From the romance superstar author of The Boston Bolts hockey series comes a rivals-to-lovers, grumpy-sunshine romance about a young woman returning to her family’s daffodil farm only to find someone unexpected running her daddy’s business.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Darling Daffodils Farm by Brittanée Nicole, which releases on March 17th 2026.
They say you can never tame a wildflower…
When aspiring pastry chef, Tally Darling, returns home to her family’s daffodil farm, the last thing she expects to find is a hot—half-naked—farmhand living in her childhood bedroom and running her late daddy’s business.
Jesse Walker might be gorgeous but he’s also infuriatingly grumpy. Walker has no time for Tally and the feeling is mutual.
That is, until Tally hears him moan over one of her signature salted honey cupcakes. And then discovers how good it tastes when they kiss.
As dewy April days turn into warm May evenings, Walker and Tally soon realize that there is a thin line between love and hate. But will their budding connection grow into something that lasts beyond one season?
Chapter 1
Tally
March
“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” I pass the welcome sign for Hope Harbor and shake my head, baffled as to how my older sister got me to return home to our small New England town before ski season even ended.
Penny’s laugh comes out raspy over the car’s Bluetooth. “Please. I’ve been dealing with Mom for the last few months. You’re lucky my failed engagement gave her something to focus on, but I’m tagging you in now, Tally. You’re it.”
“What if I just stay until we find someone who actually knows how to plan a wedding? Or better yet, I’m sure the ladies’ auxiliary has someone who would want to help out.”
The ladies’ auxiliary is a group of women a bit older than our mom who call themselves the Liberty Ladies. Their charter dates back to the 1600s and says something about supporting the soldiers’ families during wartime. Nowadays, they plan town celebrations, including the Daffodil Festival that will take place on our farm in just over three weeks.
The festival is the perfect event to ensure the farm is ready for wedding season. Maybe the Liberty Ladies would want to help. That, or they’d drive Mom just crazy enough that she’d kick them off the farm and finish the job herself. Either would be better than having me, the vagabond who rarely comes home and never stays in one place longer than three months, do it. That’s what everyone believes, anyway. It’s easier to let them think that than to explain the truth: that I never wanted to leave but had to. That I’ve been counting down the days until I can come back. That I’m on the precipice of being able to do just that. One more season, that’s all I need.
Tears prick my eyes, and I swipe them away quickly. Those truths won’t change a damn thing, and telling anyone now will only make things harder for everyone else.
“Mom doesn’t need help.” I can practically hear my sister’s air quotes. “She needs you. Her daughter. The one most similar to Dad. The one who was supposed to take over the farm.”
I slow to a stop at an intersection, feeling like I’ve gone back in time. Nothing ever changes in Hope Harbor. Old colonial buildings line the quaint streets with eclectic shops like Twisted Tea and Wicked Wine and Cheese occupying their first floors. The properties beyond Main Street have mostly been converted into condos, since nowadays people don’t have the need for six-thousand-square-foot homes with multiple dining rooms and kitchens. American flags fly proudly from every home, and flowers—likely from our farm—decorate many of the stone steps leading up to their front doors.
My eyes trail down the cobblestone sidewalk in search of Mabel’s , the bakery I worked at during high school when I wasn’t helping Dad on the flower farm. It’s where I discovered my love of baking. As I drive past it now, I notice it’s more run-down than the last time I saw it. Someone must be looking after it, however, because the wisteria that snakes up all the buildings doesn’t cover the windows, which have clouded with age.
Now that’s a business I would happily take over. The farm? Not so much.
The farm was never my passion. It’s always been Mom’s baby. And my father’s one true love was my mother, which meant he spent his whole life nurturing the various fields of flowers that she adored. Every season brought a different blossom facilitated by my father’s hard work; a sonnet written just for his wife. Their love bloomed vivid pinks, purples, and yellows in the spring. There was even a garden dedicated to her favorite flower, the iris, that burst with different shades of blue. He’d grown it as a surprise one spring, planting it right in view of their bedroom window. I understand why my mother isn’t ready to do this without him yet. I’m not sure I am either.
The only reason I know what needs to be done with the land is because I was a daddy’s girl who spent all of her free time helping him after school and on the weekends. It was our special time together. Meanwhile, my sister always had her nose in a book. It became a running joke in our family that I’d take care of the farm and Penny would become a librarian. They were mostly right about Penny. She’s now the proud owner of Bonfire and Bliss Books, the most adorable romance bookstore right in downtown Hope Harbor. I, on the other hand, let everyone down when I left after high school graduation for my first adventure. I haven’t been back home for more than a long weekend since. That was eight years ago.
I thought I’d have more time to make my father’s dreams come true. I’d get my culinary degree, return home to Hope Harbor, and open a small bakery. Maybe bake cakes for the weddings the farm hosted. I’d have a simple life and a purpose in this town. And I would be here to help Daddy with the farm. That was the plan. He was the only one that knew it, though. He was my confidant and my biggest cheerleader. He understood me in a way no one else ever did. He always said, “You can’t keep a wildflower in one place. They sprout up wherever they choose.”
I can’t believe he’s gone.
“You’re right. I’ll do what I can for Mom,” I say, turning my attention back to my sister. “But I need to be on the first ferry out to Nantucket the weekend before Memorial Day or I’ll lose my spot at The Chamber House.”
“I know the drill,” my sister agrees, her tone dismissive. “New season, new job. But this spring, you belong to the farm.”
I pass by my sister’s bookshop and grin as I sound the horn. “That’s me! Sure you don’t want me to stop at the store first? Bet you could use some help picking out your next thriller.”
“Ha ha,” she deadpans. “You know the only books I carry have happily ever afters.”
“And spice. We can’t forget the spice!”
“Sex is a part of romance,” Penny says defensively. “Not having it on the page would be ignoring an entire portion of a relationship. A very important one at that!”
I’ve heard this argument more times than I can count. My sister can get quite heated when people call the books in her shop porn. Ironically, it’s not the older women in town who complain. Nope, the Liberty Ladies are all about their Spicy Saturday reads. It’s strangers on the internet who have my sister up in arms. Maybe if she just stayed off TikTok, she’d be less stressed.
“And no, I don’t want you to stop here,” she continues now. “I want you to stop procrastinating and get settled at the . . . farm so you can help get things ready for wedding season.”
“Fine.” I let out a heavy sigh as I press on the gas and continue down Maple Lane. “It’s just going to be so strange being in that big house without Daddy.”
“About that,” my sister starts. But before she says anything else, a woman walks right into the street.
I slam my foot down on the brake, and my car screeches to a stop. “I’ve got to go,” I tell Penny as I slide the car into park and end our call. After looking both ways, I open my door and rush to check on the pedestrian.
March in New England is still cold, but I barely feel the bite of the wind; it’s at least thirty degrees warmer here than it is up on the ski mountain where I spent the last few months.
“Are you okay?” I ask the woman, who continues to slowly stroll across the street. She’s got chin-length silver hair that’s perfectly coifed and is clutching a brown purse to her shoulder.
She whips her head in my direction, and her eyes blink wide in surprise before her lips tip up in a smile. Oh no, I think as realization sets in, it’s Rayna McGovern. I can’t backtrack fast enough. Now that the town gossip has set her beady blue eyes on me, I know it’s only a matter of time until the entire town hears I’m home.
“Well, I never,” Rayna says, her voice aghast. “I heard a rumor that Tallulah Darling was coming home for the season. But I never believe rumors.”
Strange, because normally she’s the one spreading them.
In her sixties, Rayna is about a decade older than my mother. When I was in high school, she was always the head of the PTA. I vaguely remember Penny mentioning that she’s now the Liberty Lady, the prestigious title awarded yearly to the leader of the group.
“Here I am,” I say with a wide smile. “And it’s Tally now. Always has been, actually.”
When she reaches out for a hug, I allow her to circle her arms around me and pull me against her chest. Like almost every woman in this town, she’s got the familiar floral scent that my best friend Rosie accidentally created years ago and now sells exclusively in the boutique at her brewery. Mrs. McGovern is wearing lavender and lime. I’ve got on the wild honeysuckle that Rosie made just for me. It’s the only perfume I’ve ever worn.
“Well, if you’re okay,” I pull back, thumbing toward my car, “I’ll get going. My mom is waiting at the house, and I don’t want her to worry if I’m late.”
Rayna frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Because you walked out into the street without looking both ways?”
“Oh, nonsense. Cars stop.” She waves her hand as if I’m crazy.
“Yes, a car stops if the driver sees you in time to slam on their brakes.”
Rayna shakes her head again. “You’ve been gone too long, Tallulah. In this town, cars stop. They don’t want to hit you.”
Rayna is right about one thing at least: I have been gone for a long time.
“Got it. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for jaywalkers,” I tell her as I head back toward my car. In any other town, there’d have been a backup of traffic behind my stopped vehicle. But in Hope Harbor, not a single car has passed.
“Say hi to Walker for me!” the woman calls as I’m shutting my door.
Walker? Who the hell is Walker?
Rayna might be getting a bit batty. Walking into streets without looking, mentioning random people I’ve never heard of.
I shake my head and press the button to start my rented Kia, and I head off, driving extra slow. Apparently a little too slow, as a few minutes later a truck behind me lets out a quick beep.
I glance in the rearview mirror to glare at the out-of-towner—people in Hope Harbor never beep their horns—only to find the road empty again.
“Well, if it isn’t Tally Darling!” a familiar voice calls.
I’m beginning to feel like a celebrity with everyone using my first and last name. It’s drastically different from my culinary life, where I wince whenever someone calls me “Darling.” The guys find my last name hysterical. Male chefs are extremely egotistical, and because I don’t have a degree, I’m never called “Chef,” even if I take on that role many a night.
Not that I even want that title. No, the title I want is simple. “Baker.”
And finally, it’s within reach. Just one more summer of dealing with egomaniacs and then it’ll be my turn.
Well, after I help my family get through this spring.
Turning, I realize the vehicle that was behind me is now pulled up beside me—in the opposite lane of traffic—and the driver is none other than Eli Davis.
I smile at the man beside me; honey-brown hair with a wave most women would kill for, chiseled cheekbones covered in more-than-day-old scruff, and blue eyes that still have the same charm they did back when he was in high school with Penny.
“Still driving too fast all these years later,” he says in the flirty way he says everything. Eli doesn’t know how not to flirt with you. It’s in his nature. I’m sure plenty of women have been crushed by his demeanor, not realizing that he means nothing by it. Eli doesn’t date—long-term, that is—nor does he lead anyone on. But I’m surprised to see him here because last I knew he was still living in New York City and playing in the NHL.
“I almost ran over Rayna McGovern, so I’m just being extra careful. Don’t want to take any chances.”
Eli gives me one of his slow smiles; it spreads across his face and reaches his eyes, making the blue in them twinkle. It’s impossible not to smile when Eli smiles. “Heard you were helping out your mama on the farm. Make sure you stop by The Ice Cream Barn one day this week. Your mom loves the cherry cobbler. I’ll put a tub aside for you to bring home for her.”
At the mention of cherry cobbler, my brain starts to think up recipes for desserts that I could pair with that flavor. Maybe a cherries jubilee? I’d need the sweetest cherries to simmer with some sugar, lemon juice, and vanilla. Oh, and the zest of an orange. My mouth waters as I can practically taste the tart, sugary sauce dancing on my tongue.
“Wait, The Ice Cream Barn? What’s that?” And more importantly, where?
“A barn where I sell ice cream. It’s part of my groveling.”
“Groveling?”
“Yeah. Since I played for New York, I have to pay my penance in hopes of forgiveness.”
I laugh because few things are more sacred to New Englanders than their sports teams, and when Eli was drafted to New York—New England’s sworn enemy in almost every sport—a few people took up weekly prayers for him to be traded to their beloved Boston Bolts. Though that never happened.
“Got it. Will do. It was good seeing you, Eli!”
He tips his chin at me, and as I begin to drive forward, he hollers, “Say hi to Walker for me.”
Who is this Walker?
Taking a left, I head toward the farm, which is set back from town on the other side of the harbor. As I cruise along, I eye the smattering of sailboats bobbing in the deep navy waters, waiting to be taken out for the next boating season. The view of the farm from here has always been one of my favorites. The harbor in front of it, the small bridge that connects the town to our land, and, in the distance, the outline of New England’s craggy mountains.
One of my other favorite views? Rosie’s Brewery. It sits adjacent to our farm in an old barn that she’s worked hard to transform into a thriving business. It’s angled perfectly so the back faces our fields of flowers and the mountains, giving her customers a show that is constantly changing depending on the season: daffodils and tulips in the spring, sunflowers and dahlias in the summer, and roses and mums in the fall, not to mention the apples for picking and the pumpkin patch. In the winter, when the farm is mostly blanketed in snow and the flower beds rest in preparation for the next season, the trees are lit up with Christmas lights. Or they were, before Daddy died.
Blinking back the memories, I turn into Rosie’s driveway. I’m not ready to see my mom just yet.
The weathered wooden brewery sign with the red rose welcomes me to my best friend’s business. Shaking my head as I get out of my car, I smile up at the place. She really did it; she created a place for herself in this town, just like she always said she would.
The brewery boasts a walk-up window where you can grab coffee, and I offer a wave to the person manning the counter before pulling on the copper handle on the barn door, which swings open to reveal the whitewashed boards of the main room.
A long black bar lines the back of the space, and oversized chalkboards hang on the wall just above it, decorated with bright writing that details the day’s specials.
I scan the mostly empty room for Rosie. It’s barely lunch time, but in twenty minutes, this room will be full.
“Well, if it isn’t Tally Mae Darling,” a familiar voice sings.
I turn, searching her out, my lips lifting into a smile as soon as I spot the red locks my best friend is known for. Today they are piled high in a messy ponytail that somehow looks like it was intentionally styled that way, wisps hanging down around her ears, next to her signature gold hoops. The same rose from the welcome sign is stitched above her breast on a black long-sleeve shirt, and tight jeans hug her slim hips. A pair of black worn-in cowboy boots—also decorated with the brewery’s rose—completes the look. She gifted them to herself three years ago, after she got the business off the ground.
“Rosie!” I squeal as I rush toward her, pulling her in for a long hug.
As I step back, her familiar scent—rose and citrus—dances between us. Somehow Rosie always smells just a little bit better than everyone else.
“You don’t even look surprised to see me.”
“Penny texted. She figured you’d stop here rather than going to your mom’s.”
I roll my eyes as I let out a heavy sigh and point toward the bar. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
My eyes narrow in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘nope’?”
“Your sister said I need to send you along to the farm.” Her head lifts at the jangle of the bell announcing another customer. Her eyes bounce in recognition, and her gaze stays on the door as she keeps talking. “You’ve delayed enough.”
“Since when do you take Penny’s side?” I counter.
She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door, so I turn to see who’s stolen her attention.
A man wearing a pair of jeans and a heavy, dark sweater and holding the leash of his chocolate Labrador is headed toward the bar.
“Mut,” my friend growls beside me.
“I thought you loved dogs,” I murmur, watching the man as he stops at a table in the corner to say hello to an older woman who reaches down to pet his dog.
“I love dogs,” Rosie responds with a pasted-on smile, her lips barely moving. “I just don’t like Fletcher.”
“And Fletcher is the dog?”
I must ask the question too loudly because the man answers it as he reaches us.
“No, the dog’s name is Brewer. I’m Fletcher.” He holds out his hand to me, and his warm brown eyes stare into mine. “Fletcher Matthews, Hope Harbor’s mayor. And you are?”
“Tally Darling,” my best friend answers for me. “And she was just leaving.”
My head whips in her direction. “I was not.”
Her green eyes cut to me. “You were.”
“Oh, the other Darling girl. I’ve heard a lot about you. Your farm is treasured by our whole town. We’re all really looking forward to the Daffodil Festival.”
“Thanks,” I say uncomfortably, because I most certainly am not.
Fletcher barely acknowledges my words, however, as he focuses in on Rosie. “I’m having the pale ale today.”
“Good for you,” she says in a bored tone, waving him away.
“Odd way to treat a customer,” I mutter as he walks off, chuckling.
Before he settles at the bar, he turns back to me. “Oh, Tally. Say hi to Walker for me, okay?”
“Who the hell is Walker?” The words are a hiss between my teeth.
With a gleam in her eye, Rosie smiles. “Nope. I’m not telling you.”
“What?”
“It’ll be more fun this way.”
“No.” I pull on her arm, keeping her close. “It will not. And as my best friend, it’s your job to tell me what’s going on.”
She shrugs. “Nah.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
She shakes my hand off her arm and starts walking toward the bar. “Go home, Tally. You’ll know him when you see him.”
“Where will I see him, though?”
The only response I get is another arch of her brows.
Determined to get to the bottom of this, I make the trek to the farm in my rental. My mother will tell me what’s going on. She’s never been good at keeping a secret.
“Mom!” I yell as I open the unlocked door. No one locks their doors in Hope Harbor. My eyes scan the familiar living room, comforted that nothing has changed. “Mom?” I call again, peering into the kitchen.
I hear a noise upstairs and turn around to head to the second floor.
A rush of excitement fills me at the thought of seeing my mom again. She and Penny came to me for Christmas in Vermont this season. With it being so soon after Dad’s funeral, my sister thought it would be a good idea to stay off the farm during the holiday. There were too many memories in the house.
The floorboards creak in my bedroom and, keen to surprise her, I don’t call her name again as I run up the stairs. I swing open the door to my room and squeal. “I’m home!”
But it’s not my mother standing in my bedroom.
No, it’s a six-foot-something wall of a man, gripping a towel so tiny with hands so big my eyes bulge. The towel barely makes it around his waist, dipping dangerously low and exposing hard lines and an indecent dusting of dark hair.
I’m not supposed to be seeing this. He’s not supposed to be here. Even though those facts blink brightly in some part of my brain, I can’t look away from all that tanned skin. My gaze slides higher, over a muscular chest slick with water; up to a corded neck, the muscles of which flex; and farther still, to a strong chin covered in day-old scruff.
He’s holding a cell phone up to his ear, but his mouth isn’t moving.
When I meet his hard eyes that are narrowed into black slits, my brain finally catches up. Yup. There’s a naked man in my childhood bedroom.
Shit. There’s a naked man in my bedroom.
With nothing useful to protect myself, I do the next best thing and scream bloody murder.
