dad wouldn’t do anything to hurt himself.”

“You don’t know that. He’s never locked himself in his study before, either. My God, this disease… If it was a person, I would hunt it down and kill it with my bare hands.”

Flynn could feel the grief and anger and fear coursing through her and he pressed another kiss to her temple. “We’ll sort this out.”

She nodded, then stepped back from his embrace. He watched her visibly pack away her emotions as she pulled a scrunched-up tissue from the cuff of her turtleneck sweater and blew her nose. By the time she’d finished she was once again in control.

That was the really great thing about Alzheimer’s disease—it affected entire families, not just individuals. It killed slowly, over years, and it wore loved ones down with its relentless attack. In the twelve months since his father had been formally diagnosed with early-stage Alzheimer’s, Flynn had watched his parents grapple to come to terms with what the future would hold. He’d seen them both rise to the occasion with humbling dignity, even while Flynn had quietly freaked out in private over the imminent loss of the man who was such an integral part of his life.

Somehow, they’d all hung in there. It wasn’t as though any of them had a choice, after all. Least of all his father.

Giving his mother a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, Flynn rapped lightly on the study door. “Dad, it’s me. Can I come in?”

There was a short pause. “No.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“Mom’s worried about you. We all are. Talk to us, Dad.”

Silence. His mother shook her head helplessly.

“Dad, if you don’t let me in, I’m going to have to break the door down.”

More silence. Flynn eyed the frame. The house was over a hundred years old, the doorjambs solid. It was going to take some effort, but it was doable.

“For God’s sake, just leave me alone.” There was so much despair and anguish in his father’s words.

Flynn exchanged glances with his mother. “Stand back from the door, Dad.”

His mother pressed her fingers to her mouth. Flynn stepped away far enough to give himself a run-up. He’d never kicked a door in before, but he figured that if he aimed his foot at the latch, something would have to give. Eventually.

He tensed his muscles, ready to power forward.

“Wait.” His father’s voice was resigned. Weary.

The key turned in the lock and the door opened an inch or two. Only a strip of his father’s face was visible through the opening.

“Just Flynn.”

Flynn’s mother swallowed audibly and Flynn squeezed her shoulder again. She gave him a watery half smile.

“You got him to open the door. That’s the important bit,” she said quietly. She sank onto her chair as Flynn entered the study.

“Shut the door,” his father barked the moment Flynn crossed the threshold.

Flynn complied and turned to regard his father. The older man stood behind his desk chair, both hands gripping the high leather backrest. His steel-gray hair was rumpled, his face pale with fatigue and anxiety. His blue eyes watched Flynn almost resentfully.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

“Nothing. I want to be left alone. Is that too much to ask? Aren’t I entitled to privacy anymore? Do I have to lose that, too, as well as everything else?”

The gruff anger in his father’s voice was alien to Flynn. Adam Randall had always had high standards and he didn’t suffer fools gladly, but he’d never been a bully and he’d certainly never been a man who let his emotions rule him.

“No one wants to take anything away from you, Dad. We love you. We were worried about you. Can you understand that?”

“I’m not an imbecile!”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be patronizing. I want you to understand our point of view.”

His father stared at him, his eyes filling with tears. His chin wobbled and he took a quick, agitated breath.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

His father continued to stare at him for a long moment. Then he stepped out from behind the chair. The crotch of his navy trousers was dark with moisture.

Bone-deep empathy washed through Flynn as he lifted his gaze to his father’s anguished face.

“I was checking my email. I needed to go, but I wanted to check on something first. Then I just…lost track of things.”

Flynn could hear the shame in his father’s voice, but he didn’t know what to say. He knew how unmanly this must be, how terrified his father must feel to have lost control of his own body. He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around his father.

“It doesn’t matter, Dad.”

His father hugged him so fiercely his body trembled with the effort. It was a moment before he spoke. “I don’t want your mother to see me like this. Not yet.” His voice was low and determined.

“She won’t care.”

“I care.”

After a long beat, Flynn released his father, stepping away to give him breathing room.

“I’ll get you a fresh pair of pants. Okay?”

His father nodded, dashing his knuckles across his eyes. Flynn exited the study. His mother rose to her feet.

“He’s okay,” he reassured her.

Her eyes were full of questions.

“He needs a clean pair of pants,” Flynn explained quietly.

Comprehension dawned. For a moment her face seemed to sag. Then her chin came up and she nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

She strode down the hallway, head high. Flynn rubbed the back of his neck and stared blankly at the framed Picasso sketch on the wall.

There were going to be many, many moments like this in the future. Too many to count. Bit by bit his father’s dignity would be chipped away. It was as inevitable as the sun rising every morning, and as unstoppable.

Flynn returned to the study. He found his father slumped in his office chair, his eyes closed.

“Won’t be a minute,” Flynn said.

His father nodded. Flynn’s chest hurt, watching him. Seeing how hard this was for him. There was a knock on the door. He opened it to find his mother armed with a towel, a fresh pair of boxer shorts and a pair of trousers.

“Thanks.” He shut the door again and handed the towel and clothes over to his father.

“I’ll be outside,” Flynn said.

His father nodded, his gaze fixed on the pile of clothes in his lap as Flynn left the room.

Five minutes later, his father emerged. His mother stood and the two of them simply stared at each other for a long moment. Flynn could see how much effort it took for his father to hold her gaze, but he didn’t look away. Not for a second. His mother closed the distance between them and took her husband’s face in both her hands.

“I love you, Adam Randall,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “No matter what. Okay?”

His father blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry.”

His mother shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize. Not to me.”

She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his mouth. His father’s arms closed around her. Flynn turned away, using the excuse of checking his phone for messages to give them privacy.

“Come on, let’s have a cup of tea,” his mother said.

Flynn glanced surreptitiously as his watch. He and Hayley had been on the verge of leaving for their weekend away on the Mornington Peninsula when he’d received the panicked phone call from his mother. They had planned a leisurely drive along the bay before their appointment at midday to view the old Summerlea estate in Mount Eliza, but at this stage he was going to be lucky to make it at all.

He shrugged off the concern. His parents were more important than the opportunity to tour a piece of real estate, even if that piece of real estate was one of a kind. It was just a house and a garden at the end of the day.

He followed his parents into the conservatory and sank into one of the wicker chairs around the rustic table. Rosina appeared almost immediately, a tray of tea and banana bread in hand.

“I swear, you’re psychic, Rosie,” his mother said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Flynn watched his father fiddling with the newspapers, aligning the stack of supplements into a neat pile. Flynn guessed that he was feeling self-conscious now that the crisis had passed, and very aware that Rosina must be privy to at least some of what had occurred.

“How is the Aurora development coming along?” his mother asked as she slid a brimming cup of tea toward Flynn.

It has been a little over a year now since Flynn had stepped in as CEO of the family business. He was still feeling his way, learning the ropes, but somehow he was managing to keep his head above water.

“It’s getting there. We’ve had to renegotiate a few contracts with suppliers thanks to the high Australian dollar, but we should be starting the groundwork on schedule.”

His father’s gaze was sharp as he eyed Flynn from across the table. “How has it affected the margins?”

They launched into a business discussion as his mother handed around slices of banana bread. His father was asking after the latest news from the sales department when his mother straightened in her chair.

“I just remembered—weren’t you and Hayley going away for the weekend?”

Flynn shrugged easily. “There’s no rush.”

“But you’re looking through Summerlea, aren’t you? I’m sure you told me you had an appointment with the real estate agent,” she said.

“It’s fine. I’ll reschedule.”

“What time is the appointment?” his father asked, looking at his watch.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want you missing out because of my stupidity,” his father said.

Flynn frowned. “I’m not missing out, and you’re not stupid, Dad.”

“What time is your appointment?” his mother asked.

Flynn sighed. “Midday. But it’s really not a big deal. I was only taking a look at the old place out of curiosity.”

“Rubbish. You wouldn’t be going down there if you weren’t serious,” she said.

Flynn opened his mouth to protest but his mother fixed him with a knowing look. He lifted a shoulder.

“I’ll admit I was excited when I first heard the estate was on the market. But the agent said the house needs a ton of work, which probably means it’s a money pit.”

“If there is one thing we have plenty of, it’s money,” his father said dryly. He pointed toward the door. “Go.”

Flynn gave him an amused look. “I take it that’s an order?”

“It is. Don’t make me give it twice.”

Flynn pushed his chair back. “A guy could get a complex over this sort of rejection.”

“Call me and let me know if the garden is as magnificent as always,” his mother said. “And before you ask, that’s an order, too.”

“A joint dictatorship. Lovely.”

He kissed them both goodbye and ducked his head into the kitchen to say goodbye to Rosina before heading for the door. He phoned Hayley the moment he was in the car, aware she’d be wanting an update.

“Flynn. Is everything okay?” she asked immediately.

“All good. Dad was upset about something.”

“Thank God we hadn’t left already.”

“Yeah.”

“Speaking of which, I called the real estate agent and pushed our viewing back an hour.”

Flynn smiled as he negotiated a left-hand turn. “Have I told you lately that I don’t know what I’d do with out you?”

“Hold that thought.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Can’t tell. It’s a secret.”

“Oh, well, in that case…”

“When do you think you’ll be home?”

“Five minutes.”

“Then I’ll see you soon.”

She was waiting on the doorstep for him, her long auburn hair pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, which she’d paired with a snowy white turtleneck and the tailored brown leather jacket he’d bought for her birthday, and she looked effortlessly elegant, as always. His overnight bag rested on the step beside her, as well as her own Louis Vuitton duffel.

“You packed for me,” he said as he got out of his car.

“Didn’t want to waste time,” she said with a smile and a shrug.

He ducked his head to kiss her. “Thanks.”

She rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled into his face, her brown eyes steady. He kissed her again, comforted as always by her no-nonsense calm. They’d known each other since they were children and had always been friends. Only in the past year had their relationship become something more, much to their respective parents’ delight.

“So. Are we going to go buy a house or not?” Hayley asked.

“Why does everyone keep talking as though it’s a done deal?”

“If you could see your face when you talk about Summerlea, you’d understand.”

Flynn gave her a skeptical look.

“I know you hate the idea of having a bad poker face, Flynn, but it’s true.”

“I haven’t seen Summerlea for at least ten years. The house is probably falling down. I’m going with no expectations at all.”

“Please. As if you care about the house. It’s all about the garden, admit it.”

He shrugged a little sheepishly. Summerlea was all about the garden for him, but that didn’t change the facts of the situation.

“It’s not practical. It’s too far out of town, too far from Mom and Dad,” he said, voicing the objection he hadn’t been able to raise with his parents earlier.

“You have been in love with this place since you were a kid. I’ve listened to you rave about how it’s Edna Walling’s last great garden design so many times I’ve lost count. Getting your hands on that garden would be a dream come true for you. If you want it, we’ll work it out. It’s that simple.”

He bent and grabbed both the bags. “We’ll see.”

Like his father, he had learned not to plan too far ahead these days.

As for dreams… Flynn had traded them in for responsibility a long time ago.

MEL WAS WEEDING the border of the rose garden in the backyard when she heard the sound of a car engine. She glanced over her shoulder, trowel in hand.

A vintage sports car cruised slowly up her driveway, its glossy black paint and chrome highlights glinting in the afternoon sun. The car disappeared around the bend in the drive and she stood, tugging off her gardening gloves.

She walked over to greet her guests, arriving at the parking bay as the driver’s door opened. Flynn Randall stepped out, his back to her. He seemed taller and his shoulders broader than she remembered—or maybe it was simply that he was wearing faded jeans and a sweater instead of a tuxedo or a suit. Men always seemed sleeker and neater in suits.

“Mr. Randall. Welcome,” she said in her cheeriest tone.

He turned to face her and she blinked in surprise as she gazed into his bright blue eyes. Again, she hadn’t remembered them being quite so…startling was the only word she could come up with. Although maybe piercing was more appropriate. Especially in contrast to his almost-black hair. She’d always been aware that he was attractive but now that she was standing only a few feet away from him for the first time in over a year, she was hit with the realization that he was a very, very handsome man. He was studying her as intently and it occurred to her that he probably didn’t remember her—they’d met only a handful of times and their exchanges had mostly consisted of polite small talk about nothing special. Hardly memorable stuff. She offered him her hand.

“Sorry. I’m Mel Porter. You probably don’t remember me, but I used to be married to Owen Hunter. We met a few times…?.”

His hand, warm and large, slid into hers. “I remember you. How are things?” he asked, a smile curving his mouth.

She was a little thrown by how sincere his greeting was, as though he was genuinely glad to see her.

“I’m well, thanks. How about you?”

“Good, thanks. And it’s Flynn, by the way.”

He was still smiling and suddenly it hit her that he’d been at the Hollands’ midsummer party the night she’d fallen into the fountain. She glanced away, unable to maintain eye contact.

Owen had pointed out to her in no uncertain terms exactly how see-through her dress had become after her dunking. Flynn was probably remembering her hot pink panties and whatever else she’d had on display, as well as the raft of jokes that had circulated in the weeks after the party.

The passenger-side door opened and a slim, auburn-haired woman exited the car. Mel recognized her immediately. It was hard not to, since Hayley Stanhope had been one of the women her ex-husband had constantly encouraged Mel to befriend in the hope that it would further his political ambitions. The Stanhopes had been in banking for generations and no one had more pull in the upper crust of Melbourne society—except, perhaps, the Randalls.

“Sorry. My mother called as we turned into the driveway,” the other woman said apologetically. She smiled at Mel, her brown eyes warm as she offered her hand. “I’m Hayley Stanhope.”

“Mel Porter. Pleased to meet you.”

The other woman’s gaze flicked up and down Mel’s body in a lightning-quick assessment. Mel knew what the other woman was seeing—no labels, no jewelry worth mentioning, uncontrollable hair, faded cargos, a raggedy long-sleeved T-shirt. The old self-consciousness stole over her.

“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here,” she said, tugging on the hem of her T-shirt.

“I’m sure we will,” Hayley replied.

“I’ve put you in Red Coat Cottage,” Mel said, gesturing toward the cottage peeking through the screening shrubs she’d planted. “I’ll give you a quick tour then leave you to settle in. I live in the main house, so if you need anything, knock on the back door or give me a buzz on the phone.”

She was talking too fast and her palms were damp with sweat. She took a deep, calming breath as Flynn opened the trunk and pulled out two overnight bags, one an exclusive Louis Vuitton duffel, the other a well-worn leather number that looked as though it had seen an adventure or two.

She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She’d had wealthy guests before. So why was she feeling so edgy all of a sudden?

She took refuge in action, leading the way toward the cottage, unlocking the door and stepping to one side to allow Flynn and Hayley to precede her.

Flynn was too busy examining the big terra-cotta pot of roses positioned to the left of the door to pick up on her unspoken cue.

“Red Coat roses.” His gaze met hers, bright with interest. “You named the cottage after the rose, right?”

Mel stared at him, surprised he even knew the name of a David Austin rose, let alone that he could recognize one by appearance.

“That’s right. All the cottages are named after David Austin roses,” she said slowly. “Windrush, Pegasus, Tea Clipper.”

“Clever idea,” he said.

Hayley looked amused. “Trust Flynn to find something green to fixate on the moment he arrives.”

Mel smiled politely. Clearly, this was a private joke between the two of them. “The bedroom is the first door on the left.” She stepped a little closer to the wall as Flynn brushed past her, followed by his girlfriend. They both disappeared into the bedroom.

Mel waited in the hallway. Ten seconds later, Flynn returned.

“Lead on, MacDuff.”

She gathered by the other woman’s absence that Hayley would not be joining them. She led Flynn into the living room, explained how to adjust the flue on the chimney should they wish to use the fireplace, then showed him the kitchen and bathroom.

“All pretty self-explanatory. The instructions for the appliances are in the top drawer in the kitchen if you need them,” she said as they returned to the porch.

“Nice spec. Did you renovate this place yourself or was it done when you bought it?”

“I did it. It was a little tired and worn around the edges when I took possession.”

“You’ve done a great job.” His warm gaze traveled over her face, and for some inexplicable reason she could feel heat stealing into her cheeks.

“Thanks. That’s a pretty big compliment coming from a Randall.”

She hated the nervous note in her voice, hated the on-edge, eager-to-impress feeling in her chest. She didn’t need to impress this man. He might have more money and more social pull than God, but he wasn’t her friend, and he definitely wasn’t her husband.

She needed nothing from him. He was her guest. Nothing more, nothing less.

Flynn’s gaze ran over the front of the cottage. “I’m simply stating the obvious. You have good taste.”

She was so surprised she let out a crack of incredulous laughter. “Can I have that in writing? My ex in-laws would be stunned.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth she regretted them—way too much information, and way too revealing of the bitterness she was still trying to move past. All of which was made worse by the fact that he actually knew Owen. Hell, he probably knew Owen’s parents, too.

She took a step away and jammed her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants. “I’ll leave you to it. No doubt you have heaps of things you want to do and see.”

She flashed him a tight smile before turning, putting her head down and walking briskly toward the main house. She didn’t slow her pace until she was around the bend and out of view of the cottage. Then she let her breath out on a sigh.

Stupid, but for some reason Flynn Randall and his girlfriend had really rattled her cage. She didn’t quite understand why. Maybe it was simply that they reminded her of a time when she’d been miserable and full of self-doubt and constantly aware of all her shortcomings. Or maybe she was like Pavlov’s dog, forever programmed to respond with quivering servility when in the company of her social betters.

Now that’s a depressing thought.

She shrugged off her disquiet. They were staying one night, and then they’d be gone. Depending on their movements, she probably wouldn’t even see them again until they checked out.

Right now, that felt like a very good thing.

CHAPTER TWO

FLYNN WATCHED MEL stride away, her long, muscular legs eating up the ground.

She wasn’t conventionally beautiful—her facial features were too unbalanced and she was built on too grand a scale for that—but she was incredibly appealing. He’d forgotten that about her.

He wasn’t sure what it was that he found so compelling. Her gray eyes were clear and direct but otherwise perfectly ordinary, her nose was a little on the large side, her mouth slightly too wide. And yet the whole time he’d been talking to her he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

She, however, had seemed nervous. Not at all the way he remembered her.

Hayley joined him on the porch, sliding an arm around his waist.

“I like it here already. The air smells cleaner.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

“That’s because it is,” he said dryly.

She followed his gaze up the driveway. “She was married to Owen Hunter, wasn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

“I can remember seeing her around. She’s pretty hard to miss. She always used to remind me of Xena, Warrior Princess. Or Wonder Woman.”

“She’s tall, but she’s not that tall.”

“She’s taller than me. Were you there the night she fell into the Hollands’ fountain?”

“Yes.”

“Was it as bad as they say?”

“In what way?”

“In every way. I heard her dress was transparent, and that her husband marched her off and then spent the next month apologizing for her to anyone who is anyone.”

Flynn frowned. “She was trying to help. It’s not like she leaped into the fountain for kicks.”

Hayley held up a hand. “Whoa there. I didn’t mean to step on any toes. I didn’t realize you two were friends.”

Her gaze was searching, questioning, and he realized he’d spoken a little too heatedly.

“We’re not. I hardly know her. But that fountain thing was blown way out of proportion. Gabrielle Holland needs to get a life.”

“That’s true. She dined out on that story for a very long time.” She sounded amused, but she’d always been far more tolerant of the social piranhas amongst their circle than he had.

He checked his watch. “We should get going.”

“Let me grab my bag.”

She was back in a minute with her sunglasses and handbag. He backed his vintage Aston Martin out and cruised up the driveway. They were nearing the main house when Mel appeared around the corner, lugging a tall ladder. She leaned it against the back of the house beneath one of the sash windows before looking over her shoulder toward them. She gave a small acknowledging smile then turned to her task.

He hit the brakes and wound down the window.

“Hey. It’s been a few years since I’ve been down on the peninsula and old Gertie here doesn’t have GPS.” He patted the Aston Martin’s dash. “Do I turn left or right onto the Nepean Highway if I want to go to Summerlea estate?”

Mel approached the car, bending so she could see in the window. “You take a left. Then it’s the first street on your left, and the estate is at the end of the road.”

Her T-shirt sagged as she leaned down. It took more willpower than he cared to admit to stop himself from taking a good long look at what he suspected was a pretty spectacular view.

He was only human, after all, and she was built on very generous lines. “Great, thanks.”

“I guess it’s true then, huh? It’s up for sale? I heard a rumor but I didn’t believe it.”

“The owners have gone into a retirement home, according to the estate agent.”

“Really? That’s so sad. They both loved that place so much. It must be hell to have to give it over to someone else.”

“You know them?”

“Oh, no. Not personally.” She tucked a long, dark curl behind her ear. “I used to go to Summerlea when it was part of the Open Garden tour, and Brian and Grace were always there, talking to everyone. It’s been years since they last let the public in, but I can still remember how beautiful the gardens were. I’ve never seen flame azaleas like theirs anywhere else. And the roses… Mind-blowing.”

She had a far-off look in her eyes. Then she seemed to recall herself. “Sorry. I’m holding you up.” She straightened and stepped back from the car, waving a hand to indicate he should go.

“Thanks for the directions.”

She gave an awkward little shrug. He drove out into the street.

“If you’re feeling guilty about looking, don’t,” Hayley said after a few seconds. “I looked. Couldn’t help myself. She has amazing breasts.” She sounded wistful.

Flynn glanced at her briefly before concentrating on the road. “I didn’t look.”

“Flynn. Come on. This is me. A blind man would have looked.”

“I didn’t look,” he repeated. He glanced at her again as he signaled to pull onto the highway.

She looked bemused. “Why on earth not?”

“Because I’m with you,” he said simply.

A slow smile curled Hayley’s mouth. “Sometimes I think you’re too good to be true, you know that?”

“If you believe that, I’ve got some swamp land to sell you.”

“I think I just might buy some swamp land if you were selling it.”

The real estate agent was already waiting for them when they parked in front of Summerlea’s familiar white fence. He scrambled out of his Mercedes as Flynn cut the engine.

“Flynn Randall? Spencer Knox. Pleased to meet you.” His eyes were assessing as they exchanged greetings.

One problem with being a Randall—everyone knew your net worth before you walked through the door.

“We really appreciate you moving the viewing time for us,” Flynn said.

“Not a problem, and it’s great to meet you both.” Spencer paused a moment before offering Flynn a shrewd smile. “We can talk about the weather a little if you like, but you’re a busy man and I suspect you’re keen to cut to the main event. So shall we?” He gestured toward the gate.

“Absolutely,” Flynn said, appreciating the other man’s bluntness.

Spencer walked ahead of them to the pedestrian entrance, situated to the right of the main gate. The paint was peeling off the wood and streaks of rust ran down from the lock. The main gate wasn’t in much better shape and Flynn took a step back to assess the fence line itself.

“As I mentioned on the phone, the old place has been a bit neglected in recent years,” Spencer said. “A combination of old age and money issues, I gather. So things might not be quite as you remember them.”

“Sure.”

The other man struggled with the latch for a moment before the gate swung open with a painful screech.

Hayley gave a nervous laugh. “That sounds a little ominous, doesn’t it?”

Flynn murmured something noncommittal, his focus on what he was about to discover on the other side of the gate. Adrenaline had his heart racing as he stepped into the grounds.

In many ways, Summerlea was where he’d first discovered his love of gardening. He could still remember dragging his feet as his mother led him into the grounds as an eight-year-old, past the crowds of tourists milling about the entrance. He’d been bitching and moaning all the way from the city, sure that he was missing out on doing something cool with his friends. The moment he’d gotten his first look at the garden his complaints had blown away like dust.

Rolling lawns, archways heavy with roses, whimsical benches made out of gnarled local tea-tree branches, copses of birch trees, their trunks silver-white in the sun… He’d been roped into helping his mother in the garden often enough by then to understand that he was looking at something special. A living treasure.

Twenty-six years later, he looked at the same view and saw that the rose arbor was rotted and falling down, the lawns patchy and overgrown, and the benches absent, no doubt having fallen prey to the weather or insects long ago. And still his heart soared, because he knew that not only could he fix all of the above, but he could also make it better. His fingers literally itched for pen and paper so he could start sketching and jotting down ideas and he had to stop himself from stooping to pull the nearest weed from where it sprouted between two paving stones.

He glanced at Hayley, keen to see her reaction, but she’d put on her sunglasses and most of her expression was hidden behind the lenses.

“What do you think?” he said quietly as they walked up the pathway toward the house.

“I imagine it was once very beautiful,” she said diplomatically.

He looked out across the garden once more, and again he felt the pull of possibilities. This place was special. It would be an intoxicating challenge to restore it to its former brilliance. He’d have to pare things back, rebuild. The lawn was a mess, the garden beds overcrowded and full of weeds. With water restrictions in place, the whole space would probably benefit from a modern reticulation system—

Aren’t you forgetting something?

Flynn tore his gaze from the garden and fixed it on Hayley’s slim back as she walked ahead of him. He didn’t have time to indulge this dream. He was responsible for Randall Developments now, and things would only become more intense with his father.

This was too much for him to take on right now. No matter how much a part of him wanted to.

And yet the thought of walking away from this opportunity made him want to grind his teeth. He’d already walked away from Verdant Design and the career of his choice. He needed something of his own. Some way of keeping a small part of his dream alive.

Hands thrust deeply into his jacket pockets, Flynn climbed the steps to the house. For better or worse, the next twenty minutes had the power to change his life.

THEY WERE BOTH QUIET on the way back to the cottage. Flynn was lost in his own thoughts, shuffling things around in his mental diary, formulating scenarios for himself and his parents that would allow him to have his cake and eat it, too.

Not that any of that was going to change the outcome of today’s inspection. At a certain point in the tour he’d given in to the inevitable and admitted to himself that he was going to put in an offer for the estate. It was too rare and precious an opportunity for him to pass up. He had no idea how he was going to make it fit with everything else, but he would work it out.

Somehow.

He turned off the engine when they returned to their accommodation but made no attempt to get out of the car. Instead, he looked at Hayley, who was staring pensively out the windshield.

“What do you think?”

“I think that it’s terrifying, frankly. That house needs new everything. And the garden… I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“I would.” He could hear the relish in his own voice.

She looked at him, a small, curious smile on her face. “Which is why you’re going to buy it, of course.”

She knew him so well.

“Yes. I am.” Anticipation spiked through him as he finally said it out loud.

She opened the car door. “Come on, then. There’s a bottle of French bubbly in the fridge thanks to our efficient hostess. I think this calls for a celebration.”

He followed her into the cottage. She opened kitchen cupboards until she found long-stemmed flutes and he tore the foil and the wire cage off the top of the champagne bottle. The pop of the cork sounded loud in the small space and Hayley laughed and pulled a comic face when the sparkling wine foamed up over the neck.

“Don’t waste it!”

He poured them both a glass and Hayley raised hers in a toast.

“To finally getting something you’ve always wanted,” she said.

They clinked glasses and drank, and Flynn kissed her. She surprised him by deepening the kiss, one hand sliding behind his neck. She wasn’t usually aggressive sexually but she pressed herself against him and kissed him deeply, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulder. When she finally broke the kiss she looked at him for a long moment, her gaze very intent and serious.

Then she took his hand and tugged on it. “Come into the living room. There’s something I want to say to you.”

Flynn smiled. “This is all very mysterious.”

“It won’t be for long, trust me.”

She led him to one of the cream couches and pushed him onto the cushion. Then she sat beside him and took his hand in hers. She looked into his eyes, then she squeezed her own shut for a long beat.

“Wow. This is harder than I thought it would be.” Her hand was trembling.

Flynn frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. At least, I hope it is.” Hayley opened her eyes and gave him a small, nervous smile. “Remember what you said this morning about not knowing what you’d do without me and how I told you to hold that thought?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about us. And the future. I’ve been thinking about what I want, how I’d like things to be.”

Flynn tensed. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. “Look, Hales, I know that things haven’t been great lately. I know that I’ve been working all hours and the situation with Mom and Dad has been chewing up my spare time, but—”

Hayley smiled and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Relax, Flynn. I’m not breaking up with you.”

Flynn’s shoulders dropped a notch. “Good.”

“I’m asking you to marry me.” She slipped onto one knee on the floor and opened her hand, palm up, in front of him. A simple gold wedding band rested against her pale skin. “So, will you, Flynn? Will you marry me?”

It literally took Flynn a full ten seconds to comprehend what she was saying. She knelt before him, her brown eyes fixed intently on his face, a faint, hopeful smile on her lips, and his brain simply refused to work.

Probably because this was the last thing he’d been expecting. They’d been seeing each other a little under a year, living together for six months. Things were good between them. Comfortable. But he simply hadn’t gotten around to thinking about marriage. He simply…hadn’t.

The silence stretched. He needed to say something. Now.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a little blindsided here. I wasn’t expecting anything like this.”

“I can tell. You look like I hit you up for a loan.” Her smile wobbled a little and she curled her hand into a fist around the ring. “I was kind of hoping we were on the same page with this. But I guess I was wrong.” She was still kneeling and Flynn reached out to guide her onto the couch.

“I need a minute to get my head around this, that’s all.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything. Flynn took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order, trying to find the one right thing to say that would take away the hurt dawning in her eyes.

“I think you’re great, Hales. You know that. I’ve always thought you were great. We get on well, we understand each other.”

“I know, and I’ll admit I was kind of hoping you would beat me to this. Then I remembered that this is the twenty-first century. Women are supposed to go for what they want, right? And I want you, Flynn. I always have.”

For the second time in as many minutes, he was without words. He’d given Hayley a black eye with his soccer ball when he was six. He’d danced with her at her debutante ball when she was seventeen. He’d laughed with her at any number of parties and theater shows and functions over the years, caught up with her for lunch every now and then—with or without other friends in the mix. He’d always thought of her as a good friend, and only recently had he considered her as anything more than that.

“I didn’t realize,” he said, then immediately kicked himself. Could he sound like more of an idiot? He wasn’t an inarticulate teenager. He was thirty-four years old. He’d had his fair share of lovers and relationships. Yet he was handling this with all the sophistication and finesse of a pro wrestler.

“I guess that means I’m a better actor than I thought. Mom has known for years.”

She was watching him intently. Flynn realized he hadn’t answered her question yet.

It should have been a no-brainer. She was beautiful. Their parents were friends. They had everything in common, from their acquaintances to their educations to their tastes in wine and food and art. She was elegant, clever and kind.

She was perfect and she would make the perfect wife.

So why couldn’t he look her in the eye and say yes? Why was he feeling trapped and uncomfortable and deeply guilty all of a sudden?

An image flashed across his mind’s eye—his mother capturing his father’s face in her hands this morning and telling him clearly and unequivocally that she loved him, no matter what. The love and devotion in her expression had been undeniable, as had the love and devotion in his father’s eyes. They were crazy about each other, always had been. They preferred each other’s company to anyone else’s, finished each other’s sentences, tickled each other’s funny bones…?. They were a matched set. Soul mates. Inseparable.

They were the best example of marriage a man could have, and Flynn had taken the lessons he’d learned from watching them to heart. When he married, he planned for it to stick. He wanted to grow old with the love of his life, to mellow with her, to store away memories and take on challenges and evolve with her. He wanted a forever kind of love, the kind that only increased and grew richer and deeper and broader with time. A love that was strong enough to withstand the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and then some.

He looked into Hayley’s eyes and tried to imagine the two of them twenty years from now. He tried to imagine their children. He tried to imagine the two of them dealing with the tectonic shift that his parents were experiencing.

And it just wasn’t there. He couldn’t see it. Hayley was his dear, dear friend. But she was not the woman he wanted to marry.

His chest was suddenly tight. He was about to hurt her—the last thing he’d ever wanted to do.

He looked at her hand in his, her skin very pale in comparison to his, trying to find the words. “Hayley, I care for you a great deal. You’re one of my best friends. The past year has been great. Really great. But marriage is a big step. And I don’t feel even close to ready to take it with you.”

She was very still for a moment. “One of your best friends.” He could see the disappointment and hurt in her face.

Flynn stared at her helplessly. If it was in his power, he’d flip a switch and love her with the same fervor that she apparently felt for him. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t.

“I’m sorry. There’s been so much going on…?. I never meant to create expectations.” His words sounded lame, even to himself. He’d fallen into a relationship with her, allowed her to move in, shared his days and his nights with her, but he’d never once thought about where they were going, or wondered what she thought their relationship was about. He’d been too busy flailing around in his own crap after his father’s diagnosis—winding down his own company, stepping up to take over the reins of the business, trying to support his mother, trying to do anything and everything to ease his father’s distress.

“You didn’t create expectations. I did.” Her voice was heavy with tears but she was doing her best to hold them in.

“God, Hales, I’m so sorry.” He pulled her into his arms, guilt a physical burn in his chest.

She might be prepared to let him off the hook, but he wasn’t. He’d been selfish, taking comfort where he could find it. Not thinking about the consequences. Not thinking about tomorrow at all.

She rested her head on his shoulder but didn’t try to return his embrace. After a moment he let her go. Her eyes were filled with tears and she brushed them away with her fingertips.

“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. Then she stood and rushed from the room.

Flynn heard the bedroom door click shut. He mouthed a four-letter word, angry with himself, angry with the situation. He fell back against the cushions and raked his fingers through his hair.

He had no doubt that right now, Hayley was howling her eyes out on the bed they were supposed to share tonight. He swore again. He was a bastard. A stupid, selfish, thoughtless bastard.

The urge to get up and go gripped him, to walk away from the cottage and the scene that had played out, but he didn’t move. The least he could do was be here if Hayley needed him. The very least.

MEL SPENT THE first half of the afternoon repairing the rotten windowsill. Her thoughts drifted from topic to topic as she chipped away the damaged wood with a hammer and chisel, but she kept coming back to Flynn and his girlfriend.

They were an attractive couple, with his dark good looks and her pale skin and fiery hair. They were socially well-matched, too, both bringing equal clout to the table. No one would look down their noses when they arrived at functions or events. No one would whisper behind their backs or laugh and speculate about how long their relationship would last and what, exactly, Hayley had done to land her man.

The chisel slipped and Mel’s breath hissed out as the sharp metal sliced into the fleshy part of her thumb. She sucked on it for a second before inspecting the wound. Blood welled, but it was a shallow cut. She’d live.

She went inside for a bandage and returned to finish the repair, replacing the excised wood with builder’s filler. Afterward, she made the ten-minute drive to her parents’ place to help her mother finalize the invitations for their upcoming thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She stayed for an early dinner, then drove home.

She was in the bedroom, ready to pull on her pajamas for a cozy night in front of the TV, when a knock echoed through the house. It came from the back door, and she quickly pulled her cargo pants on. She fastened the stud as she made her way to the kitchen and the door.

It was Flynn, his face shuttered, his body half turned away. “Sorry to disturb you. I need to give you this.” He handed over the key to the cottage.

Mel stared at it for a second before lifting her gaze to his. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong with the accommodation? If there’s a problem, I can offer you one of the other cottages.”

“It’s nothing to do with the cottage. Everything’s been great. Something has come up.”

She tried to gather her thoughts. She’d had last-minute cancellations, and she’d had no-shows, but she’d never had guests walk out halfway through their stay.

“Okay. Well. I hope you enjoyed your time here. What there was of it, anyway.”

“We did, thanks.” He gave her a small, tight smile before turning and walking down the steps.

She watched him for a minute, frowning. Maybe it was her imagination, but he looked tired. Defeated.

She caught her own thoughts and made a rude noise. Flynn Randall was filthy rich, better-looking than any man had a right to be and in the prime of his life. He probably didn’t know how to spell defeat, let alone how to experience it.

She, on the other hand, was an expert.

On that cheery note, she went to get ready for bed.

CHAPTER THREE

THREE WEEKS LATER, Mel stooped to wrap her arms around the hessian-covered root ball of the orange tree she’d excavated from her front yard. She’d pruned the branches and dug the roots out in stages, giving the tree time to adjust to the brutal surgery she was practicing. But now it was time to haul it to its new home. She felt a little like the horticultural equivalent of Atilla the Hun in uprooting the tree from its old home, but this was a necessary evil—it had been badly sited by the previous owners and would never thrive or even bear fruit in its current position.

Once she was confident she had a reliable grip, Mel flexed her legs and attempted to lift the tree onto the waiting wheelbarrow. As she’d half expected, the tree barely budged, despite giving it her all. Between the weight of the tree and the amount of dirt and clay contained in the root ball, it was bloody heavy. She might have rugby league shoulders, but she wasn’t a miracle worker.

She sat back on her heels and looked up at the shiny green foliage towering over her. She was tempted to call her father or brother to ask them to lend a hand, but she didn’t want them to feel as though she only called when she needed something.

Which meant it was time to move on to Plan B. Not that she was a hundred-percent certain it would work, either. But what the hey.

She headed to the house—the canvas drop sheet she was looking for was in the spare room. After she’d grabbed it and was on her way outside, she glanced into the living room. The clock on the mantel told her it was ten, which meant she had an hour until Flynn Randall was due to check in. Plenty of time to do what needed to be done.

She still couldn’t quite believe he was coming to stay with her again. He’d called on Wednesday and she’d been so surprised to hear his voice it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to respond to his greeting. After his last stay—or, more accurately, his nonstay—she’d thought she would never hear from him again. Even though he’d said the accommodation had been fine and she’d been inclined to believe him, his visit couldn’t exactly have been called successful.

Yet he’d made another booking, and she’d been feeling nervous and on edge ever since she’d marked the reservation in her diary. Which was genuinely pathetic given that she’d long since sifted through her reaction to his last visit and come to the depressing conclusion the reason he put her on edge was because of who he was—a Randall.

Old habits died hard, apparently.

She was determined to get over the anxiety this time around. He was a man, he put his pants on one leg at a time, and she would respond to him as she would any other man. If it killed her. The same went for his girlfriend. They were people, and they were guests, and that was it. They weren’t any more special than anyone else she played host to.

The drop sheet snapped open as she spread it across the lawn. As she’d hoped, the orange tree was a few inches shorter than the length of the tarp. She positioned it at the most advantageous point, then braced her legs and rocked the root ball from side to side, “walking” it onto the canvas. As gently as possible she tipped the tree onto its side. She gathered up the corners closest to the root ball and bunched them together into a big wad. Then she took a step backward, using her body weight and her grip on the drop sheet to drag the tree across the lawn behind her.

By the time she got to the driveway her arms and thighs were burning. She put her chin down and kept hauling, making her slow way along the side of the house and onto the rear lawn. She stopped to peel off her sweater, wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans, then picked up the corners and put her back into round two, trying not to think of how much farther she had to go before she reached the new site she’d prepared.

“Are you all right there? You look like you could use a hand.”

Her head snapped around. Surprised, her grip on the drop sheet loosened as she hauled backward and she fell onto her ass with a painful thud—all while staring straight into the very blue eyes of Flynn Randall.

Her pride urged her to immediately scramble to her feet but her tailbone was vibrating with pain and it was all she could do not to groan out loud.

“Are you okay?” He strode to her side and held out his hand to help her up.

“Fortunately, the ground broke my fall.”

He smiled faintly at her attempt at bravado. She could feel embarrassed heat flooding into her face and she reached up to grab his hand, keen to not be on her ass at his feet for a second longer than she needed to be. His firm hand closed around hers, and she rose to her feet almost effortlessly.

He was a big man, but she was a big woman. Clearly, he was packing some serious muscle under his butter-soft leather jacket.

“That’s a lot of tree you’re hauling there.”

“It’s not as heavy as it looks,” she lied.

He lifted an eyebrow and she knew he wasn’t buying her claim. Her backside was still aching and she desperately wanted to rub it. Instead, she put on her professional hat. Not the easiest thing to do with mud splashed up the legs of her oldest jeans and her butt throbbing.

“If you give me a few minutes, I’ll clean up and grab the keys to Tea Cutter Cottage for you.”

“What about your tree?”

“It’s not going anywhere.”

“That was kind of my point.” He surveyed the yard. “Where are you taking it?”

“I’ve dug a new site at the bottom of the property.”

She didn’t go into detail—Flynn would hardly want to hear about her plans for a fruit orchard and a vegetable garden that would eventually feed not only her but her guests—if they chose—as well as her family.

“You’re going to kill yourself getting it down there.”

Her eyes widened as he started pulling his jacket off.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“But—but you’ll get all dirty.”

Her gaze took in his expensive-looking brown leather boots, his designer jeans and the black sweater he was wearing.

“I don’t mind.” He threw his jacket onto the grass nearby, then tugged his sweater over his head and tossed it on top. He was wearing a dark gray T-shirt underneath. It looked as though it was made of silk, which probably meant it was.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t let you ruin your clothes.”

“A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

He examined the tree for a beat. “The drop sheet was a good idea.” He stooped and grabbed the wad of canvas she’d been dragging, separating the corners out and offering her one. “Shall we?”

“No. No way.”

“If you don’t help me out, I’ll have to try to equal your Herculean solo effort and risk embarrassing myself if I fall short.”

She stared at him, utterly thrown by his offer and his apparently genuine desire to help her out.

“Okay. If that’s the way it has to be,” he said with a shrug. He bunched the two corners together again and started to pull the tree forward.

“Stop,” Mel said, moving to block his path.

He grinned and offered her a corner of the drop sheet again. She took it with a frown, which only seemed to amuse him even more.

“Thank you.” It came out a little grudgingly and she cleared her throat. “I really appreciate your help.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

She darted him a skeptical look but he didn’t look as though he was merely obeying the dictates of some masculine code of honor. He looked thoroughly in his element, as though this really was his pleasure.

Which was just plain strange, given who he was.

“On the count of three?” he said.

She took up the slack on her corner, and on his signal began to heave on the drop sheet. The difference in effort required was profound and she almost fell on her backside again.

“You okay?”

“Yes. I wasn’t expecting it to be this much easier.”

“I have a feeling I should probably be insulted by that. Do I look that anemic?”

It took her a moment to realize he was joking. She smiled uncertainly. “You don’t look anemic at all.”

He didn’t say anything but he continued to seem quietly amused as they dragged the tree down the lawn, across the garden path, behind Tea Cutter Cottage and through a gap in the screening trees to the large clearing she’d chosen for her fledgling orchard. Although covered with patchy grass, it had never had a real purpose or design—until now.

She directed him toward the shovel she’d left sticking out of a mound of dirt to the left of the clearing. They came to a halt beside the hole she’d dug that morning.

“Thanks for that,” she said, already turning to lead him to the main house so she could get him settled in.

“How are you going to get it in the hole?”

She paused. “The same way I got it out.”

Which had been through sheer determination and not a little swearing. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Come on, let’s do this.” He knelt beside the tree and began untying the twine she’d used to keep the hessian covering in place.

She stared at his down-turned head, baffled by his determination to be helpful despite the obvious risk to his clothes and his complete lack of obligation to her. He was her guest, after all. She was supposed to be at his beck and call, not the other way around.

“I’ve done this a few times over the years, but it’s always a bit heart-in-your-mouth, waiting to see if you’ve done more harm than good,” he said as he tugged at the twine. “It drives me crazy when people plant trees where they think they will look pretty rather than where they’ll grow well. A sixty-second conversation with someone in a garden center would have told them that citrus sinensis need sunlight, the more the better. How hard is it to ask the right questions if you don’t already know the answers?”

He glanced up at her to gauge her reaction and suddenly it hit her.

“You’re a gardener.”

The amused look was back in his eyes again. “You say that like it’s a miracle. Or at least about as likely as Bigfoot being real.”

“Sorry. It’s just not what I expected.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Let me guess. You had me pegged for a polo player, right? Maybe a yachtsman?” He spoke with an exaggerated British accent.

She smiled before she could catch herself. “Something like that.”

“My mother is a keen gardener. She recruited me as her slave when I was a kid, and I’ve been getting my hands dirty ever since.”

Mel dropped to her knees and pulled her penknife from her pocket, making short work of the knots he’d been tugging at without much success. He gave her a wry look and she shrugged apologetically.

He turned to inspect the hole she’d dug before glancing at her in an assessing way. “Would it offend you if I offered some advice?”

“I guess it depends on what it is.”

“The hole isn’t big enough. You want the soil around the roots to be a little loose and aerated, so the tree can grow new feeder roots easily.”

“You’re lucky I don’t slap your face,” she said, deadpan.

She immediately felt a dart of alarm. She’d always been a bit of a smart-ass—impossible not to be growing up with a father and a brother who took no prisoners when it came to teasing and pranks—but her quick tongue had consistently gotten her in trouble with her ex. Owen had hated it when she said something provocative or racy or pithy. He’d wanted her to be discreet and elegant and sophisticated, not mouthy and cheeky.

She waited for Flynn to signal that she’d overstepped the mark with her off-the-cuff response. Waited for the friendly smile to fall from his lips or for his blue eyes to turn cold. But he simply smiled at her appreciatively before pushing himself to his feet.

“I was wondering where your sense of humor had gotten to.”

She stared at him as he pulled the shovel from the mound of dirt. “Excuse me?”

“Your sense of humor. You always used to make me laugh.”

Her lips twisted. She knew what this was about. “You mean because I jumped in the fountain at the Hollands’ party?”

Flynn had started to dig, widening and deepening the hole, but he stopped to consider her. Almost as though he understood exactly how brightly that incident burned in her memory.

“I was under the impression that you fell in. And I didn’t think it was particularly funny until you took your bow. Hamish Greggs was an idiot for letting go of you. I hope he groveled at your feet the next day.”

She smiled grimly. “The Hollands ‘forgot’ to invite us to their black-and-white ball. I guess they were afraid I’d take a dive into their koi pond.”

“You’re kidding?” Flynn looked incredulous. Then he frowned. “I knew there was a reason I never liked them.”

For a moment she thought she’d misheard him, but the disgusted expression on his face was undeniable.

He didn’t blame her for the incident. He didn’t think she was vulgar or stupid or attention-seeking or clueless because she’d set out to help a woman in distress and wound up in the fountain. He didn’t think she’d gone out of her way to cause trouble. He was sympathetic. Maybe even supportive.

The shovel hit a rock, the metal ringing loudly, and she realized she was simply watching while her guest sweated over a hole in the ground. She shook her head, wishing she could shake off the past as easily.

“Here. I should be doing that,” she said, striding forward.

“If it gets to be too much for me I promise to send up a flare.”

“You’re my guest.” She reached out to grab the shovel from him.

“What are you going to do? Wrestle me for the shovel?” he asked.

“I was hoping you’d realize I was right.”

“Would it help at all if I told you that I’m enjoying myself? That I’ve had a really shitty couple of weeks and that digging a nice big hole and getting some dirt under my nails is exactly what the doctor ordered?” His tone was light but there was something in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking.

She let her hand fall to her side and retreated from the hole. “Okay. If you insist.”

He set to it again, his biceps flexing powerfully as he drove the shovel into the earth. Mel watched him, twitchy and uncomfortable with being forced into the role of spectator.

“You’re about to break out in hives, aren’t you?” he asked after a couple of minutes.

“I’m used to doing things for myself.”

He drove the shovel into the ground and left it there. “Then you’ll be pleased to know I’m done.”

Mel bit her lip and looked at him, aware that there was a very real chance that she was coming across as a surly ingrate. “I do appreciate the help. You’ve been incredibly generous…?.”

He waved a hand, effectively dismissing her words. “Let’s get this baby in the ground where she belongs.”

She didn’t even bother arguing with him this time. Between the two of them they lifted the tree upright so it sat on its root ball. She squatted to get a grip on the roots, digging her gloved fingers into the dirt and clay, while Flynn did the same on the other side of the tree.

“Okay. One, two, three,” she said.

They both lifted and shuffled toward the hole at the same time.

“Slowly,” Flynn said as the tree started to slide into the hole.

Mel shifted her grip to the trunk to try to control its descent, earning a face full of leaves for her efforts. She felt rather than saw the tree hit bottom and sat back on her heels with a relieved sigh. Flynn did the same on his side of the hole. After a beat he leaned to one side so he could make eye contact with her around the foliage.

“Thanks for letting me help.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Thanks for insisting.”

He pushed himself to his feet and then they filled in the hole and watered the tree into its new site.

“There. Done,” Flynn finally said, thrusting the shovel into the earth one last time.

Mel pushed a stray curl out of her eyes and considered her orange tree. In its new position, it would get close to eight hours of clear sunlight a day. With a bit of luck, she might even get fruit this summer.

Reaching out a hand, she patted the trunk affectionately. “Over to you. Show us what you’ve got, baby,” she said quietly.

Then she remembered she had an audience. When she glanced at Flynn, he was trying to hide a smile.

“Okay. So I talk to my plants occasionally,” she admitted sheepishly.

“I read my tomatoes Shakespeare one year.”

“Yeah, right.” She squinted at him, sure he was making fun of her.

“I did, I swear. My mother’s housekeeper swore her grandmother used to do it and got bumper crops.”

“And?”

“I think I should have gone for one of the comedies instead of the Scottish play.”

Mel’s laugh was loud and heartfelt.

Flynn grinned, then checked his watch. “Whoa. It’s nearly eleven. I’d better get going. I’m supposed to be doing the final inspection on Summerlea.”

“You bought it? Oh, wow.”

Usually the local grapevine was good for gossip, but she hadn’t heard a whisper about the old estate being sold so she’d simply assumed that Flynn and Hayley had walked away from their inspection unimpressed.

“It’s going to be a money pit, but I couldn’t let Edna Walling’s last great design slip through my fingers.”

Mel couldn’t hide her surprise. It was one thing to know how to transplant a tree, but to know the name of a long-dead, highly influential garden designer took his interest in gardening to a whole new level.

“What’s wrong? Having visions of polo ponies again?” he asked wryly.

“No.”

But he was right—she was. Mel was the first to admit she had some pretty set ideas about what people with money were like. She’d learned them firsthand at the feet of her husband and her in-laws. She’d seen the hypocrisy, the judgment, the insularity. She’d absorbed the politics, the values, the social mores. She knew where women of a certain income bracket liked to shop, who they allowed to cut their hair, how they preferred to keep their bodies lean and slim. She knew where the men lunched, the football clubs they supported, the charities they were happy to fund in return for a piece of the glory.

She’d assumed Flynn was like the rest of them, but apparently she’d assumed wrong.

He checked his watch again. “I’d really better get going.”

“I’ll walk you up.” It was the least she could do after he’d saved her considerable effort and offered her what was clearly expert advice.

They walked side by side in silence. Mel wracked her brain for something innocuous to say, but the edgy feeling was back now they didn’t have the task of transplanting the orange tree to occupy them. She snuck a look at him out of the corner of her eye but he seemed perfectly at ease.

“I can give you your key now if you’d like,” she said. “Save you from having to collect it later.”

“Sure, if that makes life easier for you.”

“I was trying to make life easier for you.”

They were approaching the house and Flynn stooped to collect his jacket and sweater. He washed his hands on the garden tap at the bottom of the stairs as she raced into the house to grab the keys.

“You’re not in Red Coat this time, I’m sorry. I had a previous booking, so you’re in Tea Cutter, the cottage we passed on the way to plant the tree,” she said as she descended the steps to rejoin him.

“I noticed there was another car in the parking lot. Interlopers.”

She smiled at his small joke and handed the key over. “Good luck with your inspection. When do you take possession?”

“Next weekend.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t muck around.”

“You know what they say, life’s short. It suited the vendors to have the sale go through quickly and it suited me.”

He pulled his car keys from his jeans pocket and she realized she was holding him up.

“Take notes on the orchard grove for me.” She took a backward step to signal she was letting him go. “I’m basing my new orchard on memories of my last visit to Summerlea so I might quiz you on it later.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Are you admitting to shamelessly ripping off my new garden’s design, Ms. Porter?”

“Um…yes?”

He laughed. “I’ll take some photos for you.” He turned to go, then swung back. “Unless you want to come to the inspection with me?”

It was her turn to laugh. “Sure. I could give you advice on your renovations. Tell you how a pro would do it.”

“I’m serious. I’d actually appreciate hearing your opinion.”

He was sincere, she could see it in his face. Once she got past her surprise, her first impulse was to say no—she’d gotten into the habit of saying no to a lot of things during her marriage, for a number of reasons—but it had been ten years since she’d seen the gardens at Summerlea. It would be beyond helpful to see how Edna Walling had designed the orchard and how the garden had matured.

Mel hesitated for a moment, then caught sight of her muddy jeans. She was caked from the knees down, her sweater blotched with yet more muck. The Lord only knew what was going on with her hair—something bad, she suspected, because it rarely behaved itself.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m not really fit to be seen in public right now.”

She indicated her muddy clothes.

“It’ll only be me and the real estate agent. No film crews or paparazzi.”

She opened her mouth to issue another polite excuse.

“All right. If I wouldn’t be in the way,” she heard herself say. “I’d love to come.”

“Do you need to lock up?”

“I do. I won’t be a tick.”

She went into the house to secure the front door and grab her house keys, and all the while a voice in her head screamed at her to go back and tell him no, thank you, and send him on his way. The voice told her he was simply being polite, that he couldn’t possibly really want her tagging along, that even if they’d had a perfectly nice, perfectly normal conversation, she was bound to say or do something wrong because that was what she always did.

She ignored it, because it was her husband’s voice, and her mission over the past twelve months had been to get him out of her head now that she’d gotten him out of her life.

An ongoing challenge, obviously. But she was getting there.

Coat in hand, she pulled the door closed behind her and started down the stairs. “I’m ready.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME you saw Summerlea?” Flynn asked as he reversed out of the driveway.

Mel glanced at the man sitting beside her. “I guess about ten years. I attended the last open garden weekend they held.”

“Really? So did I.” He shot her a speculative look and she knew he was wondering if they’d crossed paths all those years ago.

She was almost certain they hadn’t. Even though she hadn’t known a Randall from a rhododendron then, she would have noticed him if she’d seen him. He was a strikingly handsome man, and she’d been twenty-one and constantly on the lookout for anyone of the opposite sex who was taller than her. He would have stood out as prime flirting material to her younger self.

“All the tea tree benches are gone,” he said as he turned out of her street. “The roses are a thorny mess. And the herb garden is a flat-out disaster.”

“I loved that herb garden,” Mel said, remembering its pleasing mix of orderly English box hedge, sandstone paving and flourishing herb varieties. Edna Walling was famous for designing garden “rooms,” and in Mel’s opinion the herbal one had been among the most beautiful of the “rooms” at Summerlea.

“I’m telling you all this so you can be prepared,” he said. “The old girl ain’t what she used to be.”

“I’ll brace myself.”

A silver car was parked beside the open main gate when they arrived. A portly, middle-aged man emerged from the driver’s side and waved them onto the grounds. The gravel driveway was rutted and choked with weeds, and the car dipped from side to side as Flynn drove slowly past the house to where a dilapidated double garage stood.

“Okay. Let’s go see what I’ve gotten myself into,” Flynn said.

Mel unfolded herself from the low bucket seat and followed him as he walked down the driveway. The real estate agent was huffing and puffing his way toward them, his face already flushed with exertion. “Spencer.”

“Flynn. Good to see you again.” The other man’s grin was broad as he greeted Flynn. As well it might be—Flynn had guaranteed this man a very healthy payday by buying a property that had to be well into the millions.

“This is Mel, a friend,” Flynn said easily.

“As you can see, Flynn dragged me away from the garden,” she said when the other man glanced at her muddy clothes.

“More power to you. Draw the line at wielding the lawn mower myself, and even then I usually pay one of the local kids to do it.” The agent switched his focus to Flynn. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but we’ve had a bit of an emergency come up and I need to cover another agent’s open home. If it suits you, I thought I could leave you with the keys so you could look around at your leisure, then drop the keys at the office either today or tomorrow.”

“Sure. No problem,” Flynn said.

“Terrific, much appreciated. I hate having to bail on you like this but there’s no one else available to fill in.”

Mel drifted away as Flynn and the agent talked business for a few minutes. She was studying the bare branches of what she suspected was a flame azalea when Flynn joined her.

“The keys to the castle,” he said, holding out his hand to reveal a chunky collection of keys, many of them old-fashioned skeleton keys.

“I hope he told you which one opens the front door.”

There were at least twenty keys on the ring. Flynn looked alarmed for a minute before singling out a key that had been marked with an asterisk.

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