All They Need - By Sarah Mayberry Page 0,8

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,