Page 16 of The Florist By Chance
“She’s baiting us,” I say. “Trying to rattle you.”
“Well, it’s working.” She drops the paper, shoulders shaking as she turns back to the workbench. She stabs stems into a vase too hard, petals snapping under the pressure.
Zoe glances between us, wide-eyed. “Um… should I, uh, go stock the ribbon display?”
“Yes,” Mia and I answer at the same time.
Zoe disappears, wisely staying out of range.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “Mia, listen—Titan thrives on intimidation. But what they don’t have? You. This shop’s reputation. The loyalty your mom built here. That matters more than their shiny ads.”
Her laugh comes out sharp, bitter. “You sound awfully confident for someone who doesn’t even plan to stick around.”
The words land like a gut punch, because she’s right. Every time I try to reassure her, there’s that glaring hypocrisy: I’m promising stability when I don’t even know if I’ll be here next month.
I open my mouth, but she’s already turned back to her flowers, movements brisk, shutting me out.
The rest of the afternoon limps by. Customers come and go, Zoe asks too many eager questions, Mia answers with clippedpoliteness. I bury myself in invoices, anything to keep from watching her walls slam higher and higher.
By closing time, Zoe waves goodbye, arms full of leftover carnations Mia insisted she take home. The shop falls quiet, the kind of heavy silence that settles after a storm.
I duck into the back to lock up, and that’s when I hear it—Mia’s voice, soft but sharp-edged, drifting from the front.
“I just… I don’t trust him, Jake.”
My chest goes cold. I freeze, hand hovering near the light switch.
There’s a pause, then Jake’s voice through her phone speaker, tinny but clear. “You mean Luke?”
“Who else?” she whispers. “He keeps making decisions like I’m not even here. Hiring people, changing things, stepping all over me. And then he acts like I should be grateful.”
She exhales, shaky. “I don’t know if he’s trying to help, or if he’s just proving I can’t handle this without him. Either way, I can’t—” Her voice cracks, soft enough that I have to strain to hear. “I can’t trust him.”
The words slice cleaner than anything Titan could throw at me.
I step back, heart hammering, suddenly very aware of the creak in the floorboards and the sound of my own breathing. She can’t know I’m listening. Not now.
Because for all our fights, for all my frustration, a piece of me wanted to believe we were—what? Teammates? Maybe even finding our footing together?
But hearing her say it out loud—to Jake, of all people—settles one truth in my gut.
She doesn’t believe in me.
And if Mia doesn’t… maybe Collins was wrong too.
Chapter Eight
The bell above the café door tinkles as I push inside, and for the first time all week, I let myself breathe. The shop smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, not roses and eucalyptus. There’s no stack of invoices waiting, no buckets of flowers threatening to wilt if I don’t rescue them in time. Just the hiss of the espresso machine and a low hum of conversation.
Grace is already here, of course. She always beats me, always claims the corner table like it’s reserved. Her scarf drapes loosely over her shoulders, her phone resting screen-down like a silent dare not to touch it. She spots me and lifts a brow.
“You look like you wrestled a hydrangea bush and lost.”
I glance at my reflection in the café window—frizz haloing my head, a streak of pollen on my sleeve, smudged eyeliner from rubbing my eyes too much. “Hydrangeas don’t fight fair,” I mutter, sliding into the chair opposite her. “Neither does my brother’s best friend.”
Grace’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “Ah. We’re skipping straight to Luke today. Good. Saves me asking about the weather.”
“Don’t.” I drop my bag onto the floor and wave to the barista. “Triple shot latte, extra foam, and one of those lemon scones if they haven’t sold out.”
