Page 20 of Coming Up Roses

“Oh, Abi … Abigail …” Katie trails off when she trips over my name. I’m sure Dallas has only referred to me as Abi. That’s what he always called me, but Olivia and Flynn always call me Abigail. So far that’s all I’ve been known as here.

“Abi is fine,” I say, trying to smile in a way that doesn’t look like I’m about to jump off the edge.

“Abi.” She smiles. “Sadie and I are going ridingon Sunday. Do you want to come with us?” She takes a breath but before I have a chance to respond, she’s talking again. “You don’t have to. If it’s weird. But if you do want to, you’re more than welcome to join us. We have a horse you can ride, obviously. I don’t know how confident you are, but he’s a real sweetheart. And we can go anytime, like after you’ve done what you need to do at the event centre.”

“Katie Kat,” Flynn says, his eyes sparkling with humour. “Stop talking and let her respond.”

Everyone at the table laughs and I realise now everyone is waiting for my response.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” I say, hoping that come Sunday I can actually go through with it.

10

FLYNN

I haveto smother my smile when Abigail accepts Katie’s offer to go riding.

I covertly watch Abigail from the corner of my eye while we eat lunch and she makes slightly awkward small talk with us. Everyone is welcoming, of course.

I didn’t expect anything less from them. Everyone wants Abigail here, for Sadie’s sake, and also for Olivia’s, because we all know she needs more hands.

When Abigail compliments Violet on her muffins, Violet regales us of her history of baking fails and as Abigail laughs along with everyone else, her head tipped back and her eyes bright, I feel like I can finally relax.

It’s then that I remember what my big, stupid mouth said to Abigail on my bike.

I can’t believe I told her she was hot as fuck and my wet dream fantasy.

Good one, Flynn. Way to make things fucking awkward.

It’s true though. She looked so fucking good perched on my bike, her bare legs pressing against mine and her arms around me, palms splayed across my body.

I’ve got to put a stop to the thoughts in my head about this woman. Since I can’t rid myself of them fully just yet, I push them to the back corner of my brain and refocus on the room.

Abigail has finished eating and is fiddling with the end of her fork. Everyone else is still chatting away like they have all afternoon. Which they kind of do, there’s nothing pressing on the schedule today.

“Right, I better get back to it,” I say, pushing back from the table. I snag Abigail’s plate along with my own and stack them in the dishwasher. “I’ll give you a ride back,” I say to her.

Olivia opens her mouth, to protest and suggest Abigail hangs out a little longer, but I can see the tension creeping back into Abigail’s shoulders as she glances at the clock on the wall more and more often, so I cut Olivia off.

“Some of us have work to get back to.” I ruffle Olivia’s hair and she bats my hand away.

“Yeah, work,” she mutters, her eyes briefing closing, and her shoulders slumping slightly. “Yay.”

I bend down and wrap an arm around her in the briefest hug. “You got this, babe,” I whisper in her ear, low enough so no one else can hear. Then I stand and gesture to Abigail to follow me as I stride from the room.

Olivia is doing her damn best, but the girl never got a chance to grieve her dad passing away before she got thrust into full-time running of the farm. Sure, Violet is still technically in charge. She’s the owner of the place, but she doesn’t have thesame understanding of the farm’s operations as Olivia does. The plan was always for Olivia to take over eventually, but Henry was supposed to be around for years yet.

I know Olivia loves this place with all her heart, and she’s surrounded by people who love it just as much, but I understand sometimes you just need a break. With the first wedding since Henry’s passing happening this weekend, she’s probably feeling an extra layer of pressure.

I get outside and slip my feet back into my boots, then swing my leg over my bike, fiddling with the handlebars while Abigail puts her shoes back on. She approaches the bike with a fraction more confidence than last time, but still takes a deep breath before sliding her leg over the seat, her hand coming to rest on my shoulder to steady herself.

I have to close my eyes at the contact, and squeeze them tighter when her body settles against my back, her arms snaking around my stomach.

“Good to go?” I grit out, willing myself not to get hard when she sighs and presses her cheek against my shoulder.

She takes a shaky breath, but agrees, and we head back to the events centre. I spend every second of that ride thinking about horrible, boring things, like responsibilities, and absolutely not thinking about Abigail’s soft hands and long fingers, with fingernails perfectly painted. Today they’re a dusky pink colour and I definitely don’t think about what that colour would look like tangled in my hair, or running over my bare skin.

I don’t think about the way her bare thigh felt under my palm, or the way she trusted me by getting on the bike in the first place.