Courtney was happy for Laurie. And for Willow, Amy, and Melissa, her good friends, all of whom had found wonderful men in the last few years. But she hated that sappy look her friends got when they talked about their husbands and lovers. Envy pressed down on her heart like a giant invisible millstone.
She broke eye contact and pulled forward the manila folder containing the details for the Wilson-Lyndon reception. She needed to focus on her work, but before she could open the file, Laurie said, “Forget it, Court. I have no desire to go over the details. I’m sure it will be fine, whatever you do.”
Just then Amy strode into the office carrying a vase containing two dozen long-stemmed red roses. “These just arrived for you,” she said, placing them on the corner of Courtney’s desk. “Everyone downstairs is dying to know who they’re from.” Amy turned toward Laurie with a grin. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
“Okay. How about you?”
Amy held her hand out flat and wiggled it. “I throw up every morning.”
“It’s every evening for me.”
“Wait, what?” Courtney shifted her gaze from Amy to Laurie and back again.
Laurie grinned. “It looks like Andrew and I got the cart before the horse. Amy and I have almost the same due date, which is wonderful since our babies will be first cousins.”
Courtney clamped her mouth shut on the explosion of profanity that threatened to come out of it. She gave them her best imitation of a smile and then ripped the little square envelope off the roses. The writing on the card was bold and masculine and looked as if it had been executed using a blue Sharpie. Since Courtney had never seen Matt’s handwriting, she had no way of knowing whether he’d written the card himself or simply dictated it to the florist. Either way, the message was cryptic. It began with a four-line poem:
Oh how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
And it ended with a one-line signature: Tomorrow. 6:30 p.m. at the Red Fern. M.
“Who’s M?” Amy asked, shamelessly looking over Courtney’s shoulder. “And what’s with the flowery poetry?”
“Oh no. Not Matt. Please tell me those flowers did not come from Andrew’s cousin.” Laurie looked horrified.
“Oh my God, of course they did. He quotes poetry all the time. His grandmother was much the same way,” Amy said as she pulled her iPhone out of her pocket. “I bet it’s Shakespeare,” she said as her thumbs got busy. “Aha! It is Shakespeare. It’s from one of his sonnets.” She frowned as she read. “It says here that the meaning of the first line is that beauty is more beautiful when it comes with honesty and integrity.”
“Really?” Laurie said, her face paling. “Matt has balls to send Courtney something like that. Oh my God. I’m going to kill him.”
“No, don’t, Courtney said. “And don’t worry. I’ve got the situation under control.” Although that was debatable. The flowers were amazing. Hook-up Artists often used flowers and poetry as tools of seduction, but they usually quoted dumb lyrics from pop music. Not Shakespeare.
“How could you get involved with him?” Laurie asked.
“I’m not involved. I’m not even dating him. I’m teaching him a lesson.”
Laurie collapsed back in the chair. “I’m worried about you, Court. I come in here and you’re looking at sperm banks on your laptop, and then you get two dozen roses from the biggest player on the face of the planet. Do we need to stage an intervention? What the hell is this about?”
Courtney settled back in her chair. This was going to take a while to explain. “This has nothing to do with you or the way Matt behaved when you and Brandon broke up. This is about me and a truly nasty bet that Brandon and Matt made a couple of weeks ago.”
Chapter Five
Matt had refrained from texting or calling Courtney for an entire week, a move she probably recognized as strategic. The flowers, on the other hand, were a new tactic. He had never sent flowers to a woman before, even though he understood how much women enjoyed receiving them. Flowers were part of a courtship ritual, and Matt didn’t court women.
He pursued them with unabashed joy and honesty but shied away from long-term relationships. Flowers, especially red roses, suggested something permanent, and he would never have sent them to anyone other than Courtney, because she would recognize them as a ploy. She’d probably get the Shakespeare quote too.
He couldn’t wait to see how she reacted.
He strolled down Liberty Avenue carrying his suit jacket over his shoulder. The warm June sun still rode high on the western horizon, casting a golden light on the broad leaves of the sycamores lining Shenandoah Falls’s main street. Their shade provided welcome relief from the day’s heat as Matt sucked in a deep breath filled with a dozen familiar scents: handmade waffle cones from What’s the Scoop, honeysuckle growing wild and untamed on the chain-link fence surrounding the Laundromat’s parking lot, and frying bacon wafting through the doors of Gracie’s Diner.
Matt missed life in the big city, but Liberty Avenue had its own home-town appeal. He’d consumed hundreds of ice cream cones at What’s the Scoop, pulled dozens of honeysuckle blooms from that vine, and eaten a truckload of burgers at Gracie’s Diner.
He’d also dined at the Red Fern Inn more times than he cared to remember, usually with his parents or his aunts and uncles. He’d always been required to sit up straight, keep his elbows off the table, and use the right fork for each course.
The colonial-era stone building had been a tavern for almost three hundred years, serving alcohol more or less continuously since the French and Indian War. It was the very first building in Shenandoah Falls to be listed
