Blood and Buttercups (A Vampire’s Guide to Gardening #1)

Chapter 1

1

You know that feeling of instant panic you get when you think you sent a text to the wrong person? That “ Oh, crap, what did I just do? ” moment? And then you find out it went to the right person after all, and you laugh and move on with your life?

My boyfriend is having that moment right now.

Except, he did send the text to the wrong person. I know because he’s never called me “Sugar Baby.”

I read the message several times, having trouble processing it.

Kevin: Hey, Sugar Baby. Piper’s working tonight. You should come over and keep me company. I’m lonely. ;)

Sugar. Baby.

All I can picture is a tiny, diapered cherub waving a giant lollypop. Is that really the best pet name he could come up with? What’s wrong with that man?

“Piper?” Olivia says, startling me.

I immediately jam the phone into my back pocket, filled with irrational shame. Like I did something wrong.

“Sorry, what?” I shove my bangs out of my eyes, cursing the cheap hairspray I bought. I then force a smile for my friend, pretending everything is peachy.

Around us, vendors prep for the weekly farmer’s market that begins in less than thirty minutes, hauling things from trucks, vans, and small enclosed trailers. The sights and sounds, even the smells, are familiar, but I feel as if my world just shattered. Now everything is an unfamiliar, hollow blur.

Olivia narrows her eyes. “You okay?”

“What? Yes, I’m good. Totally okay. Nice day, right? I was worried about those clouds this morning, but?—”

“You sound like a caffeinated chipmunk. What’s wrong?”

Hand trembling, I pull the phone out of my pocket and offer it to her. My face flushes, and I begin to feel lightheaded. Before I up and pass out, I press my hands onto the tailgate of my blue 1974 Chevy pickup and hop up. My legs swing as I focus on my breathing. In. Out.

In…and out.

“What the…” Olivia mutters under her breath after she reads the text.

“I know,” I say.

“Seriously, what the?—”

“Yep.” I stare at a fire hydrant across the street.

Olivia looks up, worry written across her pretty face. With her green eyes that tilt up at the outside corners, golden hair with just a touch of copper, and tiny, delicate nose, I’ve always thought she looks like a pixie. Right now, she looks like a ticked-off pixie.

Slowly, she returns my phone. “What are you going to do?”

Hands clammy, I respond to the text even though I feel like I might throw up. Then I turn to the flower-filled buckets in the truck bed. “I’m going to work. Did you bring the cart?”

“Yeah, I’ll go grab it. What did you say to him?”

I slide off the tailgate, pull on my dark purple leather gloves, and tug buckets onto the ground. “I broke up with him.”

“Just like that?” Olivia exclaims. “You’ve been dating for two years. Don’t you think you should talk to him?”

“Nope.” My stomach rolls again, but I ignore it. “Are you going to get the cart, or should we haul these to the stand by hand?”

“Just hold on a minute,” Olivia calls over her shoulder as she scurries off. “I’ll be right back.”

Once she’s gone, I close my eyes. A stupid tear runs down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away with my arm. My chin wobbles, and I bite my lip, trying to hold myself together.

“Do you need help?” a male voice asks from behind me.

I whip around, blinking quickly and pretending I have something in my eye…but I’m not a great actress. Unless he’s blind, he knows I’m crying.

The man has shoulder-length, dark blond hair that he wears in a smooth tail at his neck. His eyes are the darkest brown imaginable, and his skin is so smooth, he could be a model for men’s face cream.

He stands in front of me, hands casually jabbed into the front pockets of his expensive jeans, with a sympathetic, knowing expression on his face.

I’ve had a stand at this evening farmer’s market every Friday for the last two summers, and this guy is here each week without fail. He buys a dozen flowers with cash, and he always pays me a little extra because that week’s flowers are “especially lovely.”

He’s nice.

“That’s all right.” I look down at the buckets. “My friend is bringing the cart. Thank you, though.”

He shifts a little, clearing his throat. “Are you…okay?”

“Hmm?” I blink again in an exaggerated manner. “Oh, yeah, I got dirt or something in my eye. I’m fine now.”

He frowns like he doesn’t believe me, but then he turns his eyes to the flowers. “You have zinnias early this year.”

“I started them in January.” I heave another bucket out of the truck. “They outgrew their flats twice. I thought they were going to take over my house before I could get them into the ground.”

The man smiles. “I don’t think I’ve ever introduced myself. I’m Ethan.”

I sniff, feeling a second wave of tears trying to spill over. “I’m Piper.”

“You sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m good. Will you stop by when we’re set up, though?”

He nods, taking that as his cue to leave. After flashing me another smile, he walks down the sidewalk and into the section of the street that’s blocked off for the market.

It’s an overcast, moody sort of evening, but that doesn’t hinder the festival vibe. Music drifts from the stage further down as the band begins to warm up. It’s bluegrass tonight. Other nights, it’s rock, and sometimes, it’s country. I don’t tend to pay much attention, but it’s a major source of aggravation for Olivia.

“Not again,” my friend groans as she wheels the cart to a stop at the back of the truck. “Who can stand that banjo twang?”

I smile at her predictability and begin to load up the flowers.

“I saw you talking to Ponytail Guy.” She hefts a bucket of purple irises from the ground and sets them next to a bunch of pale pink peonies.

This will just about be the last of my spring flowers. Soon, I’ll have gladiolus and lilies.

“He offered to help take things to the stand,” I tell her.

“That might be what he said, but I’m pretty sure he was offering something else.”

Olivia’s been hounding me about the man since he started visiting.

“He buys flowers for his girlfriend every week.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “I would bet good money he tosses those flowers in the trash before he leaves the market. He comes so he can talk to you.”

“Don’t listen to her,” I say to a ranunculus, covering the flower’s nonexistent ears. “She’s just cranky because she hasn’t had sugar for five days.”

Olivia groans. “Don’t remind me. Can you smell that kettle corn? I’m gonna die.”

I laugh, dangerously close to bursting into tears again.

“Hey,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do this tonight. We can go back to my house, throw darts at Kevin’s picture, eat way too much ice cream, and binge a K-Drama.”

I take a deep breath, willing the tears to go away. When I have them under control, I breathe out slowly. “That sounds good—but first, let’s do the market. Otherwise, all these flowers will go to waste, and Kevin isn’t worth it.”

She nods solemnly, and we wheel the first load through the chaos. The market doesn’t start until six, but people are already wandering around and checking out the shops along the street as the vendors set up their stalls.

There are over a hundred stands. Farm tables overflow with lettuce, strawberries, and early greenhouse tomatoes.

We also have jewelry artists, bakers who sell frosted sugar cookies that look like mini works of art, and several soapmakers. There’s a young woman who sells organic dog biscuits, a man offering handcrafted shaving supplies, and a woman who claims she can balance your chakras, whatever the heck that means.

And then there’s me. I’m a flower farmer. It sounds like a profession created for social media, but I swear it’s a real thing.

When I told my parents I’d found my calling, they weren’t impressed. My mother tried to persuade me to get a job that would better utilize my business degree. My dad lectured me, using phrases like “paying the bills” and “making ends meet.”

The only one who was supportive was my brother. But he also told me hemp was the new crop du jour, so I think he missed the point.

Despite their reservations, I’ve built a semi-successful little business. I grow the flowers in my backyard and sell them to local florists, grocery stores, online through my website, and at local markets. I’m not rolling in money or anything, but I have enough to “make ends meet.” Especially since my tastes fall in the budget-friendly bracket. I don’t want to say I’m cheap, but I do love a good sale.

“You’re all set, Piper,” Max says, stepping away from my prepped stall as we approach. My older brother then flashes Olivia a friendly smile. “Hi, Olive.”

He’s the only person who can get away with the nickname.

“Hey, Max.” Olivia casts a scowl at the stage. “I wish you were playing tonight.”

“We’re scheduled for next week,” he promises, simultaneously offering a nearby pair of young women a roguish grin. They’re exactly his type, wearing shorts with a negative inseam and shirts that could pass for bathing suit tops. “We have to share the limelight, you know?”

Olivia rolls her eyes.

The girls giggle together, flashing my idiot brother appreciative glances as they hover. I have no doubt they’re fans. His band doesn’t have a lot, but the ones they do have are loyal. They show up every market day, knowing Max helps me out. I don’t know any of them by name, as the rotation changes weekly. They’re a bit like stray cats, waiting around for the table scraps of my brother’s affection.

And scraps are about all they get. After acknowledging the girls, he promptly turns his attention back to Olivia and me.

Fact: Max was born to be a heartbreaker—he doesn’t even have to try. Where I’m painfully wholesome, with a heart-shaped face that’s plagued me since middle school and curves that threaten to grow a dress size if I so much as look at a donut, Max has that lean-muscled, dark-haired, bad-boy vibe going on. Except for Mom’s chocolate brown hair and Dad’s blue eyes that we share, it would be impossible for a stranger to tell we’re siblings.

“Get out of here.” I wave my hands, shooing him away like he’s a pigeon. “I need to finish setting up.”

“What’s that? You’re grateful for my help? Don’t mention it—you’re welcome.” Max grins. “I’ll be back at nine to help you clear out.”

“We have a few more buckets in the truck,” Olivia says. “Would you help me with them while Piper preps the flowers?”

“Sure thing.” Max flashes her his signature crooked smile—the one I caught him practicing in the mirror when we were teens.

Olivia, however, is immune. She shakes her head like he’s ridiculous and waves for him to follow her. Which he does…because even though Olivia is immune to Max, I’m not sure he’s immune to her.

Once alone, my mind drifts back to Kevin and Sugar Baby. My blood pressure rises with my anger, and my vision blurs with tears.

“These are pretty,” a woman in her mid-fifties says as she stops to admire my snapdragons. She’s followed by several more early patrons, and soon, I don’t have time to think about my cheating boyfriend.

The night passes quickly, and I do my best to focus on my customers, grateful it’s busy. Fifteen minutes before it’s time to shut down, Ethan steps up to my stand.

“I was worried you wouldn’t have anything left,” he says.

“You’re here later than usual.”

“I had something to take care of. I’m glad I made it back in time.”

On the stool next to me, Olivia plays on her phone. But she sits a little straighter, telling me she’s highly invested in my conversation, even if she’s pretending to be oblivious.

“What are these?” He brushes his finger over the golden petals of a flower.

“Ranunculus,” I answer. “Also known as Persian buttercups. They’re one of my favorite spring flowers.”

“I’ll take a dozen in whatever colors you like.”

“Your girlfriend is a lucky girl,” I hint lightly as I collect stems. “Most guys don’t buy flowers every week.”

Looking delighted, he says, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

I glance over. “Your mom then?”

He shakes his head.

“Sister? Aunt?” I pause. “Elderly neighbor?”

Amused, he meets my eyes. “I put them in a vase when I get home and set them on my kitchen table. I like it best when they start to wilt.”

I stare at him, flummoxed. “You like it when they…wilt?”

“It means it’s time to see you again.”

Olivia lets out a happy peep and then presses her lips together.

Even though my best friend is excited, I’m hit with an unexpected wave of guilt. But I don’t have a boyfriend anymore. Kevin made that abundantly clear.

“Thank you for the flowers.” Ethan takes them from me while I stand here like a fool. He then places a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Next week?” I parrot.

He smiles and turns to leave. As he does, something snaps inside me. Anger flares up, hot and irrational. Kevin wants to see other people? Fine with me.

“What about tomorrow?” I blurt out.

Ethan stops, turning back with raised eyebrows.

“What I mean is, I’m free tomorrow if you want to…”

What am I doing? I don’t want to go out with Ethan. I barely know him.

But I really hate Kevin right now, and this feels like justice. Plus, it might help me move on. Ripping the bandage off and all that.

Without a word, Ethan walks back, plucks a business card from my holder, and writes an address on it.

“It’s a restaurant,” he says as he hands it back. “It’s good.”

“What time?” I ask, my voice breathy with guilt-riddled nerves.

“Seven?”

“It’s a date.”

He offers me another smile, this one a touch flirtatious. “Yes, it is.”