Page 3 of Spring Fling

I swung my legs out of bed, glancing around the room. Soft sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, illuminating the gentle pattern of the wallpaper—old-fashioned floral motifs that reminded me I was, in fact, staying in a Victorian mansion. I exhaled, recalling why I’d chosen this place over the swank Wintervale Resort: an old building updated by owners rumoredto be warm and discreet. I’d hoped the smaller, more private choice would soothe my nerves.

Then my gaze drifted to the side table, where I’d dropped my notes for today’s presentation. Next to them lay a battered file folder containing promotional materials the publisher wanted me to hand out. My heart twinged. Promoting a book is one thing, but hobnobbing with fans and sponsors… That’s another. I tossed a quick glance at the clock—7:15 a.m. I had a few hours before the festival started its official schedule. Time enough to get coffee, gather my wits, and try not to dwell on that night from last year’s Spring show. But the memory clung like smoke.

One year ago, I’d gone to a different gardening expo far from Wintervale, purely as an assistant to a senior horticulturist. That night, in a random hotel bar, I’d encountered a vivacious woman. A single conversation about soil acidity and floral design turned into laughter, flirtation… and eventually, a blazing night in her room. We never swapped real names—I was “Jack” and she was “Jane.” By dawn, we parted, no illusions that we’d keep in touch. It was a one-night fling that left me simultaneously regretful and enthralled. I can’t do that again, I reminded myself whenever the memory rose. I’m supposed to be serious about my career now.

But the recollection refused to vanish. An image of her soft, honey-brown hair looped through my thoughts, especially last night, as I tried to fall asleep in this bed. I cursed my restlessness, deciding a shower might help me face the day.

Hot water pounded my shoulders, easing tension I’d carried from the road. As I scrubbed shampoo through my hair, I let my mind roam. Wintervale had a crisp mountain charm, bursting with springtime color. I liked the idea of strolling through the festival booths, discovering new varieties of tulipsor innovative seed blends. If only the sponsor obligations didn’t weigh me down.

After a quick shave, I dressed in practical jeans and a simple button-down, shrugging on a casual jacket for the chill still lingering in the spring air. One last glance in the bathroom mirror revealed wide gray-blue eyes, a face half-creased with worry. I forced a small smile, hoping to project calm. Focus on the horticulture, not the hype.

When I stepped into the hall, the faint aroma of lavender and furniture polish merged with the echo of distant footsteps. The floorboards underfoot creaked lightly, a reminder that this Inn was old—like the kind of place people came to for second chances or quiet getaways. I definitely felt more at peace here than in the sleek hotels my publisher usually arranged.

A smaller corridor branched off to the left, presumably leading to the side exit or some storage area. I glanced around and spotted something that made my stomach lurch: a bright swirl of color, an arrangement of fresh flowers cradled in the arms of a woman who’d just turned the corner. She pivoted, almost colliding with me. I barely stopped in time.

“Oops—sorry!” she exclaimed. Her voice was airy, friendly. But as she lifted her gaze to mine, our eyes locked, and a jolt shot through me like electricity. I recognized those warm hazel eyes, that honey-brown hair. My heart hammered, a thousand memories from that scorching night flooding back—the subtle moan in her throat, the way her curvy body felt pinned beneath me, the taste of her kiss. Impossible. It’sher?

For a moment, we stood frozen, obviously both stunned. She opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Oh… hi,” she managed, voice strangled.

I swallowed hard, forcing a polite nod. “Hey.” My mind reeled. So she’s real, and she’s here. My cheeks burned with theawkward recollection that I’d never given her my real name. I realized, in a rush, that I had no clue what to call her. I only had the memory of “Jane.”

Her expression twisted in half-embarrassed amusement. “I guess we should… um… I mean, hello. Officially.” She bit her lip, steadying the flowers in her arms, her face flushed. The tension in the air nearly crackled.

I coughed to hide my nerves. “Yes, hi.” We both forced small laughs, though we still stared too intently, as if verifying this wasn’t a mirage. It felt surreal to be meeting, for real, in a bright hallway with squeaky floorboards and a bundle of daisies and lilacs between us. She is the woman from that one-night stand. No question. But we’d parted on uncertain terms, no contact. Now we’re stumbling into each other at the Wintervale festival? Running into each other again hadn’t occurred to either of us but given our mutual interest in horticulture it made sense in a “doh!” kind of way.

“You’re… here for the flower and garden show?” she ventured, eyeing me warily, as if bracing for a trap.

I gave a slight nod, ignoring the hammering in my chest. “Yeah. I’m giving a few lectures, signing a gardening book. My publisher forced me to make an appearance.” The corner of my mouth quirked, a half-laugh. “And you’re—?”

She shifted the weight of the arrangement, her shoulders squared as though regaining composure. “I’m Daisy,” she said carefully, cheeks still pink. “Daisy Parker. And that’s actually my real name.” Her smile flickered with embarrassment. Clearly, she remembered that we’d used fake ones last year.

I nodded slowly. “I’m Hayden. Hayden Brooks. I’m a horticulture professor.” My voice felt rough, the memory of telling her a false name still fresh in my mind like a scarlet letter. We each had done that, though. I exhaled, taking in her features:her hair slightly wavier than I recalled, her lips parted in an uncertain grin. She looked just as vivid as she had that night. Or even more so.

For a tense moment, we just stared. She placed her flowers on a nearby side table, freeing her hands. “Okay,” she said softly, “this is weird.”

I barked a laugh, short and awkward. “I, uh, yes. Definitely weird.” My mouth felt dry. “I assume you’re a florist?”

She hesitated, then looked at me as though deciding whether to trust me with the truth. “Yes, I run a small business called Bloom & Grow. I have a booth in this year’s Spring market.” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t expect this.”

Her words resonated with my own shock. “Same here.” I scratched the back of my neck. My publisher’s instructions buzzed in my head, but all of that seemed distant now. How did we end up in the same small inn? The cosmic coincidence of being in such close proximity now felt almost too big to process. We lapsed into an awkward beat of silence, each likely recalling the last time we were alone—naked and lost in each other’s arms.

I was the first to break the tension. “So… I guess we’re properly meeting now, right?” I extended a hand, my pulse racing. “Pleasure to meet you, Daisy Parker.”

She stared at my hand for a heartbeat, probably also remembering that we had most certainly touched in more intimate ways. Still, she took it, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. “Good to meet you, too, Hayden Brooks.”

Our handshake held a bizarre mixture of professional courtesy and sizzling undercurrent. My mind reeled: Only a year ago, these very fingers traced her bare soft skin. I forced my grip to remain polite, not letting it linger too long. She must havethought the same, because she let go faster than normal, clearing her throat again.

“I’m staying here all week,” she said, tucking her hair behind one ear. “Room 205…,” She pointed at the closed door behind her, half-sheepish.

I nodded. “I’m in 207, apparently,” I admitted, feeling my face flush. “I arrived late yesterday.”

Her eyes widened. That small detail hung between us like an unspoken dare. “So, we’ll be crossing paths.”

“No doubt,” I replied, raking a hand through my hair. “I’m sure the festival will keep us both busy.”

She pressed her lips together, scanning my face in a searching way. Part of me wondered if I should apologize for last year, or for not tracking her down. But we’d left that bar, that hotel, with no illusions. It had been a fling, nothing more than a one-night tryst. Right?

“Well,” she said, voice soft, “best of luck with your lectures and new book. Word is a few big sponsors are here looking for new talent.”

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