Page 9 of The Florist By Chance
I curl my hand into a fist against the counter. I can’t let it. I won’t let it. But the truth whispers in the back of my mind, cruel and relentless—what if I already have?
Luke leans against the counter, drumming his fingers like he’s holding back a dozen thoughts at once. Finally, he says, “We need to do more than just keep the doors open. What if we updated the shop? A new display in the window, seasonal specials, maybe even an online ordering system. People expect that now.”
I blink at him. “An online system? For flowers?”
“Why not?” His tone sharpens with energy, like he’s already picturing it. “Weddings, birthdays, last-minute anniversaries—people would jump at same-day delivery if we advertised it right. And what about workshops? Flower-arranging classes, date-night events. We could make the shop a place people want to come back to, not just somewhere they stop once a year.”
The way he rattles ideas off so easily makes my pulse spike. To him, it’s just business strategy. To me, it feels like he’s rewriting everything Mom built.
“Slow down,” I cut in, shaking my head. “This isn’t a café or a trendy craft store. It’s a flower shop. Mom’s flower shop. People came here because they trusted her, because it felt personal. Not because she threw in coupons or gimmicks.”
Luke pushes away from the counter, arms crossing. “It’s not a gimmick to adapt, Mia. It’s survival. Titan doesn’t care how warm and personal the shop feels. They care about numbers. You want this place to last? We need to give customers a reason to spend money here.”
I bristle, hugging my arms to my chest. “We already have reasons. Quality, loyalty, tradition. People know what Collins Florals stands for. That’s what keeps them coming back.”
“Then why are sales down?” he shoots back, not cruel, just firm. “The loyalty you’re banking on isn’t paying the bills.”
The words sting because I don’t have an easy answer. My jaw tightens, and I glance at the order book sitting open on the counter, pages thin from years of notes in Mom’s handwriting. It feels like proof that stability is possible—that we don’t have to rip apart the shop to save it.
I meet his gaze, steady but defiant. “Maybe your way works for some places. But this one isn’t changing. Not like that.”
Before I can fire back again, the bell over the door jingles. Ms. Eldridge steps inside, her heels clicking against the tile like they own the place already. She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries—just sets another folder on the counter, this one thinner, meaner.
“I won’t take long,” she says, smoothing her blazer sleeve. Her eyes flick between me and Luke, like she’s measuring how long before we crack. “After reviewing your case, Titan has decided on an adjusted timeline.”
My stomach knots. “Adjusted?”
“Quarterly evaluations,” she says, crisp as a blade. “First review in three months. If progress isn’t evident by then, Titan will exercise the buyout clause immediately.”
For a moment, I can’t breathe. Three months? That’s barely enough time to plan a spring promotion, let alone turn a profit. The words buzz in my ears, drowning out the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Luke steps forward, but I throw my hand up before he can speak. My throat feels tight, but my voice comes out steady, even if my pulse is anything but. “That wasn’t the deal. We were given six months.”
Ms. Eldridge’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Six months is generous. Quarterly oversight ensures accountability. If your business model is sound, you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about. The phrase burns, because it’s everything to worry about. Titan just took the little bit of breathing room we had and snapped it in half.
When she leaves, the bell jingles again, far too cheerful for the storm she dropped in our laps. I stand frozen, staring at the folder she left behind, its edges sharp enough to cut.
Three months. The countdown clock just started ticking twice as fast. And if I can’t find a way to outpace it, Collins Florals won’t just belong to Titan—it’ll be gone.
My throat locks as I stare at Titan’s demand—quarterly reviews. Not six months. Three. The clock just sped up, and I can feel it ticking in my bones.
Luke doesn’t say anything this time. He just watches me with that quiet, unreadable look, as if maybe—just maybe—he believes I can handle this.
Grace’s voice drifted back to me—‘You can’t carry it all yourself, Mia.’ Maybe she was right. But if I let anyone in, would it mean letting go of Mom too?
Chapter Five
Irun a hand down the back of my neck, trying to leash the frustration before it snaps. “Mia, we can’t just tread water anymore. Fine isn’t going to cut it.”
She’s trimming stems like each one owes her money, the blades of her scissors flashing in the shop light. “And what do you suggest, Luke? Another hashtag campaign?” The words drip sarcasm.
“No.” I shake my head, pushing past the instinct to snap back. “I’m talking about partnerships. Strategic ones. The café across the street, the yoga studio two blocks over. We get Collins arrangements in their spaces, they send business our way. That’s visibility.”
She finally looks up, eyes narrowed, like she’s weighing whether I’ve lost my mind. “So you want me to give away flowers for free?”
“Not free. Smart.” I move closer, lowering my voice like the blooms themselves might be listening. “Bundle packages. Coffee and carnations. Yoga and eucalyptus. Things that stick in people’s heads. Things Titan would never think of because they don’t care about the community—they just care about profit.”
