Page 12 of The Florist By Chance
“Problem?” Luke’s voice cuts in from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame like he’s got all the time in the world, arms crossed, that ex-military stillness wrapped around him like a shield.
I don’t even look up. “No. Everything’s perfect. The flowers are dying, the supplier won’t pick up, and the biggest wedding of the season is tomorrow. Why would that be a problem?”
His boots scrape the floor as he steps inside. “Let me see.”
I shift in front of the buckets like I can block his view. “I’ve got it handled.”
He ignores me—of course he does—and crouches down to examine the blooms. He touches a petal, light but precise, like he’s checking a wound for infection. “These won’t last another twenty-four hours.”
The words slice right through me. “Thanks for the diagnosis, Doctor Obvious.”
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. “Okay. Options. You can try forcing the fresher buds open with warm water, but that’s risky. Or…” He looks at me, steady. “We call every grower within driving distance and find replacements.”
“Replacements?” My chest tightens. “We can’t just swap out the bride’s vision.”
“We can if the alternative is brown petals in her pictures.” He stands, brushing his hands on his jeans. “I’ll make the calls. You start pulling what’s usable from this batch.”
“I said I’ve got it handled.” The protest snaps out before I can stop it, too sharp, too defensive. My mom never would’ve panicked like this. She would’ve smiled, smoothed her apron, and magically fixed everything. I’m not her, and Luke knows it.
He studies me, not unkindly. “Mia, handled doesn’t mean doing it alone.”
Something in my throat wobbles, but I clamp it down. “Fine. You make your calls. Just don’t promise anything we can’t deliver.”
He nods, already pulling out his phone, rattling off names I didn’t even know he remembered from town. And for the first time all morning, I let myself hope that maybe—just maybe—this disaster isn’t already written in stone.
Luke sets the stems back into their buckets with the kind of precision that makes me grit my teeth. He doesn’t just place them; he lines them up like he’s in some military inspection. Meanwhile, my own hands are trembling as I grab for the nextbunch, the ribbon slipping loose because I tied it too fast. I curse under my breath.
“Careful,” he says without even looking at me. His voice is calm, infuriatingly calm. “If the ribbon’s crooked, the whole bouquet looks sloppy.”
I snap my head up. “I’ve been doing this since before you learned how to tie your boots. Don’t lecture me about ribbons.”
His brows lift, that half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knows it gets under my skin. “Then maybe slow down long enough to show it.”
The nerve of him. I want to fling the ribbon spool across the shop. But there’s no time for tantrums, not with June’s wedding order teetering on the edge of disaster. So I inhale sharply and force my hands to steady. Snip, wrap, knot. Faster. Tighter. Better.
When I risk a glance, Luke is already two steps ahead, stripping leaves from stems with quick efficiency. It makes me want to scream, because for every way he gets under my skin, he also gets things done. Like he doesn’t know how to stop until the crisis is over. I hate that it’s… useful.
“I’ll box these arrangements,” he says, nodding toward the completed bouquets. “That’ll buy you time to fix the centerpieces.”
“I don’t need you buying me time,” I mutter.
“Maybe not,” he says, lifting a heavy crate with ease. “But the bride does.”
That stops me cold. It’s such a Luke thing to say—practical, to the point, the kind of thing Mom used to say when I’d whine about deadlines. My chest tightens, but I shove the feeling down hard, burying it beneath annoyance. I can’t afford to let him sound like he belongs here.
Customers drift in and out, their curious eyes flicking toward us as if we’re some live performance. Luke cracks a joke aboutthe flowers looking better than we do, and I swear the older woman at the counter nearly swoons. I roll my eyes so hard it hurts, but my lips twitch despite myself. He’s ridiculous, but for a moment, the tension in my chest eases.
We fall into an accidental rhythm: I tie, he trims; I arrange, he boxes. The shop hums with the sound of scissors snipping, water sloshing, ribbon spooling. And under it all, the strange, unsettling fact that we’re actually working well together. Too well.
“Not bad,” he says, surveying the table once the last bouquet is tied off. His voice holds that irritating smugness, but there’s something else under it too. Approval. Like he’s surprised we pulled it off together.
“Don’t get used to it,” I fire back, though my voice comes out softer than I mean. I catch myself staring at the neat row of arrangements and realize I almost want to thank him. Almost.
But then his gaze meets mine, steady and sure, and resentment flares up again. Because this is exactly what I don’t want—to see him fit into the cracks of this shop, this life, like he never left. It confuses everything I’ve worked so hard to hold onto.
I busy myself with sweeping stray leaves off the counter, forcing my voice light. “Well, miracles happen. Even you can follow instructions.”
His laugh is low, warm, and far too easy on my ears. “Pretty sure I was giving them.”
