the few seconds it took him to make the trip, she found herself feeling oddly flustered and out of breath. Did he expect her to make a decision right that second? She needed time to know what on earth she was going to do.
He pulled open her door and smiled. “Kelly.”
“Griffith.”
“You had an overnight package.” He held out a small box. “It was delivered to me by mistake. I thought it might be important.”
She stared into his brown eyes and found herself oddly unable to speak. What on earth? No. No way. She might be interested in dating Griffith and possibly sleeping with him, but there was no way she was going to fall for him. That would be the complete definition of stupid.
She took the box from him and recognized the mailing label and return address. Her nerves immediately calmed and her throat unconstricted.
“I have no idea how this got to you, but thank you for dropping it by.”
“It’s important?”
She smiled. “It is to me, but I doubt you’d agree.”
“Now I’m intrigued.”
He stepped back so she could get out of the truck, then he followed her into the building.
The farm offices were in front of one of the largest greenhouses. They were basic at best, with only a half-dozen offices and a small waiting area. The real work was done elsewhere. At least Kelly’s was. Her dad handled sales and scheduled deliveries, so he spent plenty of time in his office, while she did her best to always be out in one of the greenhouses or in the fields.
They didn’t employ a receptionist, nor did they have a company phone system. If someone needed her, they called her cell phone. The same with her dad. Most of their orders were done online. Only special orders or panicked begging happened on the phone.
She dropped her battered, woven handbag on the counter and reached for a pair of scissors sticking up from a juice can of pencils. She slit the tape on the box and opened it.
Inside lay a half-dozen bulbs. They were on the small side and nestled in cotton. There was nothing special about them, nothing to indicate what they would be. A card had been taped to the inside of the box: 8756-43.
“That’s a letdown,” Griffith told her.
“For you. I’m all aquiver.”
“Seriously? Over bulbs?”
“Not just any bulbs, Griffith. These are special. A hybrid or maybe a new color or shape.”
“You don’t know?”
She showed him the card. “That’s as much information as I have.” She picked up the box and nodded toward the back of the office. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
She led him through to the big wooden door in the rear, then out along a gravel path. When they reached the smallest of the greenhouses, the one that was hers alone, they went inside.
The temperature was warmer, the air thicker and more humid. The scent of plants and life and water filled every breath. There were tables lined with square trays and in each tray were rows of bulbs.
“In the main greenhouses, each of these can hold up to a hundred and fifty bulbs,” she said. “We only have a single level of planting here, but there are farms where they have tall buildings with roofs that open and close and machines that raise and lower pallets of plants.”
“Somebody has greenhouse envy.”
“You know it.” She motioned to the various trays. “These are all experimental tulips. Different horticulturists develop them, then send them to me to grow them. I keep track of everything that happens to them—from how much water, to the nutrients used, to the amount of light and ambient temperature. I document the life cycle and report back my findings.”
He pointed to the box she held. “What is that going to be?”
“I have no idea.”
“They don’t tell you?”
“No.” She laughed. “That’s part of the fun. I haven’t got a clue. It’s like unwrapping a present.”
“Only it takes a couple of months to get to the good part.”
“That’s okay.” She touched the bulbs. “They email me basic instructions, letting me know how long they think I should refrigerate the bulb before bringing it out to root, but that’s it.”
“You refrigerate the bulbs?”
“They have to think it’s winter before they can think it’s spring.”
They left the greenhouse and walked into one of the barns. There were huge cooling rooms filled with thousands and thousands of bulbs.
“Holy crap,” he said as he looked around. “You’re going to grow all these?”
“In less than a year. I have a computer inventory program that helps me track when the bulbs are put into cold storage and when they’ll be ready to come out. Depending on the type of bulb, I know how long for them to root and from then, how long until they flower. We work backward to fill our orders. Some of the tulips—the kind you can get at any grocery store or florist year-round—are always in production. We vary the volume based on the season.”
She pointed to labeled boxes of bulbs. “Those are red and white tulips for the holidays.”
“Now you’re messing with me.”
She laughed. “I swear. Come back in five months and I’ll prove it.”
She put the new bulbs from the box into a square dish on a shelf by the door. After writing down the date on the card, she tucked it next to the dish. They walked back outside.
“Impressive,” he told her.
“It’s not housing for the homeless, but I like to think my flowers will make someone happy.”
“They will.”
They stood facing each other. There was a confidence about him, as if he knew his place in the world and was happy about it. Sven was plenty confident, too, so that couldn’t be what made Griffith feel different.
“I’m sorry about what happened in high school,” he said quietly.
The words were so at odds with what she’d been thinking that at first she had no idea what he was talking about. When she managed to find context and remembered that horrible day, she flushed and wanted to run away. Instead she forced herself to stay where she was. Her chin came up.
“All right.”
He looked at her. “I panicked. I knew your mom was in her room with Coach and I was pretty sure I knew what they were doing. I didn’t want you to walk in on that.”
Because her mother had been having an affair with the football coach, along
