Being with me had proven to be as easy as I’d promised, and she was happy. And her happiness made me happy, the infectious feeling fuel for my denial. Neither of us had broached the subject of our status, maintaining the front that there were still no strings, exclusive or not. But both of us knew we were in trouble. Whether it was because she had feelings for me or because she was worried I did remained to be seen. And I’d rather live in ignorance in order to keep her than to uncover that particular truth.

It was a trait I shared with my mother, it seemed.

The uncovering of my mother’s secret turned into a massive excavation, resulting in horrifying discoveries. The noncompete in the wholesale contract she’d signed was a five year deal, one that Dad had been filling from the greenhouse unbeknownst to any of us. I’d thought it strange he’d taken to the occasional delivery, citing back or knee pain as a reason to drive rather than dig. But I couldn’t have guessed he was delivering our crops to Bower. Of course, I’d never had a reason to be suspicious before now. Per the contracts, the shop could not gross two hundred thousand dollars in a calendar year, or we would have to either cease business or give the remaining profit to Bower. There was an escape hatch, a clause that said we could buy ourselves out of the contract.

The purchase amount: two million dollars.

Marcus might have been able to pay it had he not sunk all his money into saving the shop. The clause didn’t specify profit, of which there was none—all of the money we’d made in the last few months went straight back in to pay off the debts accrued during the shop’s downturn, with no small thanks to our horrible old accountant. Marcus had a lawyer friend, Ben, who’d taken us on, and the two of them were knee deep in the process of determining the legitimacy of the claim and running through our finances—a complex process involving a decade of improperly filed paperwork, invoices, and tax returns.

Either way, we had a minute before we had to close Longbourne’s doors or turn over every penny we’d made. Which, as noted, was already gone.

In the meantime, it was business as usual. But we’d have some big decisions to make soon, and none of us had a good feeling about it.

I pulled the delivery van to a stop in the service bay of the Plaza, chatting with Charlie, one of the dock managers, about the event everyone was talking about—Natasha Felix’s twenty-first birthday party.