Secrets Of The Tulip Sisters. Susan Mallery

tulips in the garden that is your life?” Helen asked drily.

      “Not the analogy I was going to use, but sure. It works.”

      “You’re selling yourself short,” Helen told her. “Worse, you’re saying bad stuff about my friend and I don’t appreciate that. You’re not ordinary. You’re lovely and funny and hardworking.”

      “It’s amazing you don’t want to have sex with me right now.”

      “Stop. It.” Helen glared. “I mean it. Kelly, you’re great. Griffith finally got his head out of his ass long enough to notice you.”

      “I thought you liked him.”

      “I do. I used the phrase for effect. What did you think?”

      “Well done.”

      “Thank you.” She shifted to face Kelly. “I’m serious. You’re obviously over Sven. Take a chance on a great guy.”

      “We don’t know he’s great.”

      “I’ve heard rumors.”

      Kelly had, too. The problem wasn’t Griffith. Not totally. Nor was it her still recovering from the end of a long-term relationship. She was embarrassed to admit that while Sven had surprised her when he’d said it was over, she really hadn’t missed him. Or felt all that upset. Which was sad because after five years, shouldn’t she have been at least a little crushed? What did it mean that she’d gone on without much more than a blink? Hadn’t she been emotionally engaged at all? And if she hadn’t been, what was the reason? Had he not been the one or was she somehow stunted?

      Not a question she really wanted answered. Although Sven had pointed out that she’d never been in love with him. Which was true, if disconcerting to find out from a man.

      “What’s the worst that could happen?” Helen asked.

      “If I slept with Griffith?” The list was really long—where was she supposed to start?

      “Whoa, I was going to say if you talked to Griffith. I find it fascinating you jumped right into bed with him, so to speak.”

      “Please don’t.”

      “Too late now. You’ve subconsciously told me everything.”

      “I haven’t, and it wasn’t subconscious anything. I spoke out loud.” Kelly pulled into Helen’s driveway.

      “You’re trying to distract me with facts,” her friend said with a grin. “But I see you for what you are.”

      “I’m afraid to ask what that is.”

      “As you should be.” Helen lowered her voice. “You’re a sex-starved single woman who desperately wants to get involved with Griffith but you’re afraid.”

      Words spoken in jest that were just a little too close to the truth. Not the sex-starved part. Sex was fine, if not the amazing, earth-shattering experience the media claimed, but still. She did find Griffith intriguing and attractive and...

      “He’s annoying.”

      “Liar, liar.”

      “He can be annoying.”

      “Better.”

      “I want him to leave me alone.”

      Helen sighed. “At the risk of repeating myself, liar, liar.”

      Kelly growled in the back of her throat. “You’re annoying.”

      “That is absolutely true. Just say it. You’re interested. Intrigued, even. He’s hot and you have no idea why he’s suddenly interested, but you don’t hate it.”

      “What I hate is being that transparent.”

      Helen hugged her, then opened the passenger door of the truck and slid to the ground. “Only to me, my sweet. Only to me. My advice is simple. Say yes.”

      “He hasn’t asked me anything. In fact all he’s done is stare at me and be everywhere I am.”

      “Then go find out why. Oh, and start keeping condoms in your purse. Just in case.”

      With that, Helen waved and walked into her house. Kelly waited until the living room lights came on before backing out of the driveway and heading home.

      Kelly had no plans to take the condom advice, but confronting Griffith might not be such a bad idea. Maybe she could find out what he was up to. Because as nice as it would be to think he was interested in her, she knew for a fact her luck wasn’t that good. Besides, he was Griffith Burnett. Even if she got him, she would have no idea what to do with him. Sad, but true.

       2

      Most people thought the main difference between a tiny house on wheels and one that wasn’t had to do with size. But Griffith Burnett knew differently. It was about weight. If you were going to be pulling your to-hundred-square-foot tiny home all over the place, you didn’t want to be weighed down. No granite countertops, no thick wooden flooring, no wrought iron railings on the upper deck. But if your two-hundred-square-foot home was going to stay in one place, then he knew a great hard-surfaces vendor who could hook you right up. And because your tiny home was...well...small, you could get first-class material at remnant prices.

      He stood in the center of what could, in a pinch, be called his manufacturing facility. In truth it was two warehouses connected by a covered walkway, but not only was it a start—it was his.

      The bigger of the buildings held six houses in progress. Two were headed for San Francisco, one to Portland, Oregon. Two were for a family compound in eastern Washington—or as a frustrated middle-aged woman had put it, “My sons are never leaving home. I just can’t stand stepping over them every day. I’ll accept that they’re staying put if I don’t have to deal with them and their mess.”

      The last was going to be an elegant guest cottage at a quirky Texas B and B.

      That side of GB Micro Housing made the money. Whether you wanted to spend thirty thousand or a hundred and thirty thousand, Griffith could build you a tiny home pretty much to your specifications. Single level, two levels, lofts, upper-story decks, high-end finishes or everything recovered from tear-downs. You name it. It was all about weight and how much money you were willing to spend.

      He had orders for the next couple of years and the waiting list continued to grow. He’d hired two more full-time employees, bringing his total to ten.

      He supposed a money person would tell him to use his other warehouse to fulfill the paying orders, but he wasn’t even tempted. That second, smaller space, well, that was where the real work happened.

      In the smaller warehouse, he experimented, he played, he dreamed. He would never make a cent from that work, but it also meant at the end of the day, he could know he’d done what was right. That made sleeping at night a whole lot easier.

      He went into the break room to pour himself some coffee only to find his brother sitting at one of the tables. Ryan leaned back in a chair, his feet up on a second one. His eyes were closed as he listened to something through earbuds.

      Griffith resisted the urge to kick the chair out from under his brother’s feet. Maybe that would get his attention, although he had his doubts.

      Ryan was currently unmotivated. The only reason his brother had come back to Tulpen Crossing was because he’d had nowhere else to go. When Ryan had blown out his shoulder, the Red Sox had cut him loose. After two years of paying more attention to baseball than college and nearly four years in the minor league, Ryan wasn’t exactly skilled labor. He’d needed a job and Griffith had offered him one—on the line, building tiny houses. It was a decision Griffith was beginning to regret.

      He nudged his brother’s arm. Ryan opened his eyes and smiled.

      “Hey,