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Only Declan, who had once been the safest person in my world.

Declan, who now seemed to hate me.

I loved Clayton Bishop. Huge love. Hug him tight and never let go love. We were best friends, near inseparable, and had been for years.

He loved me back. He’d have done anything for me. He thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world. I knew it because he told me, but also, I could see it in his eyes. He was in love with me.

I loved Clayton, but I was in love with his brother, Declan.

Declan, who hated me.

Declan, who would barely look at me. Who went out of his way to avoid me.

He hadn’t always hated me. I used to be as close to him as the rest of the Bishop brothers.

Closer, once.

It happened about two years ago, the hate. Came out of nowhere and trampled its way all over my heart.

And to this day, I did not know why.

It didn’t matter. I was lovesick. Totally. I couldn’t see beyond the agony of my feelings for him, not even for Clayton.

When Declan was nearby, my body knew it. Not just in the same room, but even near that room, and I swear I changed. Things in my body started throbbing. I lost brain cells and became an utter fool.

He, on the other hand, barely seemed to notice me now.

I couldn’t have gotten his attention if I stripped down and started dancing naked. It was so unfair, because he had all of my attention all the time.

And as if unrequited love weren’t enough, our lives were securely and inevitably entwined. It wasn’t even an issue of seeing him daily. This was an hourly affliction, with shared car rides, classes, and often, when I went home, even shared dinners between our close-knit families.

I was screwed.

That particular weekday, I was working at my mother’s flower shop.

She co-owned it with Marion Bishop. The mother of the Bishop brothers.

Of course our mothers were best friends. Our lives were not so much entwined as welded together.

I still had on the white tank, cut-off jean shorts and pastel pink running shoes I’d thrown on that morning, now with the shop’s apron tied over them.

Outside, the afternoon heat had turned the parking lot white with glare. Inside, the air-conditioning was fighting a losing battle every time the door opened, except around the flower cooler, where it was cold enough to give me goosebumps.

I was behind the counter trimming anemones for a display—deep red petals, black centers—when one of our regulars walked in.

I smiled. “Hello, Mr. Mann.”

He gave me a warm smile and a nod, then went to peruse our pre-made arrangements.

Mr. Mann was hot, and he came in at least three times a week to get flowers for his lady, or ladies. I’d never asked, but the moms and I had speculated plenty. That’s what we did with hot customers. We wondered. We guessed. We placed wagers. My money was on him being attached.

He didn’t wear a ring. Probably not married. The flowers were just as likely an expense of bachelorhood as they were a romantic gesture for a single lucky lady.

And she would be lucky. He was movie-star handsome. Thin, athletic build that was always draped in suits, dark hair and eyes, and a constant five o’clock shadow that any woman could appreciate.

I strolled into the back room. Marion was working on an arrangement, and Sunshine was on the phone.

Those were our mothers.