Page 4 of The Florist By Chance
Her lips press tight. “If you’re going to work here, you’ll follow the system. My system.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “System? Mia, it’s flowers, not rocket science.”
Her pen taps the clipboard, sharp little clicks that sound like judgment. “Funny. Collins didn’t think it was too simple to spend forty years perfecting it.”
That lands. I swallow hard, shifting my weight. She’s right, and we both know it. But admitting that would be like handing her a victory ribbon, and I’m not in the mood.
So I drag a hand through my hair and smirk instead. “Fine. Lead the way, Captain. Just don’t expect me to salute.”
Her eyes flash—frustration, exasperation, maybe something else beneath. Then she turns on her heel, issuing instructions like a general marshaling troops.
And me? I trail after, grumbling, but a small part of me wonders if this clash—her order against my chaos—is exactly what keeps the shop alive.
The bell over the door jingles, and before I can say anything, Mia is already pasting on that polished smile of hers. It’s like she’s been rehearsing it for years.
“Morning, Mrs. Turner,” she chirps, all sunshine and daisies. Literally. She’s halfway to the cooler, reaching for a bunch of plain white stems, when I step in.
“Got it,” I tell her, sliding in front of her before she can swoop. My hand closes around a brighter bundle—gerbera, bold and loud. The kind of flowers that look like they’re celebrating just by existing. Not the boring stuff she was going to grab.
“Those aren’t—” she starts, but Mrs. Turner’s eyes light up.
“Oh, how lovely! Such cheerful colors. You’ve got an eye, young man.”
I grin. Easy win. “Glad you like them.”
I fumble with the paper wrap—okay, maybe finesse isn’t my strong suit—but the point is, Mrs. Turner leaves smiling. That’s the part that matters.
Behind me, I can practically feel Mia’s jaw tighten like she’s chewing gravel.
“Actually,” she cuts in, smile still plastered on, “Mrs. Turner usually prefers white daisies. Simple, classic.”
Mrs. Turner glances between us, amused. “Maybe this week I’ll try something new. It’s good to shake things up once in a while, don’t you think, Mia?”
Mia swallows her annoyance, but I catch it anyway. “Of course.”
I hand off the bouquet, tape dangling off the end like a party streamer. When the door closes behind Mrs. Turner, I lean an elbow on the counter, smirking. “See? Not everything needs a system.”
She whirls on me, eyes flashing. “You just gave away half of Saturday’s display.”
“They’re flowers, Mia, not federal evidence.”
“They’re inventory,” she snaps. “And if you keep freelancing every order, this shop won’t make it six months.”
“Funny,” I say, voice low and easy, “I thought customers came here for joy, not spreadsheets.”
Her arms fold across her chest, tight enough to snap a rib. “Joy doesn’t pay the electric bill.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s wound so tight I half expect her to vibrate off the floor. “You’re wound so tight, I’m surprised you don’t snap in half.”
Her cheeks flush, but her glare stays steady. “At least I care enough to keep things running. You think charm and half-wrapped bouquets are going to save this place? They won’t.”
For a second, her words sting. Harder than I’d like to admit. My grin slips, just a fraction, but I pull it back before she notices. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
The bell jingles again, saving us both from the fight spiraling further. A young couple wanders in, arguing about centerpiece colors, and Mia steps forward instantly, switching back into her perfect-shopkeeper mode.
“Welcome to Collins Florals,” she says brightly.
I hang back, arms crossed, watching her. This time I don’t smirk. I don’t joke.
