Page 21 of The Florist By Chance
I huff out a laugh. “Just making sure everything holds.”
She tilts her head, unconvinced. Her gaze lingers a little too long, as if she can see through the armor I’ve worn for years. I force myself to turn, busying with the supply box. If she knew what was running through my head, she’d bolt. Or worse—she’d laugh.
The church doors creak open then, and Zoe pokes her head in. “Clouds look nasty out there. Might want to pack it up soon.”
Mia frowns. “Already? Forecast didn’t say rain until tomorrow.”
“Forecast was wrong,” Zoe says, shrugging before darting back out.
I cross to the window, tugging at the curtain. Sure enough, the sky is thick with storm clouds, churning like smoke. The wind picks up, rattling the panes. “She’s right. We should head back before it breaks.”
Mia sighs, grabbing her tote. “Great. Just what we need. A soggy floral shop.”
We hurry, folding chairs, stashing boxes, making quick work of what took hours to set up. The air outside is heavy, electric, the kind of quiet that comes before a storm punches through. By the time we step into the street, the first raindrops splatter against the pavement.
Her little car skids slightly on wet asphalt as we pull up to the shop. My stomach sinks at the sight: the front awning already whipping in the wind, a loose corner snapping like a flag. I barely get the door open before a violent gust shoves against us, flinging eucalyptus clippings across the floor.
Mia gasps. “No, no, no—” She rushes inside, shielding a stack of paper order slips from the draft.
I follow fast, slamming the door behind us, but it’s too late—the storm muscles its way through cracks we can’t stop. A sharp crack echoes above us, and I look up in time to see water streaking down the wall from a leak near the window frame.
“Mia,” I say, but my voice is swallowed by the roar of the storm. The glass shudders, rattling in its frame.
She clutches the stack of orders to her chest like they’re holy relics. Her face is pale, eyes wide, mouth parted as if she can’t breathe.
And suddenly, it’s not just a shop. Not just another storm. It’s her entire world under threat, and mine too, whether I’m ready to admit it or not.
The next gust slams against the storefront, harder than before. One pane cracks, a thin white line splitting across the glass.
We both freeze, staring at it.
The shop groans under the weight of the wind, the sound low and foreboding.
Mia’s voice comes out a whisper. “Luke… what if we can’t fix this?”
I have no answer. Only the crack spreading wider across the glass, promising that nothing—not even us—will come out unscathed.
Chapter Eleven
Water beads along the cracked pane, then runs in thin, merciless streams, dripping off the sill like the shop is crying and won’t stop. I’m already moving—bucket under the worst leak, towels across the floor, stems rescued from the window display and hustled to the back. Cold air knifes in through the buckling frame and turns my wet sleeves icy against my skin.
“Unplug that outlet,” I call, voice too sharp. My hands keep going—tape, plastic sheeting, anything to make a patch that will hold for more than a heartbeat. If I keep moving, nothing breaks. If I keep moving, I don’t have to hear the clock Titan wound up in my head.
Luke doesn’t argue. He yanks the cord from the wall, slides a rack of wrapped bouquets away from the draft, then shoulders the ladder and plants it under the cracked molding. He looks at me for a single beat—waiting for a nod like this is still my shop—and I give it before I realize I’ve done it.
The leak widens. Patters into the bucket. Patters onto my nerves.
“Zoe!” I shout toward the back. “Trash bags, duct tape, and those extra towels from the workshop shelf.”
“I’m on it!” she calls, feet squeaking on the damp tile.
The eucalyptus by the window smells sharp and clean, but all I catch is the metal tang of panic. I wrap the cellophane tighter around a clutch of peonies that should’ve been pretty, should’ve been safe, and hate the way my hands shake. Mom would have turned this into a checklist, not a meltdown. She would’ve hummed while she worked and the shop would have listened.
“Careful,” Luke says from the ladder. Wind hammers the glass like a fist. He braces his shoulder against the frame, tests the give with his palm. “We need a temporary brace.”
I shove a bundle of wooden stakes into his hand before he finishes the thought. “Use these. They’re for tall arrangements.”
He wedges two between the sill and the beam, muscles tight beneath his soaked T-shirt. The frame complains, then holds. For now.
