Page 75 of Lavender and Honey

With trembling fingers, I open the small envelope. Inside is a card, the handwriting neat but casual:

"Lydia,

Each of us picked flowers we thought you'd like. A small reminder of our time together and anticipation for more to come. We can't wait for our group date on Monday.

Looking forward to seeing you,

Elias, Lucian, Finn, & Soren"

I read the note twice, my heart doing strange, complicated things in my chest. Each of them contributed to this bouquet—I try to guess which flowers might have been chosen by which man. The lavender is obvious—Soren's playful nod to the nickname he's given me. The elegant white daisies seem likeLucian's choice, simple but perfect. The black-eyed susans with their bold yellow petals strike me as Finn's selection, strong and straightforward. And the delicate blue forget-me-nots, tucked almost shyly among the larger blooms, those must be from Elias.

Monday. Our group date. The memory surfaces suddenly—a tentative plan made during one of our previous conversations, to spend time together, all five of us. I had agreed, caught up in the novel experience of actually wanting to spend more time with people rather than less.

I trace the signatures at the bottom of the card, my fingertip lingering on each name. Such a simple thing, a bouquet of flowers, and yet it feels monumental—a physical manifestation of connections I've been too scared to forge for so long. The bell chimes again, and I hastily tuck the card into my pocket, oddly protective of this small, tangible piece of them.

"Well, aren't those lovely!" Mrs. Carter exclaims as she enters, her sharp eyes immediately drawn to the colorful explosion on my counter. "Secret admirer, Lydia?"

I feel heat creeping up my neck. "Just... somefriends," I say, the word 'friends' feeling simultaneously inadequate and terrifying. We haven't put a name to whatever is growing between us, not officially at least. They were courting me, but I also didn’t want their to be more town gossip as I knew how Mrs.Carter can be,

Mrs. Carter's eyes twinkle knowingly. "Must be special friends, to send such a beautiful arrangement. It's nice to see you getting out more, dear. You've been so solitary since you came to Haven's Rest."

I make a noncommittal sound, busying myself with straightening the already-straight row of paint tubes beside the bouquet. Mrs. Carter doesn't press, moving on to browse the new selection of brushes I've just put out. I'm grateful forher tact, not quite ready to discuss the complicated emotions swirling inside me.

After Mrs. Carter leaves with her purchases, I find myself drawn back to the flowers, their vivid colors brightening the whole shop. On impulse, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the bouquet, capturing the way the sunlight catches the petals and turns them translucent.

I open the group text chat that the four men added me to last week—a modern concession to practicality, allowing us to coordinate plans without a flurry of individual messages. I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, suddenly unsure what to say. Thank you seems inadequate, but anything more feels like stepping further down a path I'm still not entirely sure I'm ready to travel.

Finally, I attach the photo and type:

"Thank you for the beautiful flowers. They're brightening up my whole shop today. I can't wait for Monday either."

I hit send before I can second-guess myself, then set the phone down, my heart thumping uncomfortably in my chest. It's just a text message, I remind myself. Simple courtesy. And yet it feels like another small step away from the solitary existence I've constructed for myself, towards something both terrifying and exhilarating.

I don't have to wait long for a response. My phone pings almost immediately, and I pick it up to see Elias's name on the screen:

"They look even more beautiful in your shop than they did at the florist's! So glad you like them. I'm already planning what to cook for Monday. Any requests or did you want to come over earlier and we all cook together?"

Before I can respond, another message appears, this one from Soren:

"I told them lavender had to be included. For obvious reasons. Still dreaming about last night, Lavender girl."

Heat floods my cheeks at his words, and I'm grateful there are no customers in the shop to witness my reaction. Another ping, and Finn's message joins the thread:

"The flowers were Elias's idea, but we all agreed immediately. Looking forward to Monday. P.S. The stars should be clear again tonight if you want to look up."

I find myself smiling at the subtle reminder of our stargazing date, the quiet connection we forged beneath the vast night sky. Lucian's message comes last, measured and thoughtful like the man himself:

"Glad the flowers arrived safely. We wanted something as unique and beautiful as you. Monday can't come soon enough."

My fingers tremble slightly as I type a response, trying to capture the warm, confused, happy jumble of feelings their messages have stirred in me:

"No special requests for food, Elias – whatever you make will be wonderful. I am also open to coming over earlier be it to cook or just spend more time with you all. Soren, the lavender was perfect. Finn, I'll definitely look up tonight. And Lucian... thank you. All of you. You're making it very hard for me to maintain my reputation as the town recluse."

I add a smiling emoji, something I rarely use, but which somehow feels right in this moment of lightness. After sending the message, I set my phone aside and return to my work, though my attention keeps drifting back to the vibrant bouquet.Occasionally my phone buzzes with new messages—teasing responses from Soren, suggestions for Monday's activities from Elias, quiet observations from Finn, and thoughtful questions from Lucian.

Each message feels like a small, gentle knock on the walls I've built around myself, not demanding entry but simply letting me know they're there, waiting patiently for me to open the door.

The day passes in this pleasant haze of work and unexpected connection. Customers comment on the flowers, each observation nudging me further into a strange new reality where I'm not just the quiet shopkeeper who keeps to herself, but someone who receives wildflower bouquets and smiles at text messages and has plans for Monday that don't involve solitude.

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