Confidence of Wildflowers

Book : Wildflower Series

by Micalea Smeltzer

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romance

Synopsis

For fans of Lucy Score and Colleen Hoover, a heart-wrenching contemporary romance about a young woman with a traumatic past who falls for the single dad next door.

I was eighteen, he was thirty-one. We were worlds apart. But right next door. The temptations were too strong.

My future is a big ‘what if’ at the moment and I’m fine with that.
For the most part.
When Thayer Holmes moves in next door, the grumpy landscaper both fascinates and amuses me.
When he asks me to nanny his kid, it’s a great way to make some extra money.
It’s impossible not to fall in love with Thayer and his adorable son.
There’s a big problem though.
I’m eighteen. He’s thirty-one.
Falling for someone almost fifteen years older than me wasn’t part of my plans, but sometimes things happen when you least expect them.

Release date: March 23, 2022

Publisher: Page & Vine

Print pages: 368

Sample

Prologue

Five Years Ago

I didn’t cry when my dad died.

As the cancer consumed his body, eating away at his muscle, tissue, every little bit of him—I didn’t cry.

When his body was hauled out of the house in a black bag on a stretcher, I didn’t cry.

Staring at his once emaciated form in the casket puffed up with fillers and whatever magic the mortician worked, I didn’t cry.

On the drive to the cemetery, I didn’t cry.

I didn’t cry as the preacher spoke of life and death, the inevitability of it all despite a life well lived.

I didn’t cry.

My sister didn’t cry either.

Neither did my mother.

Abusers don’t deserve tears.

When the last flower was placed on the casket, and it was all over, I didn’t cry.

I smiled.

Chapter One

You’re supposed to have your whole life figured out at eighteen.

No one says that, not explicitly, but it’s implied in the way you’re expected to have a college picked out, an entire career path already in mind. A plan on where you want to be and who you want to be.

My older sister knew she wanted to go to college to be a nurse. From there she wanted to move to a big city and do big things and be this big person.

But now she’s back home in our small town of Hawthorne Mills, Massachusetts.

Plans don’t always work, but people push them on others anyway, like if you have the path set before you everything will be okay.

What a fucking lie.

I don’t have a plan and I don’t want one.

Two weeks ago, I crossed the stage and became a high school graduate with no plans to go to college. My boyfriend is going, and he still doesn’t understand why I don’t want to follow him to his school.

I’m not a dog on a leash.

Following someone else’s desires sounds like a one-way ticket to my version of hell—I’ve already been there and I’m not going back.

A light wind ruffles the hair around my shoulders, and I pull it back, securing it with an elastic. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I wrap my arms around my legs. There’s a bruise on my knee that I have no idea how I got.

My mom’s car turns onto the street, and I scurry back through my window before she can spot me on the eave of the roof outside my bedroom. She hates it when I sit out there, convinced I’m going to fall off, despite the fact I’ve never even slipped. I’ve explained numerous times that roof tiles are textured, but she doesn’t listen. But I guess she’s just doing her motherly duty looking out for me.

Closing the window shut behind me, I let out a sigh and smile at my black cat with glowing green eyes curled up on my bed. He peeks at me with a look that says, “You’re going to be in trouble if she spotted you.”

I nod back. I know.

I found Binx, named after the cat in my favorite movie, as a kitten—he was dumped in the alley behind the antique shop my mom owns. I couldn’t leave him there. At the time, I only had a learner’s permit and was riding my bike. I wrapped him up in my jacket and took him home, begging and pleading with my mom to let me keep him. I didn’t think she would say yes, but by some miracle she did. I think he stole her heart too.

The front door opens, and a moment later my mom calls out, “Salem?”

Yep, I’m named after a fictional cat too.

Actually, I’m named after the city I was conceived in—or so I’ve been told. Talk about gross.

“Yeah?” I venture out of my room and stand at the top of the steps.

The Victorian home my mom has slowly been remodeling boasts a grand sweeping staircase, the kind you see in old movies where the debutant comes gliding down with her hand elegantly perched upon the railing.

Unfortunately, I’m no debutant and there’s nothing elegant about me.

Not if my ripped jean shorts, dirty sneakers, and tank top have anything to say about it.

“Do you have plans this afternoon?” She blows her bangs out of her eyes, her hands full of paper grocery bags. I head down the stairs, taking some from her.

“Not at the moment.”

“After I put these away,” she heads toward the kitchen and I follow her, “I thought maybe you might want to help me bake some cupcakes. Thelma is going to host a bake sale and I want to try out some different recipes.”

Thelma Parkington, otherwise known as the town busybody. She’s well into her seventies, always wears oversized glasses and colorful, weirdly patterned dresses. She’s a big gossip and knows everything there is to know about everyone in this small town.

I shrug, pulling out a box of cereal from one of the bags and setting it on the counter. “Sounds fun.”

“Good.” She smiles, a box of crackers clasped in her hands. “I love it when you help me in the kitchen.”

I smile back. Things weren’t always this simple and easy, not while my dad was alive. He was an abusive, controlling asshole behind closed doors, while in public he portrayed something entirely different. Life was hell. My mom, sister, and I lived in a constant state of holding our breath, waiting to see what would upset him next. It could be something as small as a light left on or not cleaning up the kitchen as fast as he thought we should.

Now, we can make cupcakes together and leave the kitchen a mess for days if we want.

We won’t, but it’s the fact that we can.

We get all the groceries put away before my mom pulls out one of her many aprons, this one brightly colored with pie slices on it, and passes me one of her others with a floral design.

“What flavors do you want to try out?” I tie the apron around my waist, securing it tightly so I won’t dirty my clothes. Knowing me, it won’t matter, and I’ll get flour or frosting somewhere on my body.

“I was thinking my honey and lavender recipe, chocolate since it’s tried and true, maybe lemon and mint.” She bites her lip. “It was too minty last time, so I’ll have to tweak the recipe.”

“What about your cookie dough cupcake? That’s always a crowd pleaser.”

She chuckles, her eyes following me as I reach for her personal recipe book in case she makes adjustments to anything.

“You only want that one because it’s your favorite.”

I turn to her, laying the book on the island. “Guilty.”

She shakes her head, her lips twisted with amusement, but she doesn’t deny my request, so I smile with glee. We work companionably, pulling out ingredients, mixing bowls, and everything else we’ll need.

I’m not as good of a baker as my mom, but I’m decent and it’s something I enjoy doing with her.

It’s already a bit hot in the house—the joys of living in an old house and not having central air—so I turn on the ceiling fan as well as the floor fan to help keep the kitchen cool. Once the oven starts preheating it’ll get miserable.

My mom puts some music on while we work, both of us singing and dancing along. Our laughter fills the space and I remember a time when that sound was entirely absent in our old home.

I try not to think too often about before—our life when my dad was still alive—but some days it’s hard to ignore those thoughts.

Taking the batter, I put even amounts into the lined pans while my mom starts making the three different frostings. The kitchen is the most updated part of the house, and my mom insisted on having double ovens since she loves baking so much. At times like this with multiple batches of cupcakes, it certainly comes in handy.

Popping them in, I set the timer—even though it’s useless.

My mom always has this sixth sense about these types of things. It’s strange how she can tell when things are ready, but the skill has never failed her yet.

She glances at her phone, wrinkling her nose. “What is it?” I wash my hands free of batter that splattered on me.

“Your sister.”

I roll my eyes. I have a decent relationship with my older sister, but it doesn’t mean I’m blind to her faults—of which there are many.

“What did she do now?” Drying my hands on a dish rag, I start gathering up dirty bowls and spatulas.

“She won’t be home for dinner. She’s going out with Michael.”

I try to hide my reaction. Michael has been Georgia’s on-again off-again boyfriend for years now. He’s not the worst person, but the two of them together are a lethal combination. Wild, spontaneous, an absolute disaster waiting to happen.

Georgia swore when they ended things the last time that she’d never see him again.

What a little liar.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s her life to do what she pleases with, but I want to see her find someone who treats her like a queen and not a second thought, who, despite years spent together, runs at the mention of marriage. I might only be eighteen, but I’m not stupid. A couple should be on the same page about things they want, and those two are all over the place.

“I thought they were done?” I scrub at the stainless-steel mixing bowl harder than necessary.

“You know Georgia. She loves him and thinks things will be different every time.”

“Maybe they will this time.” I try to instill some false hope into my voice, but we both laugh, knowing that’s not likely to happen.

I finish washing everything up and help her finish up the frostings.

“The cupcakes are done.” Her head jerks up quickly and she rushes to the oven, slipping a mitt onto her hand. She sets the trays out to let them cool. “Would you mind seeing if the mail has been delivered?”

“No problem.”

Opening the side door, I take two steps down and my feet land on the driveway. It’s recently paved—my grandparents paid for it to be done—and I miss being able to kick at the gravel.

I glance at the house next door. It sold a while ago. No one’s moved in yet, but today a truck is parked outside. I squint my eyes as I walk further toward the street, trying to make out the writing on the truck.

Holmes Landscaping.

Huh. Maybe whoever bought it hired a landscaper to come in and clear out all the overgrowth. It certainly needs some TLC, the yard and the house, but like ours it’s beautiful with so much potential. When my mom purchased this house, at first, I thought she was crazy for not getting a new build, but then I understood. There’s so much more character in an older home. All you have to do is show it a little love.

Opening the mailbox, I grab the letters and turn to head back inside when I hear a grunt of pain come from over the side of the fence separating our yard from the one beside it.

“Hello?” I call out.

There’s no response, but it sounds like someone’s struggling.

Hesitantly, I step into the yard and find the gate open to the backyard. I glance back at the truck parked on the street.

Salem, this is how people get murdered.

But that thought doesn’t stop me from going into the backyard.

“Hello?” My voice rings out in the afternoon heat. “Is someone there?”

Huffing and puffing, like someone is about to blow a house down, is the only response I get.

I round the side of the house and find a man furiously weeding overgrown flowers and brush. On his hands and knees, it’s impossible not to notice how muscular his arms and legs are. Not to mention his ass.

Stop staring at the stranger’s ass!

He’s deeply tanned, the kind of tan you only get with hours spent in the sun.

Which, I guess, makes sense if the landscaping truck belongs to him. His hair is a chocolate brown, with natural streaks of blond in it.

He throws everything behind him, a lot of it landing in the dirty pool that’s sat unused for way too long.

“Hey. Can I help you?”

He freezes at my voice and turns around. Chestnut brown eyes narrow upon me. He looks me up and down. Dirty shoes, the mail clasped in my hands, up my body, back down again.

“You’re trespassing,” he grunts, sitting back on his legs. There are freckles sprinkled across his nose, and even though I’d guess this man to be in his early thirties, they somehow make him look younger, boyish. The heavy scruff on angular cheekbones counteracts the boyishness of it.

“You should be wearing sunglasses.” I have no idea why that’s the first thing to come out of my mouth.

“Huh?” He pushes shaggy hair out of his eyes, squinting up at me. Apparently, he agrees that it was a stupid thing to say. Even if he should be wearing them.

“Sorry.” I shake my head. “I live next door.” I toss my thumb over my shoulder at the house. “I heard you over here, and it sounded like you were struggling, so I thought I better check on you.”

“I’m fine.” His voice is deep, rich, with a timbre to it that sends a shiver down my spine. “You can go now.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Are you supposed to be here?”

His lips twitch with the tiniest hint of amusement. “This is my house, so yes. Are you supposed to be here?”

We both know the answer to that.

“Oh.” I take a step back. “I … no … I suppose not.” I blunder over my foolishness. “I’m sorry.”

He ignores me, already turning back to his laborious task. Based on the state of the yard, it’s going to take a long ass time for him to clear everything out on his own, but maybe he plans on getting help later. Right now he needs to exact his frustrations on the yard himself.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” I ramble, backing up toward the open gate in the corner. “I was concerned.” He ignores me, tossing more greenery behind him. “Anyway, if you need anything, feel free to knock on our door.”

I realize he’s not going to say anything at all, so I rush back through the gate and cross onto our driveway.

The side door opens, and my mom pokes her head out. “I was just coming to check on you. I was worried.”

Shaking my head, I scurry up the steps into the house. “Sorry, I just met our new neighbor.”

“Oh.” Surprise colors her tone and she peeks around like she might spot someone. “I didn’t know they’d moved in already.”

“He doesn’t seem very friendly.”

She frowns, locking the door. She’s already removed the cupcakes from the pans and lined them on the counter. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Mhmm,” I hum.

“He could be in a bad mood. Moving can be stressful.”

I shrug indifferently, but my eyes drift to the window above the breakfast nook that overlooks his yard. I can’t see him, but I imagine him over there in his crouched position.

“Maybe.”

Somehow, I doubt it, and even with his less than kind behavior, I can’t help but be curious about our new neighbor.