Page 18 of The Florist By Chance
Maybe I don’t hate Luke. Maybe the reason I can’t stop clashing with him is because some part of me doesn’t want to.
And that thought terrifies me more than losing the shop itself.
Chapter Nine
The shop smells faintly of roses and eucalyptus, but to me it’s more like smoke after a fire—something acrid that clings, no matter how much I try to scrub it away. Luke is already here when I unlock the door, straightening the register receipts like he owns the place. I force a smile for Zoe, who bounces in behind me, then aim my words like a dart at him.
“Didn’t know we’d expanded business hours to whenever you feel like showing up.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Someone has to get inventory counted before deliveries start.”
I bite back the automatic retort and head for the counter, flipping open the binder of orders. My binder. My mom’s system, her neat columns, her handwriting in the margins—sacred ground. Luke glances over my shoulder anyway, like he has a right.
“Four centerpieces for the Jenkins anniversary,” he says. “I already prepped the vases.”
I slam the binder shut. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“You don’t have to ask. It saves time.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap, and Zoe looks up from the ribbon display, wide-eyed. I soften my tone, but only barely.“You can’t just make decisions like that without running them by me.”
His jaw tightens. “Mia, it’s a vase. Not a coup.”
But that’s exactly how it feels—every choice he makes is one more crack in my grip on this place. One more reminder that maybe I’m not enough on my own. My pulse ticks faster as I move to the workbench, snatching a bundle of lilies that need trimming. “This shop has survived for twenty years without your efficiency tips. Maybe let me handle it the way I know works.”
He doesn’t back down. He never does. “And maybe try accepting help instead of fighting me on every single thing.”
The lilies’ stems squeak under the blade, and I wish the sound was enough to drown out his voice. My hands tremble, though, betraying me. “This isn’t about help. It’s about control.”
Zoe fumbles with the ribbon, whispering something about needing to check stock in the back before disappearing. Coward. But I don’t blame her. The air between Luke and me could slice skin.
He steps closer, lowering his voice like proximity will make me less furious. “You think I want control? I’m just trying to keep this place afloat.”
“I don’t need you to keep it afloat,” I say, though the crack in my voice ruins the effect. “I need you to stop acting like every decision I make is wrong.”
The silence stretches, heavy and dangerous. His eyes search mine, and for a flicker of a second I swear I see something softer there—regret, maybe—but it’s gone before I can name it. He exhales through his nose and mutters, “Fine,” before turning back to the register.
I grip the lilies so tight the petals bruise. I tell myself I’ve won this round, that I’m holding my ground. But the truth gnaws at me in the quiet: if I really had control, why does it feel like everything is slipping right through my fingers?
The stems squeak under the blade, green sap slicking my fingers. I focus on the rhythm—snip, trim, drop in water—because if I look at Luke, I’ll say something I regret. Or maybe I already have.
He’s at the register again, tapping keys with a precision that makes me want to throw the calculator at his head. My mouth moves before my better judgment can stop it.
“Do you rehearse that little efficiency routine at night?” The words come out sharper than I intend, half-snarl, half-sneer. “Or does it just come naturally, being everyone’s boss?”
The silence that follows is heavier than the lilies in my hand. Luke’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He just punches in another total and jots a note in his too-neat handwriting.
I press the blade harder than necessary, nearly splitting a stem down the middle. Perfect. Sarcasm, then sabotage. Mom would be proud.
Grace’s voice nudges into my head, uninvited but stubborn:You’re treating the shop like a shrine, Mia. Like every decision is holy ground you have to protect. But is that what your mom wanted? For you to drive yourself into the ground and push everyone away?
I inhale, shaky. Grace also said something else that won’t stop circling:You can be mad at Luke, but you don’t have to cut him down to prove you’re strong.
I glance at him again, the back of his neck tense, jaw working like he’s chewing words he refuses to say out loud. And suddenly my sharp remark feels childish. Like I’m twelve again, arguing with him at family cookouts while Mom rolled her eyes and Jake tried to referee. Except now the stakes aren’t over who gets the last burger—they’re over whether the shop sinks or swims.
I swallow hard. My pride tastes like dust.
“Luke.” My voice cracks more than I mean it to. I clear my throat and try again. “Hey. Look… I shouldn’t have said that.”
