Page 4 of Spring Fling

I resisted a groan. “Yeah, so I’ve heard. The spotlight’s not really my thing, but it comes with the territory, I guess.” I paused, swallowing. “And you? Here to grow your business?”

She brightened, apparently grateful for the shift in focus. “I’m aiming for the ‘Best in Bloom’ prize. Rumor says it includes a home-and-garden magazine spread. That’d be huge for me.” Then her gaze dropped, shyness flickering in her eyes. “I know we’re not exactly strangers, but… should we just keep this professional? I mean…” She gestured vaguely as if referencing the swirl of memories between us.

My chest tightened. “Yeah, that might be simpler,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level. We can’t exactly slip back into bedor something. Not that I hadn’t fantasized about that once or twice in the past five minutes. “If you want that. I mean—unless—” I caught myself, not wanting to rush or spook her. “It’s your call.”

She looked torn, her eyes reflecting a swirl of complicated emotions. Then she squared her shoulders. “Professional courtesy first. We each have big goals this week. Right?”

“Right,” I echoed, my heart pounding. “I guess we can be, I don’t know… acquaintances?” The notion made my stomach twist—did I really only want to be acquaintances? But it was possibly the best approach to avoid meltdown.

She let out a short laugh, though it wavered with tension. “Yes. Or booth buddies, or something.” A small flush colored her cheeks. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I have to double-check my arrangement in the storeroom. The orientation meeting is at two, and I need to polish some final touches. So maybe we’ll, um, see each other around?”

Her attempt at casualness matched my own predicament. “Sure, definitely. I need to confirm some sponsor stuff,” I said, frowning internally at the forced appearances I had to make. “I’ll let you get to your flowers. Good luck, Daisy.”

She gave me a last, searching look, as if about to say more, but just sighed softly and nodded. Picking up her arrangement again, she nodded politely and stepped around me. The swirl of her hair brushed my shoulder in passing, and that faint floral perfume teased my senses—the same fragrance that haunted me for a year. For a moment, I closed my eyes, remembering in excruciating detail the warmth of her body under mine, the moan that escaped her when I pressed close, the playful banter we’d tossed around like firecrackers.

Then she was gone, footsteps fading down the corridor. The spot where she’d stood felt oddly vacant. So there it is, Ithought, exhaling. We’re officially reacquainted, real names and all, and we’re going to pretend it’s no big deal. She’s Daisy Parker, a traveling florist. I’m Hayden Brooks, horticulture’s reluctant poster boy. And we were ironically neighbors in this cozy inn.

I made my way to the front lounge in a daze, half hoping I’d see her again, half relieved I didn’t. A small grouping of armchairs surrounded a coffee table where a pot of brewed coffee and a plate of pastries waited for guests. The smell called to me, so I poured a cup and took a sip, scanning the quiet hallway. Keep it casual. The words felt stifling. But what else could I do? She seemed set on focusing on her business. God knew I had my own tasks to juggle.

Still, my heart hammered. I wanted to blame it on leftover adrenaline, but some deeper part of me recognized the spark had never faded. We parted so abruptly last year, never once exchanging actual phone numbers or social media. Maybe we both had regrets. Though if I stepped in with personal interest now, would it distract her from the biggest event of her year?

I inhaled slowly, letting the coffee’s warmth soothe me. My phone chimed, and I glanced down: a text from my publisher with the updated schedule for the sponsor meets. I gritted my teeth. So I truly am stuck with forced publicity. Hiding from it might have been easier if I hadn’t discovered that Daisy was also right here. Great. So now I had a swirl of obligations and tangled feelings for a woman I’d known intimately for one night but never truly known at all.

One thing was certain: I couldn’t bury my head in the sand. We were both in Wintervale for the same event. We’d cross paths daily—booth openings, vendor mixers, the official garden tours. My mind conjured an image of her in a sundress, fussing over a grand floral arch, or smiling at passersby while Ihovered nearby, forced to appear with corporate underwriters. The thought made me cringe and heat up simultaneously.

Pushing off the armchair, I decided fresh air might clear my head. Strolling outside, I found the Inn’s side garden, a small patch of lawn ringed by budding forsythia and early-blooming lilacs. The breeze brushed my skin, a bit cooler than inside.Pretend you’re just any guy who encountered an ex.Except she wasn’t exactly an ex, was she? We’d never been official—only heated. Recollection hit me again: her breathless laughter, our flirty banter about “Jack and Jane.” I’d told myself it was better that we parted cleanly, no chance of messy aftermath to dilute the euphoria of that night. Now fate had shoved us together again, but she’d made her intentions clear—she wasn’t interested in repeating the past, much less taking things to the next level.

I lingered by a low stone bench, hearing the gentle hum of bees among the newly opened flowers. A surge of calm overcame me—the outdoors always did that. Despite the swirl of confusion, I still loved the peace that nature provided. My phone buzzed with a second reminder: “Hayden, sponsor meet at 1:30. Please confirm you’ll be there.” I typed a quick acknowledgement.

As I returned to the Inn’s interior, my mind ran through the day’s schedule. There’d be time for a quick lunch, then a final run-through of my lecture notes, followed by that dreaded publicity meeting. When would I “bump into” Daisy again? The idea both thrilled and unnerved me.

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, I cringed recalling our awkward handshake—her palm so familiar yet made strange by the layers of polite distance we’d placed between us. I swallowed. If just shaking her hand stirred that memory of her thighswrapped around my waist, how would I focus on lectures or signings without repeatedly losing my train of thought?

Exhaling, I climbed the steps. My mind conjured the image of Daisy’s face when she recognized me. Her cheeks had burned pink. She seemed as off-balance as I was.

Back in my room, I sat at the small writing desk, flipping open my outline on sustainable fertilizing methods. I tried to immerse myself in data about compost layering and natural pest controls, but Daisy’s hazel eyes and that flush in her cheeks kept intruding, swirling through my thoughts. My pen tapped the page rhythmically.

Eventually, I admitted defeat, shutting my notes. If I was going to get any real prep done, I needed to handle this emotional maelstrom with caution. She wanted to keep it professional. Fine. I would do the same. But I wouldn’t pretend last year didn’t happen.

I let my gaze wander to the window. An orchard spread out in the near distance, dotted with blossoming fruit trees. The swirl of springtime energy echoed how I felt: something fresh taking root, unstoppable. Pressing my lips together, I vowed not to let the festival’s forced PR or the leftover confusion from last year sabotage me. I was a horticulturist, and this was a flower expo. Nature itself thrives on new beginnings. I had to remain open to possibilities.

By noon, I emerged from my room, notes tucked under my arm. My phone beeped with one final note from the publisher reminding me of the names of the promotors I was scheduled to meet with. I scrolled the text, feeling my earlier frustration return—“Be sure to mention new initiatives. Photos, handshake ops. Possibly more synergy with other ‘celebrity florists.’” Celebrity florists? Was Daisy considered one, or would she be overshadowed by bigger names? I realized I had no clue howestablished she was in this business. She might be just a rising star like me, or a widely known phenomenon.

Either way, I had to handle these obligations. And Daisy had her own ambitions—winning that “Best in Bloom” award. Perhaps that joint sense of purpose could keep us tethered to reality instead of letting old passion derail everything. Right?

Yet, despite my mental pep talk, as I descended the stairs, all I could picture was her parted lips in that hotel bed last year, murmuring hushed phrases about how surprising it all felt. How right. Like we were meant to be. My chest constricted. Pretend. Keep it light. For the first time in ages, I actually felt a flicker of excitement about the possibility of exploring more, if she was open to it. But we hadn’t even begun the festival, and the swirl of tension already threatened to unravel my composure.

One thing was certain: my quiet time in Wintervale had just become a whole lot more complicated—and infinitely more enticing.

Chapter Three

Daisy

The next morning, I woke to my alarm’s insistent chirp, heart already fluttering with anticipation.Festival day one—game face on.A swirl of pre-show nerves and excitement had fueled my dreams, and I couldn’t wait to see the event grounds in full bloom. After a quick shower, I gathered an array of floral supplies from the Inn’s storeroom, thankful that Cass and Rory had let me stash my crates there. With arms weighed down by ribbons and bundles of fresh-cut blossoms, I headed out to the site before dawn had fully broken.

A hush still lay over Wintervale’s streets, but as soon as I neared the open field designated for the Flower & Garden Market, I spotted flickers of movement—vans unloading props, tents going up, organizers double-checking booth placements. Crisp morning air carried the faint tang of grass damp with dew and the promise of a bright April sun.Perfect weather to lure crowds.My pulse quickened at the sight of tall signage reading “Welcome to the Wintervale Flower & Garden Market” in looping script. I offered a silent thanks that the forecast was kind; torrential rain was the last thing I needed.

My assigned booth was near the heart of the grounds, or so the festival map had indicated. The dais around the central stage stood partially erected—workers adjusting the support beams for a main performance area. Strolling between rows of half-constructed tents, I scanned for the marker that read Booth #12. A murmur of voices rose around me as vendors chatted about supply runs, new seeds, or the day’s schedule. Even at this early hour, the hum of potential was palpable.

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