Page 35 of Scr*wed By the Minotaur in Hallow's Cove
We let gravity have us then, collapsing to the floor in a tangled heap, my legs still locked around his waist.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said into my hair, voice so soft I barely heard it.
“Unlikely,” I whispered. “You’re built much too sturdy.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He cupped my cheek, thumb tracing the arch of my cheekbone. “You made this place come alive, you know?”
He was ridiculous, and maybe I was too, but it was suddenly so goddamn important to say it back—to name it out loud for once instead of letting it ricochet inside my chest. “You’re the reason I was brave enough to try,” I said, voice breaking in the middle. “I almost didn’t open today. Wasn’t sure I could face it. But you… you made it safe to want.”
He kissed me like that was the only answer he needed. The floor was cold and the night was colder, but we didn’t move. We just breathed together, letting the world shrink down to the four hands and two hearts and one breathless giggle that seemed to echo in the darkness. When Rick finally stood up, still holding me as if he could anchor me to the planet, he swept us both to the bed and tangled us under the covers like it was perfectly reasonable to never let go.
That was the first night Hallow’s Cove felt like home.
Chapter eighteen
Lea
Themorningafterthegrand opening, I woke up in a haze of sex and serotonin and the faint, cloying scent of peonies. Rick was already gone—probably wrestling with a shipment of, I don’t know, self-driving wheelbarrows or whatever new hotness the hardware store was peddling—but he’d left a tray on the nightstand with coffee, a cinnamon scone, and a handwritten note:Flowers didn’t need watering. Didn’t want to wake you. Miss you anyway.–Rick. He’d dotted the “i” in his name with a little heart. The minotaur was a menace.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the new shape of my life settle into place. The hum of the shop below, the soft clatter of someone (Dixie, a brownie and my first hired help, probably) restocking the cooler, the distant whine of a leaf blower outside—the ordinary was extraordinary now. All the years I’d spent trying to keep the world at bay, all the ways I’d curled up inside myself to avoid more loss—suddenly they seemed small, almost laughable, compared to this: a town that had taken me in, a man who insisted on loving me even when Iwas a handful, a store that wasn’t haunted by ghosts, but buoyed by them.
I got up, slipped on Rick’s flannel from the chair, pulled on some leggings, and shuffled down the stairs barefoot. The air in Coming Up Daisies was damp with the last dregs of morning fog, all the colors of the petals and leaves so saturated they looked fake. Dixie was indeed at the cooler, hair tucked under a bandana, head bent over a bouquet of orange lilies and purple something-or-others.
She looked up, saw me, and grinned like the sun. “Hey, boss. You missed the post-opening donut orgy. I think Randy left you a half-eaten bear claw.”
“Perfect fuel for the day,” I said, and made a beeline for the counter. The bear claw was, in fact, more like a bear pinky, but I gnawed on it anyway, licking powdered sugar off my fingers like it was the price of admission for a day in paradise.
Dixie surveyed me over the top of her bouquet. “So. Wild night?”
I tried to look scandalized, but failed. “I plead the Fifth.”
She snorted, setting the bouquet into a vase with a thunk. “You know, if you’re going to have a whirlwind romance with the town’s most eligible bachelor, you need to get used to the gossip mill. Three people already stopped by to check if you and Rick eloped after closing last night.”
I paused mid-sugar lick. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
She made a face. “Wish I was. This is a small town, boss. The only thing people love more than fresh flowers is a good love story and you’re giving ’em both.” Dixie turned back to her work, humming something that sounded suspiciously like “Here Comes the Bride.” I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t hate it—not really. The shop was full of customers by midmorning, the bell over the door ringing every three minutes, Dixie’s voice chirping greetings and snappy banter while I floated from table to table,answering questions and making tiny last-second edits to every bouquet about to walk out the door. I caught a glimpse in the front window and almost didn’t recognize myself: curls natural and haloed by sun, cheeks pink, mouth stuck in a permanent lopsided smile.
A little after noon, Britt showed up—a complete surprise. She breezed in looking like she’d run a marathon through an art supply store—paint on her elbows, new nose ring, and a T-shirt that said “Feral and Thriving” in neon pink letters. She dropped a takeout bag on the counter and surveyed the shop like a general reviewing her troops, then gave me a hug tight enough to nearly pop my ribs. “I brought lunch,” she announced, opening the bag with a flourish.
I grinned and dug into the bag. “Please tell me this is the greasy gyro I dream about.”
“Unless you object to extra tzatziki. I also swiped baklava.” She leaned in, voice sly. “So how’s the new life treating you? You ready to admit I was right about you being a country girl at heart?”
I considered this, chewing. “I’m not sure I’m ready to go full Carhartt, but I do like it when people wave to me on the street.”
Britt waggled her brows. “That’s how it starts. Next thing, you’ll be in overalls with a bandana, shooting whiskey with the old-timers at the local bar. I give it six months.”
I snorted. “Not happening. I’ll stick to snake bites and sarcasm, thanks.”
Britt stayed until I closed up. It only took her ten minutes to step in and work side by side with Dixie. She wasn’t the type to sit idly and watch someone work. She washed her hands and pulled me into a hug after the last customer left.
“You did good, Lea. Your mom would be proud.” She didn’t say it as a throwaway, either. She meant it, and the words landed in my chest and cracked something open that had been hardeningover since the funeral. I blinked fast, then nodded and squeezed her hand.
“You sticking around?” I asked, not daring to hope.
She wrinkled her nose. “I gotta get back tonight—turns out running a flower shop in the big city is a full-time gig.” She shouldered her tote. “Don’t let Hallow’s Cove break your heart, okay?”
“It’s more likely to drown me in cinnamon rolls and small-town festivals,” I said.
