Page 11 of The Florist By Chance
Mia practically glows with victory. I pinch the bridge of my nose, suppressing the urge to groan.
This is what working with Mia feels like: one step forward, three steps back, all of it on display for an audience that thinks they’ve bought tickets to a rom-com.
Still, I can’t deny one thing. The customers are smiling. They’re engaged. Even when Mia is driving me up the wall, she brings a spark into this place that I can’t quite argue away.
I just wish that spark didn’t make me want to argue with her more.
I shuffle the invoices in my hands, more to keep from saying something reckless than because they need sorting. Numbers glare up at me, black ink against white paper, the kind that doesn’t lie. Our costs are higher than they should be—way higher. And I know exactly why.
I clear my throat. “These growers,” I say, tapping the page, “they’re charging us a premium. There are other suppliers out there who could cut these numbers down by a third.”
Mia’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing like I’ve just insulted the family dog.
Her head snaps toward me. “You want me to ditch the growers Mom trusted for years? People she built relationships with?”
I lower the papers, my voice softening without meaning to. “I’m saying loyalty won’t matter much if Titan takes over. We have to be smart.”
Mia doesn’t answer right away, just presses her lips together like she’s swallowing words she doesn’t trust herself to say in front of customers. Finally, she hisses under her breath, “You don’t get to come back and tear apart everything she built.”
I bite back the retort on my tongue, suddenly aware of the two women at the counter watching us like they’ve scored front-row seats to a soap opera. I force a grin, sliding the invoices back into a neat pile. “Just a friendly business debate,” I tell them.
One of the women winks. “If this is friendly, I’d hate to see you two argue.”
Mia shoots me a glare sharp enough to draw blood. And me? I can’t help the laugh that escapes, because as much as she hates it, she’s proving my point—this shop isn’t just tradition, it’s theater. And right now, the audience is eating it up.
I linger after closing, the shop smelling faintly of roses and floor cleaner. The register drawer clicks shut, and Mia disappears into the back to finish paperwork. I should be relieved—the shift’s over, another day survived without Titan breathing down our necks. But I don’t leave. I just stand there, staring at the rows of flowers in their buckets, their heads bowed as if they’ve worked just as hard as we have.
I tell myself I don’t belong here. This was supposed to be a temporary detour, a pit stop before I figured out my next move. Firefighting, the military—those jobs made sense. Action,urgency, adrenaline. This? Arranging lilies in a vase for a woman’s anniversary dinner? It feels too quiet, too… fragile.
And yet. Somewhere between the morning rush and the squabbles with Mia over ribbon budgets, I’ve started to care. About the flowers, about the shelves that keep breaking, about the old cash register that rattles like it’s holding on for dear life. About her. I catch myself fixing displays when she isn’t looking, making mental notes about what the shop needs. Not because Titan demands it, but because the thought of this place going under makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
I rub the back of my neck, annoyed at myself. I came back to help, not to get attached. Not to start feeling like Collins Florals—the place I once thought of as background noise in my childhood—is suddenly the ground I don’t want to lose.
The front bell jingles. Mia reappears, frowning at her phone, her brows knitting so tight I know something’s wrong before she says a word.
“Luke.” Her voice is flat, too controlled. She holds out the phone, the screen lit up with an email. I step closer, my pulse already ticking faster.
It’s from one of our biggest wedding clients—June, the woman who wanted white hydrangeas and blush roses for her reception. I remember because Mia made me carry the sample arrangements across town in the rain. Now June’s apologizing. Saying she’s grateful for our time, but another florist has offered her thesame order for a lower price.
My jaw tightens. “Who?”
Mia swallows, her gaze flicking up to mine. “Bloom & Vine.”
I mutter under my breath. They’re flashy, new, all glass storefront and trendy Instagram reels. And they’re circling like sharks, waiting for a chance to bleed us dry.
I look back at the screen, the words glaring at me like a challenge. A rival florist undercutting us isn’t just bad luck—it’s a direct hit. And if we lose the wedding contracts, Collins Florals won’t make it to Titan’s next review.
Mia’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence. “What if this is just the beginning?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is, it probably is.
Chapter Six
The hydrangeas are wilting.
I stare at the buckets lined up in the cooler, my stomach sinking lower with every drooping bloom. White petals that should look crisp and fresh are starting to brown at the edges, and the blush roses I ordered—half of them look more beige than pink. I press my fingertips to my temples. Of all the weeks for this to happen, it has to be the one with June’s wedding. One hundred centerpieces, two massive altar arrangements, and her bouquet. A bride who told me—twice—that flowers were the most important part of her day.
If this order falls apart, so do we.
