All They Need. Sarah Mayberry

hour.”

      Flynn smiled as he negotiated a left-hand turn. “Have I told you lately that I don’t know what I’d do with out you?”

      “Hold that thought.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “Can’t tell. It’s a secret.”

      “Oh, well, in that case…”

      “When do you think you’ll be home?”

      “Five minutes.”

      “Then I’ll see you soon.”

      She was waiting on the doorstep for him, her long auburn hair pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, which she’d paired with a snowy white turtleneck and the tailored brown leather jacket he’d bought for her birthday, and she looked effortlessly elegant, as always. His overnight bag rested on the step beside her, as well as her own Louis Vuitton duffel.

      “You packed for me,” he said as he got out of his car.

      “Didn’t want to waste time,” she said with a smile and a shrug.

      He ducked his head to kiss her. “Thanks.”

      She rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled into his face, her brown eyes steady. He kissed her again, comforted as always by her no-nonsense calm. They’d known each other since they were children and had always been friends. Only in the past year had their relationship become something more, much to their respective parents’ delight.

      “So. Are we going to go buy a house or not?” Hayley asked.

      “Why does everyone keep talking as though it’s a done deal?”

      “If you could see your face when you talk about Summerlea, you’d understand.”

      Flynn gave her a skeptical look.

      “I know you hate the idea of having a bad poker face, Flynn, but it’s true.”

      “I haven’t seen Summerlea for at least ten years. The house is probably falling down. I’m going with no expectations at all.”

      “Please. As if you care about the house. It’s all about the garden, admit it.”

      He shrugged a little sheepishly. Summerlea was all about the garden for him, but that didn’t change the facts of the situation.

      “It’s not practical. It’s too far out of town, too far from Mom and Dad,” he said, voicing the objection he hadn’t been able to raise with his parents earlier.

      “You have been in love with this place since you were a kid. I’ve listened to you rave about how it’s Edna Walling’s last great garden design so many times I’ve lost count. Getting your hands on that garden would be a dream come true for you. If you want it, we’ll work it out. It’s that simple.”

      He bent and grabbed both the bags. “We’ll see.”

      Like his father, he had learned not to plan too far ahead these days.

      As for dreams… Flynn had traded them in for responsibility a long time ago.

      MEL WAS WEEDING the border of the rose garden in the backyard when she heard the sound of a car engine. She glanced over her shoulder, trowel in hand.

      A vintage sports car cruised slowly up her driveway, its glossy black paint and chrome highlights glinting in the afternoon sun. The car disappeared around the bend in the drive and she stood, tugging off her gardening gloves.

      She walked over to greet her guests, arriving at the parking bay as the driver’s door opened. Flynn Randall stepped out, his back to her. He seemed taller and his shoulders broader than she remembered—or maybe it was simply that he was wearing faded jeans and a sweater instead of a tuxedo or a suit. Men always seemed sleeker and neater in suits.

      “Mr. Randall. Welcome,” she said in her cheeriest tone.

      He turned to face her and she blinked in surprise as she gazed into his bright blue eyes. Again, she hadn’t remembered them being quite so…startling was the only word she could come up with. Although maybe piercing was more appropriate. Especially in contrast to his almost-black hair. She’d always been aware that he was attractive but now that she was standing only a few feet away from him for the first time in over a year, she was hit with the realization that he was a very, very handsome man. He was studying her as intently and it occurred to her that he probably didn’t remember her—they’d met only a handful of times and their exchanges had mostly consisted of polite small talk about nothing special. Hardly memorable stuff. She offered him her hand.

      “Sorry. I’m Mel Porter. You probably don’t remember me, but I used to be married to Owen Hunter. We met a few times…?.”

      His hand, warm and large, slid into hers. “I remember you. How are things?” he asked, a smile curving his mouth.

      She was a little thrown by how sincere his greeting was, as though he was genuinely glad to see her.

      “I’m well, thanks. How about you?”

      “Good, thanks. And it’s Flynn, by the way.”

      He was still smiling and suddenly it hit her that he’d been at the Hollands’ midsummer party the night she’d fallen into the fountain. She glanced away, unable to maintain eye contact.

      Owen had pointed out to her in no uncertain terms exactly how see-through her dress had become after her dunking. Flynn was probably remembering her hot pink panties and whatever else she’d had on display, as well as the raft of jokes that had circulated in the weeks after the party.

      The passenger-side door opened and a slim, auburn-haired woman exited the car. Mel recognized her immediately. It was hard not to, since Hayley Stanhope had been one of the women her ex-husband had constantly encouraged Mel to befriend in the hope that it would further his political ambitions. The Stanhopes had been in banking for generations and no one had more pull in the upper crust of Melbourne society—except, perhaps, the Randalls.

      “Sorry. My mother called as we turned into the driveway,” the other woman said apologetically. She smiled at Mel, her brown eyes warm as she offered her hand. “I’m Hayley Stanhope.”

      “Mel Porter. Pleased to meet you.”

      The other woman’s gaze flicked up and down Mel’s body in a lightning-quick assessment. Mel knew what the other woman was seeing—no labels, no jewelry worth mentioning, uncontrollable hair, faded cargos, a raggedy long-sleeved T-shirt. The old self-consciousness stole over her.

      “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here,” she said, tugging on the hem of her T-shirt.

      “I’m sure we will,” Hayley replied.

      “I’ve put you in Red Coat Cottage,” Mel said, gesturing toward the cottage peeking through the screening shrubs she’d planted. “I’ll give you a quick tour then leave you to settle in. I live in the main house, so if you need anything, knock on the back door or give me a buzz on the phone.”

      She was talking too fast and her palms were damp with sweat. She took a deep, calming breath as Flynn opened the trunk and pulled out two overnight bags, one an exclusive Louis Vuitton duffel, the other a well-worn leather number that looked as though it had seen an adventure or two.

      She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She’d had wealthy guests before. So why was she feeling so edgy all of a sudden?

      She took refuge in action, leading the way toward the cottage, unlocking the door and stepping to one side to allow Flynn and Hayley to precede her.

      Flynn was too busy examining the big terra-cotta pot of roses positioned to the left of the door to pick up on her unspoken cue.

      “Red Coat roses.” His gaze met hers, bright with interest. “You named the cottage after the rose, right?”

      Mel stared at him,