thrown into chaos, theirs had been, as well. They’d done what they could to make her feel welcome, but she’d known the truth. They hadn’t wanted children. It had been a choice—yet they were stuck with her.
She’d done her best to not be any trouble, and to learn the business. By the time she was thirteen, she was already waiting tables. The patrons loved her and no one knew that she cried herself to sleep every night for the first three years after her parents had died.
Her parents had been poor but happy—both musicians. That meant there hadn’t been any money for, well, anything. The only thing she still had of her parents’ was the piano they’d played and their wedding rings. She kept the former in her living room in her small house and had had the latter made into a pendant she wore every day. She hadn’t inherited much of their musical gifts, but like them, she did love Billy Joel. He was her connection to the past.
By five thirty Helen had the coffee brewing. The rest of the wait staff showed up at five forty-five and the first customer would walk through the door exactly at six. By seven thirty every booth would be full, as would the counter seats. There was always a lull around ten that lasted until the lunch crowd showed up. By then Delja had clocked out and the culinary students from the school up in Bellingham were hard at work in the kitchen, prepping for lunch.
It was a system that worked. The students got to practice in a real world restaurant, her customers had an opportunity to try new and fun food, along with traditional favorites, and she had a steady supply of labor. Many students signed up for weekend shifts and those who lived local often wanted a job with her for a couple of years to get experience for their résumés before moving on to somewhere a lot more elegant than The Parrot Café.
Helen glanced at the clock, then reached for a mug. She was still pouring coffee when she heard the front door open. Her butterflies started a quickstep and for one brief second, she thought her hands might actually shake. Which was ridiculous. And right on cue, the recorded sound of breaking glass was followed by the opening chords of “You May Be Right.”
“I may be crazy,” Helen whispered to herself before turning around and smiling as Jeff Murphy walked toward her. “Morning.”
“Hi, Helen.” Jeff winced slightly. “Does it have to be this loud?”
“Billy is my rock-and-roll boyfriend. A love like that demands volume.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jeff set paper-wrapped flowers on the counter before pulling out his phone and tapping the screen. It only took him a second to find the Sonos app and lower the volume to the level of background noise.
“One day Billy’s going to kick your ass for doing that,” she told him.
He grinned. “I’m willing to take the chance.”
It was a variation on the conversation they had nearly every day. One she looked forward to with ridiculous anticipation. Billy might be her rock-and-roll boyfriend, but Jeff was, well... Jeff was the reason her heart kept beating.
Stupid, but there it was. The truth. She was wildly, desperately in love with Jeff Murphy.
The man was gorgeous. He looked a little like the actor Jason Bateman, with shaggy hair and big brown eyes. He was tall, fit, funny, kind and he could play guitar like nobody’s business. In a word—irresistible.
He was also single, so what was the problem? Why couldn’t she simply tell him how she felt? Or ask him out to dinner? Or rip off her clothes and smile winningly? Jeff wasn’t a dummy. He would get the message.
Only three things stopped her. One, he was older. Sixteen years, to be exact. While she didn’t care, she thought he might. Two, the extra thirty pounds she carried. She was currently subscribing to the when-then philosophy—distant cousin to the if-then concept. When she lost weight, then she would be brave and throw herself at Jeff.
She acknowledged that pending moment of disaster might be the reason she seemed in no hurry to commit to a weight-loss plan but she wasn’t sure.
Reason number three—which was probably the most important and therefore should be the first—Jeff was her best friend’s father.
Yup, Jeff was Kelly’s dad, which added a whole layer of complicated to the situation. Because should she ever confess the truth to said best friend, there would be a conversation filled with “WTF” and “Are you kidding me?” All of which would be screamed rather than spoken.
Oh, wait. There was a fourth reason Helen hadn’t thrown herself at Jeff. He’d never once made a move in her direction. All the more reason to bury her unrequited love/lust in a warm cinnamon roll.
“Let me show you what I brought you today,” he said, unrolling the paper. “Havran.”
Helen stepped closer to study the beautiful tulips. They were deep purple with a slightly pointed petal. The stems were pale green and smooth.
“They’re lovely. Thank you.”
She knew better than to offer to pay for them. She’d tried a couple of times, but Jeff had simply shaken his head. “I grow tulips, Helen. I want to do this.”
She’d tried reading something into his words but weeks, then months, had passed with nary a change in their relationship. Not by a whisper, look or touch did he ever hint that he thought of her as more than a friend. She’d learned to accept the flowers as a kind gift. The man was a tulip farmer, after all. It wasn’t as if he’d bought them for her.
She collected a tray filled with small vases, along with clippers. Together they loaded the vases and put them on each table. When she returned to the counter, he held out a small wrapped package the size and shape of a single stem.
“For you. Don’t tell Kelly.”
Humor danced in his dark brown eyes. Eyes she would very much like to get lost in. Maybe while he slowly undressed and reached for her as they...
“Helen?”
“What? Oh, thanks. Although I’m not sure I should thank you for stealing from your daughter’s private greenhouse.”
“She’s not going to notice one flower missing.”
“You take one every week. At some point she’s going to catch on.”
He winked. “She hasn’t yet.”
No, she hadn’t. Because Kelly would have mentioned the thefts, had she spotted them.
Yes, it was true—father and daughter worked together on their tulip farm. In addition to growing millions of blooms for florists and grocery stores, Kelly had a small, private greenhouse where she cultivated special flowers. Flowers Jeff occasionally stole and brought to Helen.
Today’s offering was red with a yellow base. But what was most remarkable were the long, slender petals that came to a needlelike point. They were delicate and exotic and incredibly beautiful.
“Tulipa acuminata,” Jeff said.
Helen didn’t know if the words were Latin or just scientific, but hearing him say them made her girl parts sigh in unison.
“It’s stunning,” she said. “I’ll put
