Page 3 of The Florist By Chance
I shift uncomfortably on my feet, realizing how long it’s been since I’ve stood still. The world I used to know was always moving—always loud, always filled with the sound of sirens or engines or people shouting. But here, in this quiet flower shop, it feels different. It feels like I’m standing still, frozen in time, while the world around me moves on without me.
“Mia, I’m not here to take anything from you,” I say, my voice coming out softer than I intend. “I’m not here to make things harder.”
She looks at me, her arms still crossed, but now her posture is less defensive and more weary, like she’s been fighting for far too long. Her eyes soften just a fraction, but the pain and frustration are still there, just beneath the surface. I can see it in the way she holds herself, the way she doesn’t quite meet my gaze for too long.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she says quietly, her voice quieter than before but still sharp. “This shop, it’s not just a business to me. It’s everything. It’s my mom’s dream. It’s my life. It’s not just about the flowers or the money or the building. It’s about what it means.”
I feel the weight of her words sink in, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. I’ve been so focused on my own reasons for being here, on fulfilling my promise to Collins, that I haven’t really seen the full picture. I haven’t seen how much this place means to her. How much she’s given up to keep it running, to keep it alive.
“I know,” I say finally, the words catching in my throat. “I know, Mia. And I didn’t come here to take that from you. I don’t want to take anything from you. But I don’t know what else to do. Collins asked me to come back. He trusted me to help.”
She glances down at the papers in front of me, her brow furrowing, and I can see the conflict playing out behind her eyes. I know she’s angry. She has every right to be. But I also know that she’s trying to keep herself together. Trying to hold on to the pride she has in this place.
“You think six months is enough to fix all of this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Six months to change everything? You think that’s going to make a difference?”
I feel a pang in my chest, but I don’t let it show. I want to tell her that I’m not just here for six months. That I’m here for as long as it takes. But those words feel like promises I’m not sure I can keep.
“I think six months is enough to start,” I say. “And I don’t expect things to be perfect overnight. But I’m willing to try. To help however I can.”
Mia doesn’t respond right away. She just stands there, looking at me, her gaze unreadable. The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick, and I feel every moment of it.
Finally, she takes a step back, breaking the tension, but her eyes never leave me. “I don’t know if I believe you, Luke,” she says softly. “But I’ll give you six months. Six months to prove that you’re really here to help.”
Her words are soft but firm, like a quiet challenge. I can see the flicker of hope in her eyes, buried beneath all the hurt and the years of carrying this shop on her own.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I promise. “You have my word.”
She nods slowly, still unsure, but something in her eyes softens just the slightest bit. The challenge is still there, but there’s a hint of something else, something I can’t quite name.
The lawyer clears his throat, bringing me back to reality. “Well, if that’s settled, we can proceed with the paperwork.”
Mia’s eyes flick to the door, then back to me. “We’ll see how it goes,” she says quietly, her voice barely above a murmur.
I nod, knowing that the next six months won’t be easy. But I also know that they’ll be worth it.
Chapter Two
The bell above the shop door jingles as I shove it open with my shoulder, both hands full of boxes. The scent of lilies and damp soil greets me, stronger than coffee and almost as sharp. I grunt, setting the boxes down on the counter with a thud.
Mia appears from behind the workbench, hair pinned back tight, apron spotless, clipboard in hand like she was born with it. Her eyes flick to the boxes, then to me, and I can already tell I’ve done something wrong.
“You can’t put those there.” Her voice is clipped, efficient. She points to the far corner. “That’s where the supplies go. Customers need this space clear.”
I glance at the counter, perfectly neat rows of vases gleaming like soldiers. Of course. “They’re just boxes, Mia. I’ll move them when I unpack.”
Her brows lift. “And in the meantime, anyone who walks in gets greeted with… cardboard. Very welcoming.”
I bite back a sigh, resting my palms on the boxes. “It’s a flower shop, not a five-star hotel.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I see the little sister who used to follow us around, trying to boss Jake and me with rulesabout how to play her way. But this isn’t a girl anymore—it’s a woman with a spine of steel and a voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“People come here for more than flowers,” she says, flipping a page on her clipboard. “They come for comfort. For joy. Details matter.”
“Details,” I mutter, hauling the boxes toward the corner she indicated. My boots thud on the wood floor, too loud in the careful quiet she cultivates. “Details don’t keep the roof from leaking.”
She pauses, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, though the truth is, I can’t stop noticing cracks—literal ones in the ceiling, figurative ones in the books I’ve glimpsed. She polishes petals while the foundation creaks.
