“Max?” I hear from behind me and spin around to see Olivia standing by a glass cooler filled with vases of fresh flower arrangements.

“Hey, Olivia,” I say with a smile as I walk toward her. I hadn’t seen her at all in the off-season as I’d spent some time back home in Montreal and she and Garrett did some traveling to celebrate her continuing good health. She’s just about two years postcancer diagnosis and doing fantastic. At least that’s the word I got from Garrett when training camp started a few weeks ago, but she’s living proof standing in front of me.

She looks fantastic.

I reach her and lean down to kiss her on the cheek. “Have a good summer?”

Olivia smiles brilliantly at me. “The best. Garrett and I went out west and spent some time in Colorado doing a lot of hiking and stuff.”

“That must mean you’re feeling really good,” I surmise.

“I’m feeling wonderful,” she says and then her eyes drop to the paintings I’m holding under my arm. “What you got there?”

“A friend of mine is an artist and I was wondering if you could sell them here?” I tell her bluntly with no lead in.

“Let me see,” she commands, and I line them up against the cooler.

“Oh, Max,” she breathes out in awe. “Those are stunning.”

“I know,” I say, bursting on the inside with pride over Jules’ talent.

“Stevie,” Olivia turns her head over her right shoulder and calls out. “Come here a minute.”

I hear the scrape of a chair against wood flooring from the back workroom and then the megawattage personality of Stevie Magliano—owner of Fleurish—comes prancing my way.

He let his trademark hairstyle go—platinum blond spikes with neon tips—and is a bit more sedate today with what looks like naturally blond hair cropped close to his head. But just because his hairstyle has gone a little more conservative doesn’t mean that Stevie himself is less flamboyant. On the contrary, he has a floral pattern of pink crystals glued to his face from the outside corners of his eyes and sweeping up his temple, with hot pink nail polish to match. Skinny white jeans, a pink button-down polo shirt with black loafers, and his ensemble screams “I’m Gay and I’m Proud of It.”

“Max,” he says with a pleasant surprise when he sees me, then sashays my way. I have to admit, the first time I’d met Stevie I was a bit taken aback, but I don’t think twice now bending down and letting him air kiss each cheek before he pulls back and looks me up and down critically. “Oh, boyfriend . . . those jeans are dreadful. What . . . did you seriously get them at like a thrift store or something?”

I look down at my Levi’s 501s that yeah . . . are a bit faded and distressed because they’re old as dirt, but they still fit great.

I think.

Not sure.

“Stevie,” Olivia snaps impatiently, and he turns to look at her. “Check out these paintings Max brought in.”

Stevie moves to stand beside Olivia, where he has one hand on his hip and pinches his chin thoughtfully with the other hand as he stares down at Jules’ art. His gaze is narrowed at first as his eyes critically take in the pieces, and he looks from painting to painting with thoughtful measure.

Finally, he turns to me and says, “These are magnificent.”

“Can you hang them up and sell them?” I ask hopefully, but prepared to do some hard-core begging if he declines. “Maybe on commission?”

Stevie gives a small shake of his head. “Not on commission. I’ll buy them outright and then mark them up for retail.”

“Are you serious?” I ask incredulously, because that was way better than I had ever imagined. I mean, I know Jules is good but I didn’t expect anyone to take that big a leap with her work.

“Dead serious,” Stevie says as he looks from the paintings to me and then back to the paintings again. “I can probably fetch four hundred dollars each. And I’d love some more. Who’s the artist?”

“A friend of mine . . . her name is Jules Bradley.”

“Well, have her get me more,” Stevie says brusquely, all flamboyance gone and replaced by pure hardcore businessman. “And I’ve got a few art gallery friends I want to show these to.”

“That would be great,” I say enthusiastically. “How much would you buy them for?”

Turning to me, he hardens his stare and says, “A hundred dollars apiece.”

I snort. “Forget it. Two hundred.”

“One fifty,” he counters.

“Two hundred,” I maintain firmly. “Sounds like you’re going to double your money on these so that’s fair.”

“Fine,” Stevie says with an impatient wave of his hand and turns toward the backroom. “Come on back to my office and I’ll write her a check.”

“Wait a minute,” I tell him, and he stops to look back at me. I point down to the painting that had originally caught my eye on Jules’ wall. “I want that one, so mark up a bill of sale. I’ll pay you four hundred for it but I want you to ship it from here straight to my mother. I’ll pay the cost of that too.”

Stevie blinks in surprise, because I could have clearly got the painting at cost directly form Jules. He knows it and I know it.

But I give him an appreciative smile. “For helping her out and giving her a chance.”

Stevie’s eyes widen in surprise for a moment, and his mouth forms into an O.

“I get it,” he drawls. “You got it bad for this girl, don’t you?”

“Yup,” I say, not even trying to hide it. I’m not like other guys that are afraid to acknowledge feelings. I’m not one that overly shares, but I’m not going to deny it.

While I really want that painting to give to my mother because I know she’ll love it, I’ve got no problem admitting I have it a little bad for Jules Bradley.

My trip back from Chapel Hill to Raleigh puts me at Sweetbrier at about quarter after eleven. I knew from my first time here that Jules took her lunch a little early, so I went to the lobby, told the receptionist I was waiting for Jules, and sat on one of the plush couches.

I pulled my phone out and texted her. I’m here to eat lunch with you. Will you share your sandwich?

She doesn’t respond but five minutes later she’s walking toward me with an astonished look on her face. She’s carrying her brown paper bag again, which is adorable, and I eye it suspiciously. “I don’t like bologna.”