Dreaming of Dahlia’s is right on Main Street of a small town called Deadwood in South Dakota. The door rings as Dahlia steps into her shop, her pounding headache reminding her that coffee is not an ample substitute for water. The shop is closed this late on a Saturday, but she has office things to take care of until time to go back to Hunter’s and get her decorations. Most clients do very well about cleaning up after themselves, but once in a while she’ll get a lazy family that thinks they’re too good for that and leave it all to Dahlia.
She grabs a leftover sandwich and a soda from the fridge, but pauses before closing the door and exchanges the soda for water. At her computer she clicks through various invoices, billing receipts to compile for taxes coming up soon, and checks inventory to decide what to order on next week’s truck.
She lives, breathes, and dreams of this place. Literally, she has woken herself up to answer the phone with an irate customer in her dream. As rewarding as this place is, it’s still working with the public and that comes with its only file of drama.
“Knock, knock,” a sing-song voice says as they step in the front door. Dahlia doesn’t bother looking up from the computer. She’d recognize her best friend’s voice anywhere.
“Hey,” she says in a monotone, her brows bunched at the computer while her glasses sit atop her head.
“You know, if you actually wore the glasses, you wouldn’t have headaches or that permanent wrinkle.” Carly smiles as she pushes herself up on the counter and lets her legs dangle. She and Dahlia have been best friends since high school, and it shows in their banter. When Dahlia wanted to open this place, she knew the perfect person who was the yin to her yang that could run it with her.
Dahlia grumbles something under her breath and pulls her glasses down to her nose. “We’re closed. Why are you here? Go out, have some fun.”
Carly snorts. “You’re one to talk. When was the last time you went out and enjoyed yourself? We’re still in our youth, baby! Let’s go. Live!”
“I’d hardly call thirty-one, youth.”
“Seriously, what are you doing here? Go home. The shop will survive without you for one evening.”
Dahlia locks her computer and stretches her hands above her head. “I can’t. I have to go pick the stuff up from Hayne’s place.”
“You mean Hunter?” Carly leans in closer and bats her lashes.
“Would you stop? He owns the venue. It’s not like there is anything more going on there.” Carly hops down to follow Dahlia to the backroom.
“But there could be. You’re the only person the mysterious man has talked to since he showed up. He barely comes into town and when he does, it’s quick in and out without so much as a coffee. Who doesn’t drink coffee while running errands? Mysterious,” Carly says while wiggling her fingers. “Like, where did he come from? Why did he move out here alone? Who did he kill that he’s on the run from?”
Dahlia stops and shakes her head. “Carly, I swear, your imagination is one scary place. Maybe he enjoys being left alone and working in peace. Not everyone needs relationships.”
“Yup, he’s perfect for you. Two people who hate people and try to socialize as little as possible. You could have your own bedrooms and only have sex when it’s penciled into your schedule.” She raises her voice to a nasal tone. “Nine o’clock? Can’t. Booked. How about lunch and a quickie?”
“Carly!” Dahlia exclaims, her eyes wide and mouth open. Although the separate bedrooms don’t sound like that bad of an arrangement. “Go home,” she drags out as she pulls Carly to the front door. “I’ll see you, Monday.”
“I’m only saying these things out of love! Your vagina needs me! It’s screaming for help!” she shouts from the sidewalk, and Dahlia’s face turns crimson.
“I love her, I swear I do. But sometimes,” Dahlia says to the empty shop. She grabs her keys and checks the time. Her phone chimes and she pats herself down. Each boob, back pockets and then glances around her person when her phone isn’t there. It chimes again, and she walks to the desk to, grabbing it from under a pile of invoices.
A text from Hunter pops up.
Dahlia scoffs and looks at her four-wheel-drive SUV. She’ll be just fine and it’s cute that he thinks she needs him saving her.
Her low battery alert sounds again, and she locks her phone and she slips it into her back pocket. She’ll just charge it on her way to the Hayne’s Ranch.
Her stomach gargles as she climbs into her car. “Seriously, we just ate—” She glances at the clock on her dash and groans. “Six hours ago…”
Food first. Then pack up from the wedding.
The loneliness of realizing Carly is right creeps up her spine as she drives. Her dating life is pathetic. Why is it so hard to find someone who brings substance to her already happy life? She doesn’t want to change anything about herself and loves her life just the way it is. There’s comfort in the chaos, which means she probably needs therapy. But where’s the man who can handle her crazy schedule and smile inside the vortex of her life beside her? Does that man even exist?
Dahlia is so far stuck in her head, she hasn’t turned the radio on. Mindlessly, she uses her turn signals, stops at red lights—hopefully—and before she realizes it, she’s turning into Hunter’s driveway.
“Damn it,” she whines and throws her head back into the seat. “I forgot food!”
The snow is already falling in heavy sheets of huge flurries. Any tracks left by the wedding party are long gone. Dahlia pushes the button for four-wheel drive and sighs. “I’ll just grab something at home tonight. I’ve waited this long.”