“No. She’s moving back to Connecticut so she can be closer.”
“Which leaves you without a horticulturist when you’re in the middle of a big project.” Roof terraces were Matt’s specialty, and his projects ranged from residential homes to large commercial properties. “What about the rest of your team?”
“James’s expertise is hard landscaping, and Roxy is keen and hardworking but has no formal training. Victoria had started to teach her the basics but she doesn’t have the skills to put together a design.” He set the bottle down on the table. “I’m going to have to recruit, and hope I get lucky. Fast.” He drank and Frankie eyed the strong column of his throat and the dark, grainy shadow of his jaw. He was strikingly handsome, his body hard and strong. He spent half his working day with his sleeves rolled up covered in dirt, but even dressed casually his innate sense of style shone through. It was that restrained eye for design that had built his business.
If she had been interested in men, he would have been a prime candidate.
But she wasn’t interested. Definitely not.
People told you to play to your strengths, didn’t they? And she was very, very bad at relationships.
Matt put the beer down and for a brief moment his gaze met hers. He gave her a look laden with intimacy and it made her heart pump a little faster and her breathing quicken.
Crap, her mind was playing tricks.
She had an overactive imagination courtesy of an underactive sex life.
She looked away. “I know a lot of people. I’ll make some calls. Roof terraces need special skills. It’s not just about planting pretty flowers. You need trees and shrubs that will provide year-round color.”
“Exactly. I need someone who understands the complexities of the project. Someone skilled and easy to work with. We’re a small team. There’s no room for egos or prima donnas.”
“Yeah, I get that.” It was stupid to be flustered when she’d known Matt pretty much forever. The fact that he’d matured from lanky boy into insanely hot man shouldn’t affect her as much as it did.
He was her best friend’s older brother and he’d grown up on the same island as her, off the coast of Maine. He’d experienced the same frustrations associated with small-town living, although of course his experience had been nothing like hers. No one’s had been like hers.
After her father’s affair had been exposed and he’d left them for a woman half his age, her mother’s response had been to have affairs of her own. She’d told anyone who would listen that she’d married too young and planned to make up for lost time. In an attempt to rediscover her youth and confidence, she’d cut her hair short, lost twenty pounds and started borrowing Frankie’s clothes. There had been no man too young, too old or too married to escape her mother’s attentions.
Frankie had discovered that a reputation wasn’t something that had to be earned. You could inherit it.
No matter what she did, on Puffin Island she’d always be the daughter of “that woman.”
It was as if her identity had merged with that of her mother.
Some of the boys at school had assumed she was the shortcut to a life of sexual adventure. One in particular.
Frankie pushed the memory away, refusing to allow it space in her head. “Do you want something to eat? I don’t have Eva’s skills, but I have eggs and fresh herbs. Omelet?”
“That would be great. And while you do that, tell me about your bad day. Paige said it was a bridal shower.” Matt picked up his beer. “I’m guessing that’s not your favorite thing.”
“You’re right about that.” She didn’t bother denying it. What was the point when Matt already knew her better than most?
“What happened?”
“Oh, you know—usual thing. Groom backed out, bride cried, yada yada—” She smacked the eggs on the edge of the bowl, keeping her tone light, pretending it was of no consequence, whereas, in fact, she felt as if she’d spent the afternoon in a cocktail shaker. Her emotions were both shaken and stirred. Despite her best efforts to suppress them, memories engulfed her. Her mother setting fire to her wedding album and cutting through her dress with kitchen scissors. The agonizing family gathering for her grandmother’s eightieth birthday where her father had brought his new girlfriend and spent the entire afternoon with his hand up her skirt. “Paige rescued the whole thing, of course. She could smooth a storm in the ocean. The food was good, the flowers were spectacular and the bride-to-be’s parents still paid the bill so it had a happy ending. Or as close to a happy ending as life ever gets.” She pulled a fork out of the drawer and beat the eggs the way Eva had taught her, until they were light and fluffy.
“You must have hated every minute.”
“Every second. And the whole of August seems to be nothing but bridal showers. If it weren’t for the fact we’ve only just started the company, I’d take an extended vacation.” She snipped a selection of herbs from the pots on the windowsill. As well as the parsley and basil, there were chives and tarragon all growing in a tangled, scented profusion of green that made her small kitchen feel like a garden. She chopped them and added them to the eggs. “It started me thinking about stuff I haven’t thought about in ages. Why the hell does that happen? Drives me insane.”
His gaze was warm and sympathetic.
“Memories
do that to you. They pop up when you least expect them. Inconvenient.”
“Annoying.” She added a knob of butter to the skillet, waited for it to sizzle and then poured in the eggs. “I’m not good at weddings. I shouldn’t be doing them. I’m a killjoy.”
“I didn’t realize weddings were something you could be good or bad at. Surely all you do is buy a gift, show up and smile.”