Love Blooms on Main Street (17 page)

“I don't have to lecture you on how serious this is,” Brett said. He cursed to himself, knowing damn well the risks associated with the disease. Nerve damage, kidney damage, eye damage. He gritted his teeth, hating the thought of Ivy in that position.

“It was a brief time in my life and I'm not proud of it. I learned my lesson. The hard way, of course.” Her steely gaze held his.

“Fair enough. I'm not your doctor. I'm just your friend.”

Her mouth quirked. “Friends, are we?”

He raked his gaze over her pretty mouth, the flush that was returning to her cheeks, and the cool, clear blue of her eyes. She was pretty, but she was also sweet. And from the jumping jacks that were still playing in his chest over that episode on the lawn, he had a feeling that
friend
was the furthest thing from the truth. But
friend
was safe.
Friend
he could do.

Their food was up—a burger for him and chicken salad for her—and he doused his fries with ketchup, considering everything she'd said. “When were you diagnosed? If you don't mind me asking.”

“No. It's okay.” She picked up her fork and glanced at him. “First grade.”

Type 1, then. “And why doesn't anyone else know?”

“Why should they?” Her tone was sharp, and her mouth pinched as she stabbed at her food before bringing it to her mouth. “Sorry,” Ivy said. “I didn't mean to sound so sharp. Growing up in this town as a Birch will do that to you.” Her smile was grim, but the apology in her eyes tore at him.

“It was embarrassing, at best,” she continued. “Anywhere I went, I felt like everyone was watching me, knowing my story, that I was the girl with no dad and a drunk mom. I hated feeling that way. All I wanted was to fit in.”

“That's all any kid wants,” he said softly. He could feel her pain. He knew it himself. Wouldn't he have loved to have been like the other boys, going to baseball games with their dads, tossing the ball around in the backyard?

He punched some fries into the ketchup. He would have loved that a lot. Instead, he'd had to stand on the outskirts and watch and be reminded of what might have been.

“The diabetes just felt like one more thing that made me different. So I didn't offer it up.”

“Fair enough,” he said, but it still made him sad to think of her not having a support system in place. She was feisty, and fiery, and fiercely independent. He'd come to admire those traits in her. But the reason behind them was hard to think about. “But we're all adults now. No one associates you with that time in your life, from what I can tell. I certainly don't. And as for your disease, I'm sure your friends would want to help.”

“See, that's just the problem,” Ivy insisted. “Ever since Jane found out, she treats me differently. She watches what I eat. She limits what she eats in front of me for fear of hurting my feelings or something.” Ivy shook her head. “I feel bad. You're missing the festival because of me.”

He grinned. “I didn't really want to go to that thing anyway, so in a way, you did me a favor.”

“I guess we're even now,” she said. “I should have repaid you something for your help with my car.”

“Oh, well, I didn't say we were even…” He rubbed his jaw, happy to have a reason to lighten the subject. He didn't want to think of Ivy as sick or struggling. He didn't want to worry about another person, especially not her. She didn't deserve it. But then, who did? “Those decorations at the festival. You really did all that?”

She nodded.

“I never really thought of decorations for the fundraiser, but I'm guessing most people like that sort of thing.” When he caught the tilt of her head, he said, “Hey, right brain, left brain.”

“Man brain,” Ivy replied, but she grinned.

Brett's laugh felt a little hollow. She saw him as a flirt, a cad, no doubt, someone who picked up women and then walked away.

And he couldn't argue with that assessment, much as he hated the thought of his image through her eyes. He'd told himself that he was playing fair, that they were grown women and he wasn't the one getting their hopes up, but maybe he had it all wrong. And maybe Ivy had it all right. Maybe he was a jerk.

He thought of his father, the way he'd treated Brett's mother. He respected women more than his old man had. Respected them enough not to get emotionally involved with them if he was only going to let them down in the end.

And he respected Ivy more than any other woman he'd met in a long time. Respected the way she ran a business, the way she stood up for herself, the way she held her head high and didn't let rough times define her, the way he possibly had.

He swallowed hard. He hadn't felt this way about a woman in a long time—if ever. Which was why he never should have kissed her. And why, now more than ever, he could never do it again.

He took a bite of his burger, tasting nothing, and washed it down with his water, eying Ivy over the rim of his glass. She was pretty, beautiful, really, and far too good for him. She deserved a good man, a strong man, someone who would be there when the times got rough. That couldn't be him. Much as it saddened him, he knew it just couldn't.

P
etals on Main looked quiet, and the store windows gave no hint of life behind the black-painted panes. Brett felt his heart skip a beat as he crossed Main Street. It was past noon—he'd waited this long on purpose, knowing that many shops in Briar Creek got a late start on Sundays.

The petal-shaped sign on the door neatly read
closed
, and panic shot through him until he noticed the schedule of hours at the bottom corner. Of course. She was closed on Sunday. Just as she had been when he'd come to help with the car.

All at once, concern was replaced with something worse: disappointment. He pushed it back, telling himself it had no right to be there, that seeing her should be no different than seeing one of the Madisons. Nice girls, girls he'd grown up with, gone to school with, socialized with in groups. Nothing more than that. Except that he hadn't kissed any of the Madisons. And he'd never felt that spark for any of them, either.

Never felt that spark with anyone, he realized.

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and turned on his heel, away from the shop and all reminders of Ivy. Sweeping his eyes down Main Street, he considered his options. A coffee at Hastings or the bookstore. An afternoon drink at the pub. A long, lonely afternoon in front of the television back at the carriage house.

None of it appealed to him. In Baltimore, he never felt stir-crazy like this. He was working more, and on his days off, he enjoyed his downtime, with friends and the casual date. But there would be no casual dating in Briar Creek. Or with any of the women who worked at the hospital—he wasn't that stupid.

And for once the thought of a casual date, company for the sake of company, with no substance, left him cold.

He turned back to take another glance in the window of the flower shop. The sign was handmade and hung from a green ribbon that matched the awning over the shop. The doormat bore the age-old saying “Bloom where you are planted.”

Brett felt his lips thin. So much for that.

When he was in Baltimore, he could focus on work. He was distracted from the reminder of everything he'd left behind and the sacrifices he'd made—most of the time. He still struggled to look his mother in the eye, despite the time he was spending with her, hoping it would make up for the past, and his gut churned each time she mentioned this or that friend who had been so good to her when she was going through treatment.

It should have been him. Not some neighbor. Not even Aunt Rosemary. He was her son. And he'd turned his back on her… for his career.

He wouldn't do that to another woman.

He turned to go. Ivy was fine, he told himself. She'd been fine when he walked her back here last night—fresh faced, full of energy—making it easy for him to overlook what had happened, how badly she'd scared him, how she'd touched upon that fear he'd tried to stamp out over the years. She was probably upstairs, enjoying her day. Or off with friends. Possibly, she was even on a date.

He frowned at the thought of it.

He'd go to the gym, he decided. It was the one true release this town offered him.

He started retracing his steps back to the corner when the sound of a window sliding open caught his attention, following promptly by the sound of his name.

He turned to follow the voice and saw Ivy poking her head out of the window above the shop. Her auburn hair cascaded down, drawing shadows on her face and shielding the better part of it from view. He yearned to reach up, brush it behind her ear, just for a full glimpse of that smile.

“I saw you standing down there. We're closed on Sundays, but I can make an exception for the man who hates flowers.”

He grinned. “You're never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Nope. What's the occasion? Your mom's birthday is January eighth. Is there another special lady in your life?”

Was there? He looked up at Ivy, feeling his pulse begin to race. “How'd you remember my mom's birthday?”

“I told you. I'm in the business of knowing these things.”

He couldn't think of more than three or four people who knew his birthday, and he was ashamed to realize that he would have had to pause and think about his mother's for a little longer than it took Ivy to rattle it off. It was one of the differences between their businesses, he supposed, but he couldn't fight a twinge of guilt that stirred within him at the thought.

“I actually came by to see how you're feeling,” he called up.

Ivy hesitated for a moment and then tipped her head. “Let me buzz you in.”

Brett hesitated, but he did as she suggested and went over to the door between her shop window and the next storefront. Seconds later, the door buzzed, and he pulled it open to climb the stairs and venture one step closer into Ivy's world.

He bit back a smile as he hurried to the landing at the top, telling himself over and over that this was a professional visit and that it couldn't be anything more.

Ivy frantically gathered the pile of unfolded laundry from her bed and shoved it into the closet. She then tossed the duvet cover onto her bed, grabbed the pillows from the floor, and set them side by side.

Ridiculous! It wasn't like he was here for
that
—and even if he was, she wasn't up for it. Well… she wasn't up for the disappointment that would inevitably follow.

She closed the bedroom door firmly, and then, on second thought, left it open a crack. The living room was passable, save the chenille throw wedged in the corner of the sofa. She rolled it into a ball and then, realizing that looked even worse, tossed it over the back of her secondhand armchair.

The knock came as she was frantically loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.

“One second!” she called, dashing into the bathroom. She smoothed her hair and took a deep breath before flicking off the light. Her apartment hadn't looked this tidy in a while, and all it had taken was fifteen seconds. For the first time, she was grateful for its minuscule size.

She flung open the door, not sure if her heart was pounding from nerves or the mad sprint around the three tiny rooms that constituted her home, but the sight of Brett in her door frame confirmed it was the former. Her pulse skipped a beat as his chocolate-brown eyes met hers and his lips curved into that slow, sexy smile. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out, so she simply took a step back and grinned as he crossed the threshold.

He looked big and out of place in the living room, drawing attention to its small scale and lack of male visitors. Henry was the only constant man in her life, and she usually saw him at his house, not here.

When her girlfriends popped by, they usually sat together on the sofa or one took the chair, but they were shorter than Brett and smaller boned. Instead, Brett seemed to tower, filling the narrow space between the television and the coffee table, and Ivy ushered him to sit.

He arranged himself on the edge of the sofa, as if suggesting she share it with him.

She eyed the armchair. It would be the sensible thing to do.

“How about some coffee?” She waited, wondering what he would say, if the purpose of his visit was purely professional, if he would start berating her about her diet, question her setback yesterday. She couldn't bear it. Even if he wasn't interested in her romantically, and even if they were just friends, she didn't need another reminder in her life of how different she was. She didn't want the white-glove treatment. If anything, she wouldn't mind Brett getting a bit rough with her.

Oh, Ivy.

“Coffee sounds good,” Brett said, plucking a throw pillow out from behind his back. He set it to the side and hooked his ankle on the opposite knee, watching her expectantly.

“Great. So… I'll be right back.” She calmly walked into her kitchen, but she struggled to push back the small thrill that Brett was in her apartment, sitting on her couch.

How many nights had she lain in bed, dreaming of this type of scenario? Only in her fantasies, she would wake to his fingers stroking her bare back, his smooth, sleepy voice whispering in her ear, and after a round of morning pleasure, she'd lazily climb from the tangled sheets, slip on one of his shirts (because there would be shirts, and they would be his, because maybe he lived with her by then… she'd never thought out those details), and pad into the kitchen, humming a little song under her breath while she prepared a breakfast tray, complete with a vase and flower (she'd always envisioned a red tulip) for the man who was waiting for her in bed, propped up on an elbow, chest bare, smile positively wicked.

She sighed now and then stared at the flickering blue flames on the gas range, not knowing how long had passed. Quickly, she filled the kettle, set it to boil, and began filling the French press's carafe with coffee grounds.

“Milk or sugar?” she asked, poking her head around the corner. He was standing now, inspecting some of her paintings.

“Neither,” he replied.

She smiled briefly and pulled back into the kitchen, her pulse racing. She decided to busy herself by preparing a tray while she waited for the water to boil—anything to avoid going in there and talking to him until she had officially gathered her wits.

So he was wearing a mossy green T-shirt that brought out some flecks around his irises. So his hair looked adorably disheveled. So his shoulders looked even broader than ever, giving her a little thrill followed by a horrible sinking feeling when she recalled how good it felt to push up against his chest.

The kettle whistled—a high, unforgiving pitch—and with a shaking hand, Ivy flicked the knob and filled the glass carafe. Brett was back in place on the sofa when she entered the room.

“Here you go, sir,” she said, setting down the tray and handing him a mug.

“Thanks.” He took a sip and leaned back casually. After a beat, his brow pinched. “Aren't you going to sit?”

“Oh.” Ivy wrung her hands, her eyes darting from the sofa to the chair. It was a really small sofa. So small that when Henry came back to town last summer, he had refused to sleep on it, even though he wanted to hover about and watch her every move.

But to sit on the armchair across the room might be formal and… unwelcoming.

She slid onto the sofa next to him, sinking deep into the old cushions, as casually as she would with an old friend, though certainly not such a handsome one.

“How are you feeling?” His tone was conversational, but she winced all the same. This was what she was afraid of, what she avoided with anyone she could.

“Fine.” She blew on her coffee and took a sip. “Thanks again for yesterday.”

He shrugged. “That's what friends are for.”

There was that word again. She wasn't so sure how she felt about it yet. “Is that what we are? Friends?” Growing up, they'd been classmates. They'd gotten along well, hung out in the same social circles, and attended the same parties, even partnered together on some school projects.

“We could give it a try,” Brett said. “I'm willing if you are.”

Ivy held his gaze, hating the part of her that wanted to cry out that no, she didn't want to be friends. Not just friends. How could she be friends with someone who had kissed her so intensely and just as easily walked away? He'd rejected her. And it stung. But he was also being nice to her. Showing her that sweeter, tender side that had made her fall for him in the first place, all those years ago.

She smiled sadly. Briar Creek was a small town. Too small for enemies. And after yesterday, Brett knew her better than most in this town. In some ways, he was now closer to her than Grace or Kara. She wasn't so sure how she felt about that. Could she trust him with her secret?

She held out her hand and gritted her teeth against the spasm of lust that shot through her when he took it in his palm, warm from the heat of his mug. “Friends.”

His grin widened, exposing that quirk in his cheek. “I wasn't sure you'd agree to it after…”

She frowned. Was he… blushing? His cheeks were definitely a bit pinker than usual. Brett the ninth grader, who seemed so sweet and accessible and yet so untouchable all the same, had blushed—when he was forced to do a presentation in English class, when he'd won first place in the science fair. But Brett the bachelor who had all the girls at Forest Ridge Hospital swooning? That Brett didn't blush.

Yet somehow he just had.

She fought off a smile. “Aw, you're not all that bad. Believe me, I've known worse.”

He seemed to not know whether to laugh or frown, so she decided to make it easy for him. “Let's see, there was the guy who turned out to be engaged. The one who ended up having a criminal record. Petty theft, but still.” She shrugged, amused.

Brett choked on his coffee. “You can't be serious.”

“Oh, but I can.” Ivy shrugged. “So, really, Brett, I'm flattered that you're so concerned about my welfare, but I'm a big girl, you're a big boy, and it was just a kiss.”

“Just a kiss.” His eyes locked with hers and she glanced away.

“So,” she said, huffing out a breath. “I've told you all my dirty secrets. Now it's your turn.”

His eyes flashed for a second and a muscle in his jaw flinched. “Not much to tell, I'm afraid.”

“Never been dumped, I take it.” Of course not.

He shook his head softly. “Always been the dumper, I'm afraid.”

Figured. Ivy pursed her lips and set her coffee down. It wasn't personal. It was just who he was. But the part that hurt was that she'd never stood a chance.

“Well, some advice from one friend to another,” she forced out. “Don't go breaking any hearts around here. If you do, Rosemary and her book club will be beating down your door, planning an intervention.”

His laugh was low and throaty, like rich gravel. She could get used to that sound.