Like I said, we all had our jobs to do.

Laney—Elaine, named after our grandmother—had come from a high paying, stable job in Dallas to run Longbourne’s social media. Jett, or Julius if you were itching to get popped in the nose, had been working the last few years managing a bookstore bar, Wasted Words, on the Upper West, but came home to help around the house, since Mom could no longer cook, her hands too gnarled to manage anything requiring fine motor skills. Marcus—who sat at the table across from Dad in a suit, scrolling his phone and watching the Dow, no doubt—was our independently wealthy financial genius, having abandoned his Wall Street job to day trade, then to manage the shop. Luke and Tess managed design and production in the shop.

As for me, I worked in the greenhouse, as I always had. Because some things never changed, and I was one of them.

I wandered into the kitchen behind Laney to find the rest of the brood—Jett at the stove, Mom at the breakfast table talking Tess’s ear off, Luke sitting on the counter, watching Tess with a goofy, lovesick smile on his face. Honestly, he took up the entire counter, the edge hitting him mid-thigh. He was a beast, the tallest of all of us, which was saying something. The Bennet boys were well over six feet of muscle, sharp jaws, and irreverent smiles—well, except for Marcus. His smiles were hard-won and reserved for only the most patient of women.

I followed my nose to peer into the sizzling pan around Jett. “Smells good, Janie,” I snarked, flicking Mom’s ruffly pink apron tied around his neck, dotted with big red begonias.

His elbow fired into my rib cage, knocking the wind out of me. “Been slaving over it all day, Kitty.”

My hand clamped his shoulder as I caught my breath. “Don’t let me stop you,” I croaked, using the distraction to sneak a piece of chicken out of the pan, spinning away before he could grab me around the neck.

“Hope you burn your mouth,” he shot.

I’d never admit that the chicken was molten lava, covered in cheese that I swore was a trillion degrees and razed every tastebud in my mouth. Instead, I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, heading to the breakfast table.

“I don’t care what Lila Parker says,” my mother started, nose in the air. “You all have done an exemplary job handling the demands she’s put on you. Really, to come in and complain about the shade of flower that she chose? Wedding planners are notoriously difficult, I’ll admit, but she takes the cake.”

“The business is good,” Tess offered in Lila’s defense. “It’s the best kind of publicity for the shop, and there’s so much money in it, far more than we can make just on the storefront or deliveries.”