Cover

Dedication

To those of you

seeking perfection:

It’s here—

Right here, in the palm of your hand.

For nature doesn’t make mistakes,

and you, my darling, are already perfect.

Author’s Note

Many of us can claim our love for Jane Austen, but only a few of us are foolish enough to retell her stories.

I have taken some liberties with Pride and Prejudice, and I hope you’ll allow me to imagine the Bennet sisters as unruly men (less our Lizzie) and Longbourne as a flower shop in Manhattan. And I hope beyond hope that you enjoy my nod to the Bennets, who we love so well.

1

A Spade’s a Spade

KASH

Heaven existed within the walls of our greenhouse.

The shuck of my shovel against the iron wheelbarrow was the second hand on my day. Rich soil mounded on the spade, and I transferred it into the bed of black-eyed Susans, turning it to feed the sleepy dirt already gathered at the flowers’ feet.

I caught sight of the snowy top of my father’s head between stalks of amber amaranth down the row where he knelt, hands in the earth. He hummed along with the music playing from the portable speaker on our work cart, and with another shuck, I drove my shovel back into the wheelbarrow.

It was peaceful and familiar, the rhythm of our day, the slanting sun, the humid air and smell of flowers. I’d worked in my family’s greenhouse during high school—as had all my siblings—but where they’d made their way into the world, I’d hung back, content at Longbourne with Dad and unable to leave Mom without anyone to fuss over. And if there was one thing Mrs. Bennet required from life, it was someone to fuss over.

I found myself smiling at the thought. She’d see us all married off—in fact, she played the matchmaker like it was her full-time job—but I had to wonder what she’d do with herself once we were all gone. Press us for grandchildren and divert her attention to them, if the rest of the Bennet brood were lucky.

The crack of the swinging metal door against the wall wiped that smile off my face. I shot up from my task with a hard look, appalled and accusing, prepared to smite whoever had disturbed our sanctuary.

Lila Parker blew in like a gale—just like she had almost daily for the last two months—heels clicking like hammers against the cement floor. At the sight of her, my fury abated, replaced by a curious wonder and the incremental slowing of time that always accompanied her entrance.

She was a study in white, pristine and stern in a pantsuit that belonged in some fancy lady’s luncheon, not a greenhouse. Her legs were ten miles long in those white pants, the matching jacket cut low. A sliver of silken nude fabric was the only thing to mar the line of her cleavage, which my eyes followed before climbing up her lily-white skin, up the long column of her neck, to the set of her uncompromising little jaw.

God, she was pretty when she was mad. Shame she had a boyfriend.

I’d known Lila since high school, the notorious rule-follower and teacher’s pet, thumbing her nose at the trouble the rest of us got in and refusing invitations to parties in favor of SAT prep. Her sister, Ivy, worked here then and stuck around like I had, and though Lila’d had every opportunity to join the gang, she’d happily declined. She’d ignored me then, and she ignored me now, outside of storming into our flower shop to get onto us—or me specifically—for whatever wedding we had, were, or would provide flowers for. As a high-profile wedding planner, I supposed that was her right.

The only bearable thing about it was the chance to give her just a little hell, simply because I knew she could take it and I could take whatever she gave back.

As she approached, her lips set in a firm line, red as blood against the milk of her skin. The bridge of her nose was short, though long enough to look down at everyone from her high horse—or high heels, as it were—but her eyes always struck me beyond all else, cool and gray as a winter’s afternoon, tight with suspicion, hard with the bite of demand. Incongruent to the impeccable, pallid shades of snow was her hair, a shining crimson too bright for all that ivory. It was as perfectly right as it was utterly unnatural, the only indicator that she ran on hot coals and gasoline, just waiting for a match to strike so she could ignite. Just as she had once a week—typically in my direction—since she started using Longbourne’s flowers for her events.

That red hair bounced with every click of her heels as she rounded the corner of the aisle and marched toward me, her eyes narrowing another tick when they met mine. Tess, our lead florist, followed with an apologetic look on her face.

My lips tilted higher on one side. And with a shield of calm, unaffected charm in place, I leaned on the handle of my shovel, ready to catch whatever Lila threw at me.

“Coral,” she snapped as she approached. “You were supposed to give me coral chrysanthemums for the Berkshire wedding, and you sent pink.” She stopped a few feet in front of me, crossing her arms.

I offered an easy smile. “I cut those flowers myself, picked the best stock from our Gigi mums, just like you asked.”

“Then why were they the wrong color? Do you have any idea the tantrum Johanna Berkshire threw over those flowers? She tried to get me fired.”

A chuckle through my nose. “Sounds like she needs to get some real problems.”

She eyed me as she drew a breath to fuel her furnace. “For years, my sister has begged me to bring Longbourne business, and I refused for exactly this reason. If it wasn’t for all the press you’ve gotten, I never would have put my ass on the line. But if I say coral, I expect coral. Not pink. Not fuchsia. Not goddamn watermelon or flamingo or anything but coral.”

“Sorry, Ms. Parker,” I answered lazily. “Won’t happen again.”

“You’re damn right it won’t.”

“How about we issue the Berkshires a partial refund for the trouble?”

Suspicion sparked in her gaze. “I’m sure that would help.”

“Then consider it done.”

Those cool eyes narrowed even more, but she changed the subject. “I need someone to come to a venue in Midtown to measure for arbors and garlands. They’ve requested an archway, and one of you needs to come take the measurements.”

Dad cast me a glance that said not it. The way Tess glared at the back of Lila’s head, I figured she’d just as soon claw Lila in the back with a hand rake than help her measure anything. Lila’s sister, Ivy—another florist at Longbourne—was entirely too pregnant to measure anything but her uterus, and Wendy, our newest addition, just wasn’t experienced enough.

My brother Luke might have done it, but something told me I wanted to be the one to handle Lila Parker.

“Sure. When and where?”

“Tomorrow, if you can manage it. I can meet you at three, Forty-Ninth and Fifth. I’m going to need an archway long enough for the wedding party to stand inside, and the arbor will need a special design built in the shape of a triangle. It’s at the—” She paused, lips flattening. “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?”

I tapped my temple. “Got it all right here.”

Color rose in her cheeks as she drew a slow breath through her nose. “I really think you should write it down.”

“What, don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know what instills more faith—that you can’t tell the difference between shades of pink or that your shirt says Can You Dig It? on the front.”

I glanced down at my chest, flicking at a streak of dirt like I gave a shit what she thought. “Listen, Priss. I’ll be where you say, when you say, ready and at your service.”

A pause while she stared me down, seeming to weigh her options. “All right, Filthy. Can you at least wear a clean shirt? This venue books for two hundred thousand per event, and I don’t want to have to get you in through the service entrance.”

“Deal,” I said, extending a hand in challenge. It was as filthy like she’d said, with crescents of dirt under my nails and enough soil in the creases of my palms to grow zucchinis.

Her eyes dropped to my hand, and for a moment, I was positive she’d refuse. But somewhere in that pretty little head of hers existed some form of manners and a healthy helping of pride, so she slipped that spotless, manicured hand into my dirty, calloused one.

It was soft and warm, though her fingers were strong, gripping my hand and pumping it once, firm and definitive, before taking it back.

Instantly, I felt guilty for daring her—her skin was spoiled with streaks and flecks of dirt. To her credit, she didn’t even dust it off. Instead, she held up her chin and gave me a quietly confrontational glare.

“I’ll give Ivy the exact address. At least I know she’ll write it down.”

“Whatever you have to do,” I said, returning my forearm to the handle of the shovel, not missing the flick of her eyes to my shoulders and the cross of my arms.

“Tomorrow then. Don’t be late.”

She tugged the hem of her jacket, straightening it to match the yardstick that was her spine, and once again, I lamented taking her hand. A scuff of dirt now sullied the very edge of that white tailored coat.

Before I could apologize, she turned on her heel to walk away.

What she didn’t realize—the cat had taken up post directly behind her.

The moment stretched as she tilted in a successful attempt to avoid impaling Brutus with her heel, and when that heel came down, it caught in the seam of concrete. Her long legs twisted, arms shooting out for balance but finding none. Fast, but not fast enough, I moved for her, the shovel hitting the ground with a clang as that pristine white ass of hers landed flat in the black-eyed Susans and that fresh coat of soil I’d just laid down.

Brutus took a seat next to Tess’s feet, curling his tail around himself and watching Lila with what I swore was a wry smile.

My urge to laugh was so intense, it caught in my chest, frozen by the sheer outrage on her face and utter hysteria of the sight of her, so clean and white against the browns and greens and golds of the flower bed. A slow heave of her chest as she breathed fire. The pink of her cheeks flaring to red. The gray of her eyes igniting into a cruel shade of blue, illuminated by the inferno of her thoughts.

I stepped up, unable to school my face as I extended a hand, this time to help her up.

But she scowled, slapping my hand away. “I’ve got it,” she shot, planting her palms in the dirt to push herself up.

As I backed out of the way, I watched her swipe at her ass, too furious to realize she’d only smudged the dirt around.

Tess removed her hands from her mouth, unable to right her face any better than I had. “Here, let me help you—”

“I said, I’ve got it.” Lila’s voice was deadly calm, and at the sound, Tess pinned her lips between her teeth and stepped out of the way.

“Tomorrow,” Lila snapped over her shoulder, smoothing the shining waves of her hair, which remained undisturbed by her tumble.

“See you then,” I answered with a nod.

And then I watched that dirty ass stride proudly out the door.

The second it swung closed, laughter bubbled out of Tess, and at the sound, there was no containing my own. Even Dad joined in, shoulders shaking gently.

“Oh, the poor Susans,” Tess said, swiping at a tear. “Look, her ass print is still there,” she squeaked before succumbing to another bout of laughter.

“The look on her face,” I said with the shake of my head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so mad. Not even you, Tess.”

“And that’s saying something,” she added, resting her palm on her belly like she’d just done a hundred sit-ups. “God, if Ivy and Lila didn’t look so much alike, I’d never believe they were related.”

“I didn’t remember her being this …” I started.

“Bitchy?”

“I was gonna say bossy, but okay.”

Tess sighed. “She wasn’t kidding about sticking her neck out. She’s handling this huge celebrity wedding on her own, and her senior is a total asshole, breathing down her neck and micromanaging her at every turn. Addison is constantly looking for reasons to throw Lila under the bus, and if we screw up, Addison will blame Lila. But even though she’s a pain, the business is good for us. Archer Events handles the biggest weddings in the city, and that’s putting us in their eye line. We’ve just gotta deal with all the stress that comes with doing weddings.”

“Like bridezillas and entitled wedding planners?” I asked.

“Exactly.” Tess sighed. “Although I don’t know what we’re going to do with Lila when Ivy is on maternity leave and isn’t here to manage her. Today was bad enough, and Ivy was just at a doctor’s appointment.”

Dad dusted off his hands. “If she got past you, Tess, I fear for us all.”

“I tried to tell her it wasn’t your fault,” Tess said, her eyes full of apology. “Those flowers went through three florists before it got to the wedding—which I told her—but she stormed right past me to yell at you about it.”

I shrugged. “Don’t worry about me, Tess. I can handle her.” At the disbelieving quirk of her mouth, I added, “I mean it. She can get as mad as she wants, I won’t get riled. I’ll hold the bucket so she can dump all her rage into it, and when she’s empty of it, I’ll get whatever done that she needs done. Trust me when I promise you this—Lila Parker cannot get to me.”

At that, Tess laughed. “Famous last words.”

And oh, if I’d only known how right she was.

2

By Design

LILA

A whistle split my lips, my dirty hand in the air to hail a cab.

Eyes were on me, likely marking the filth on my suit. Or perhaps my height or my red hair, the latter calling regular attention. Not that I minded. I wouldn’t wear so much white if I didn’t want to be seen.

White, I’d found, called more attention than red ever could.

Of course, it also fell prey to every surface it touched, especially when I went to that goddamn dirty greenhouse where that goddamn dirty gardener always found a way to get under my skin. And his stupid cat, too.

A taxi screeched to a quick halt in front of me. With the snap of the handle, I was sliding into the back, digging in my purse for my phone.

“Twenty-Third and Sixth,” I said with more bite than I’d meant. With a sigh, I added, “Please.”

With nothing more than a nod, he took off.

In the fifteen minutes I’d spent at Longbourne, my phone had become a mess of messages and calendar alerts. And while I absently cleared them, Kash Bennet dug his way through my brain with his shovel and that smirk and his idiotic T-shirt.

I could have told you his every flaw. Like his hair, which was thick and lush, black and gleaming and far too long, brushing his ears in waves too perfect for a man that sweaty. Or his nose, which looked like it had been broken once, the perfect line a little bent, flat on top like a Greek statue. Maybe his beard, which was too long to be considered scruff, dark as his hair and thick enough to barely see any skin through it. Or his size, which was far too big. Beastly. Roped and corded with muscles that gleamed with sweat and a peppering of dirt. He was dirty. Filthy and dirty and in desperate need of a manicure.

I could still feel the scrape of his calluses against the unworked flesh of my palm when we shook hands. Mine had disappeared into his, making me feel dainty, delicate, which was a feat of skill. I was no pixie, and my hands were proof—my fingers were slender and longer than my palm. Witch hands, Ivy called them, elegant and with the potential to wreak ruin or riches, depending on my mood. Which, of late, had been less than pleasant.

A pang of guilt niggled at me for giving Kash Bennet such a hard time. It was just the pressure of my job. Now, I loved my job—warts and all, as it was its own form of witch—but until I got a promotion, I worried I’d be impossible to endure.

We’d just landed the wedding of the decade. One of the Felix Femmes had met former-actor-turned-emo-rockstar in Aruba a month ago, and they were getting married. In eight weeks. Which meant I had a lot to do and not enough time to do it.

The Felix sisters were a quartet of socialites starring on a show titled Felix Femmes, a reality show documenting the daily lives of the infamous sisters. Their parents were one of the it couples from the nineties—Romanian supermodel Sorina Felix and her husband Adrien, a French socialite and retired playboy—and as such, the girls had been born with impeccable bone structure and an obscene wealth that afforded them a charmed life. And by charmed, I meant they were spoiled, entitled, and an absolute shitshow.

Alexandra and Sofia, the eldest, had been married and divorced half a dozen times between the two of them. Angelika was the third—and our client. And Natasha, the youngest, was every bit the party girl, gracing every tabloid in America with her beautiful face and-or beautiful vagina, depending on her outfit of choice. They were inhumanly gorgeous, with hard cheekbones and full lips and sweeping blonde hair, none of which were real. They had created fashion and makeup lines, perfumes and designer handbags. In essence, they were a household name of astronomic and notorious status and the clients that would likely test the limits of what I was willing to endure for my job.

For instance, at their engagement party last week, Alexandra had given a tipsy, passive-aggressive speech, halted by a glass of champagne in the face—courtesy of Angelika. Natasha, drunk, pelted them with pistachios while Sofia tried to wrestle them apart, resulting in a broken heel.

When she’d fallen, she’d taken Angelika’s strapless dress with her.

Like I said, I had my work cut out for me, and until this wedding was over, I was likely going to be a nightmare, one fueled by my boss’s breath on my neck as she waited to push me in the fire to keep herself warm.

Speak of the devil …

One of my texts was from Addison Lane, the senior coordinator in charge of ruining my life.

Johanna Berkshire was just in here with her lawyer. I told them I was handling it, so I hope for your sake that you fixed the flower issue.

A sharp inhale and flex of my jaw accompanied the tap of my fingers. It’s handled.

Of course Addison had and would continue to take credit. This was the crux of our relationship: I did all the dirty work—particularly dirty today—and she got all the kudos. I also got blamed for everything that went wrong whether I’d done it or not.

God forbid Addison actually owned up to a mistake. She was so far up our boss Caroline Archer’s asshole, she’d taken a bag of Doritos up there with her and made a nest, and the last thing she would ever do would be to tarnish her perfect reputation, especially with our high-powered boss. Addison lied easily, manipulated without thought, and held the keys to my career in her evil, ambitious talons.

So, I took all the garbage she dumped on me with a smile and an internal promise to someday ruin her. Someday, we’d be equals. Or—if I played my cards right—I’d be her boss. I smiled at the thought of her retrieving my dry cleaning and picking up coffees that I could send back for lack of proper foam. She could take the fall for my screwups. It’d be so nice to be infallible.

But as satisfying as that might be, I was all talk. I defaulted to honesty and fairness to the point of personal injury—mine or others, depending. But the impulse sometimes made it hard to get things done.

Never was a fan of the easy way.

With a glance down at my screen, I cleared out the rest of my notifications and sighed, looking out the window as the city slid past.

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