Darling Daffodils Farm

Book 1: A Hope Harbor Novel

by Brittanée Nicole

Genres: General Fiction; Small Town & Rural; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Prepare to fall in love amongst the wildflowers this spring. . .

From the romance superstar author of The Boston Bolts hockey series comes a rivals-to-lovers, grumpy-sunshine romance about a young woman returning to her family’s daffodil farm only to find someone unexpected running her daddy’s business.

They say you can never tame a wildflower...

When aspiring pastry chef, Tally Darling, returns home to her family’s daffodil farm, the last thing she expects to find is a hot—half-naked—farmhand living in her childhood bedroom and running her late daddy’s business.

Jesse Walker might be gorgeous but he’s also infuriatingly grumpy. Walker has no time for Tally and the feeling is mutual.

That is, until Tally hears him moan over one of her signature salted honey cupcakes. And then discovers how good it tastes when they kiss.

As dewy April days turn into warm May evenings, Walker and Tally soon realize that there is a thin line between love and hate. But will their budding connection grow into something that lasts beyond one season?

Release date: March 17, 2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 416

Sample

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Chapter 1

Tally

March

I can't believe you talked me into this." I pass the welcome sign for Hope Harbor and shake my head, baffled as to how my older sister got me to return home to our small New England town before ski season even ended.

Penny's laugh comes out raspy over the car's Bluetooth. "Please. I've been dealing with Mom for the last few months. You're lucky my failed engagement gave her something to focus on, but I'm tagging you in now, Tally. You're it."

"What if I just stay until we find someone who actually knows how to plan a wedding? Or better yet, I'm sure the ladies' auxiliary has someone who would want to help out."

The ladies' auxiliary is a group of women a bit older than our mom who call themselves the Liberty Ladies. Their charter dates back to the 1600s and says something about supporting the soldiers' families during wartime. Nowadays, they plan town celebrations, including the Daffodil Festival that will take place on our farm in just over three weeks.

The festival is the perfect event to ensure the farm is ready for wedding season. Maybe the Liberty Ladies would want to help. That, or they'd drive Mom just crazy enough that she'd kick them off the farm and finish the job herself. Either would be better than having me, the vagabond who rarely comes home and never stays in one place longer than three months, do it. That's what everyone believes, anyway. It's easier to let them think that than to explain the truth: that I never wanted to leave but had to. That I've been counting down the days until I can come back. That I'm on the precipice of being able to do just that. One more season, that's all I need.

Tears prick my eyes, and I swipe them away quickly. Those truths won't change a damn thing, and telling anyone now will only make things harder for everyone else.

"Mom doesn't need help." I can practically hear my sister's air quotes. "She needs you. Her daughter. The one most similar to Dad. The one who was supposed to take over the farm."

I slow to a stop at an intersection, feeling like I've gone back in time. Nothing ever changes in Hope Harbor. Old colonial buildings line the quaint streets with eclectic shops like Twisted Tea and Wicked Wine and Cheese occupying their first floors. The properties beyond Maple Lane have mostly been converted into condos, since nowadays people don't have the need for six-thousand-square-foot homes with multiple dining rooms and kitchens. American flags fly proudly from every home, and flowers-likely from our farm-decorate many of the stone steps leading up to their front doors.

My eyes trail down the cobblestone sidewalk in search of Mabel's, the bakery I worked at during high school when I wasn't helping Dad on the flower farm. It's where I discovered my love of baking. As I drive past it now, I notice it's more run-down than the last time I saw it. Someone must be looking after it, however, because the wisteria that snakes up all the buildings doesn't cover the windows, which have clouded with age.

Now that's a business I would happily take over. The farm? Not so much.

The farm was never my passion. It's always been Mom's baby. And my father's one true love was my mother, which meant he spent his whole life nurturing the various fields of flowers that she adored. Every season brought a different blossom facilitated by my father's hard work; a sonnet written just for his wife. Their love bloomed vivid pinks, purples, and yellows in the spring. There was even a garden dedicated to her favorite flower, the iris, that burst with different shades of blue. He'd grown it as a surprise one spring, planting it right in view of their bedroom window. I understand why my mother isn't ready to do this without him yet. I'm not sure I am, either.

The only reason I know what needs to be done with the land is because I was a daddy's girl who spent all of her free time helping him after school and on the weekends. It was our special time together. Meanwhile, my sister always had her nose in a book. It became a running joke in our family that I'd take care of the farm and Penny would become a librarian. They were mostly right about Penny. She's now the proud owner of Bonfire and Bliss Books, the most adorable romance bookstore right in downtown Hope Harbor. I, on the other hand, let everyone down when I left after high school graduation for my first adventure. I haven't been back home for more than a long weekend since. That was eight years ago.

I thought I'd have more time to make my father's dreams come true. I'd get my culinary degree, return home to Hope Harbor, and open a small bakery. Maybe bake cakes for the weddings the farm hosted. I'd have a simple life and a purpose in this town. And I would be here to help Daddy with the farm. That was the plan. He was the only one that knew it, though. He was my confidant and my biggest cheerleader. He understood me in a way no one else ever did. He always said, "You can't keep a wildflower in one place. They sprout up wherever they choose."

I can't believe he's gone.

"You're right. I'll do what I can for Mom," I say, turning my attention back to my sister. "But I need to be on the first ferry out to Nantucket the weekend before Memorial Day or I'll lose my spot at The Chamber House."

"I know the drill," my sister agrees, her tone dismissive. "New season, new job. But this spring, you belong to the farm."

I pass by my sister's bookshop and grin as I sound the horn. "That's me! Sure you don't want me to stop at the store first? Bet you could use some help picking out your next thriller."

"Ha ha," she deadpans. "You know the only books I carry have happily ever afters."

"And spice. We can't forget the spice!"

"Sex is a part of romance," Penny says defensively. "Not having it on the page would be ignoring an entire portion of a relationship. A very important one at that!"

I've heard this argument more times than I can count. My sister can get quite heated when people call the books in her shop porn. Ironically, it's not the older women in town who complain. Nope, the Liberty Ladies are all about their Spicy Saturday reads. It's strangers on the internet who have my sister up in arms. Maybe if she just stayed off TikTok, she'd be less stressed.

"And no, I don't want you to stop here," she continues now. "I want you to stop procrastinating and get settled at the farm so you can help get things ready for wedding season."

"Fine." I let out a heavy sigh as I press on the gas and continue down Maple Lane. "It's just going to be so strange being in that big house without Daddy."

"About that," my sister starts. But before she says anything else, a woman walks right into the street.

I slam my foot down on the brake, and my car screeches to a stop. "I've got to go," I tell Penny as I slide the car into park and end our call. After looking both ways, I open my door and rush to check on the pedestrian.

March in New England is still cold, but I barely feel the bite of the wind; it's at least thirty degrees warmer here than it is up on the ski mountain where I spent the last few months.

"Are you okay?" I ask the woman, who continues to slowly stroll across the street. She's got chin-length silver hair that's perfectly coifed and is clutching a brown purse to her shoulder.

She whips her head in my direction, and her eyes blink wide in surprise before her lips tip up in a smile. Oh no, I think as realization sets in, it's Rayna McGovern. I can't backtrack fast enough. Now that the town gossip has set her beady blue eyes on me, I know it's only a matter of time until the entire town hears I'm home.

"Well, I never," Rayna says, her voice aghast. "I heard a rumor that Tallulah Darling was coming home for the season. But I never believe rumors."

Strange, because normally she's the one spreading them.

In her sixties, Rayna is about a decade older than my mother. When I was in high school, she was always the head of the PTA. I vaguely remember Penny mentioning that she's now the Liberty Lady, the prestigious title awarded yearly to the leader of the group.

"Here I am," I say with a wide smile. "And it's Tally now. Always has been, actually."

When she reaches out for a hug, I allow her to circle her arms around me and pull me against her chest. Like almost every woman in this town, she's got the familiar floral scent that my best friend Rosie accidentally created years ago and now sells exclusively in the boutique at her brewery. Mrs. McGovern is wearing lavender and lime. I've got on the wild honeysuckle that Rosie made just for me. It's the only perfume I've ever worn.

"Well, if you're okay," I pull back, thumbing toward my car, "I'll get going. My mom is waiting at the house, and I don't want her to worry if I'm late."

Rayna frowns. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"Because you walked out into the street without looking both ways?"

"Oh, nonsense. Cars stop." She waves her hand as if I'm crazy.

"Yes, a car stops if the driver sees you in time to slam on their brakes."

Rayna shakes her head again. "You've been gone too long, Tallulah. In this town, cars stop. They don't want to hit you."

Rayna is right about one thing at least: I have been gone for a long time.

"Got it. I'll make sure to keep an eye out for jaywalkers," I tell her as I head back toward my car. In any other town, there'd have been a backup of traffic behind my stopped vehicle. But in Hope Harbor, not a single car has passed.

"Say hi to Walker for me!" the woman calls as I'm shutting my door.

Walker? Who the hell is Walker?

Rayna might be getting a bit batty. Walking into streets without looking, mentioning random people I've never heard of.

I shake my head and press the button to start my rented Kia, and I head off, driving extra slow. Apparently a little too slow, as a few minutes later a truck behind me lets out a quick beep.

I glance in the rearview mirror to glare at the out-of-towner-people in Hope Harbor never beep their horns-only to find the road empty again.

"Well, if it isn't Tally Darling!" a familiar voice calls.

I'm beginning to feel like a celebrity with everyone using my first and last name. It's drastically different from my culinary life, where I wince whenever someone calls me "Darling." The guys find my last name hysterical. Male chefs are extremely egotistical, and because I don't have a degree, I'm never called "Chef," even if I take on that role many a night.

Not that I even want that title. No, the title I want is simple. "Baker."

And finally, it's within reach. Just one more summer of dealing with egomaniacs and then it'll be my turn.

Well, after I help my family get through this spring.

Turning, I realize the vehicle that was behind me is now pulled up beside me-in the opposite lane of traffic-and the driver is none other than Eli Davis.

I smile at the man beside me; honey-brown hair with a wave most women would kill for, chiseled cheekbones covered in more-than-day-old scruff, and blue eyes that still have the same charm they did back when he was in high school with Penny.

"Still driving too fast all these years later," he says in the flirty way he says everything. Eli doesn't know how not to flirt with you. It's in his nature. I'm sure plenty of women have been crushed by his demeanor, not realizing that he means nothing by it. Eli doesn't date-long-term, that is-nor does he lead anyone on. But I'm surprised to see him here because last I knew he was still living in New York City and playing in the NHL.

"I almost ran over Rayna McGovern, so I'm just being extra careful. Don't want to take any chances."

Eli gives me one of his slow smiles; it spreads across his face and reaches his eyes, making the blue in them twinkle. It's impossible not to smile when Eli smiles. "Heard you were helping out your mama on the farm. Make sure you stop by The Ice Cream Barn one day this week. Your mom loves the cherry cobbler. I'll put a tub aside for you to bring home for her."

At the mention of cherry cobbler, my brain starts to think up recipes for desserts that I could pair with that flavor. Maybe a cherries jubilee? I'd need the sweetest cherries to simmer with some sugar, lemon juice, and vanilla. Oh, and the zest of an orange. My mouth waters as I can practically taste the tart, sugary sauce dancing on my tongue.

"Wait, The Ice Cream Barn? What's that?" And more importantly, where?

"A barn where I sell ice cream. It's part of my groveling."

"Groveling?"

"Yeah. Since I played for New York, I have to pay my penance in hopes of forgiveness."

I laugh because few things are more sacred to New Englanders than their sports teams, and when Eli was drafted to New York-New England's sworn enemy in almost every sport-a few people took up weekly prayers for him to be traded to their beloved Boston Bolts. Though that never happened.

"Got it. Will do. It was good seeing you, Eli!"

He tips his chin at me, and as I begin to drive forward, he hollers, "Say hi to Walker for me."

Who is this Walker?

Taking a left, I head toward the farm, which is set back from town on the other side of the harbor. As I cruise along, I eye the smattering of sailboats bobbing in the deep navy waters, waiting to be taken out for the next boating season. The view of the farm from here has always been one of my favorites. The harbor in front of it, the small bridge that connects the town to our land, and, in the distance, the outline of New England's craggy mountains.