Page 17 of The Florist By Chance
Grace leans her chin on her hand, studying me like I’m some case study she can dissect over cappuccino. “So. Tell me. Has Luke committed another crime against humanity, or are you still rehashing yesterday’s tragedy?”
“He hired someone without telling me.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “Just—brought her in like he owned the place.”
Grace doesn’t flinch. She never does. She just stirs her drink slowly, as though adding milk to coffee requires monk-level concentration. “Did she look competent?”
“That’s not the point.” I fling my hands up. “This is my shop. My mom’s shop. He swoops in, makes decisions like I’m some clueless assistant. And when I push back, he acts like I’m unreasonable.”
“Were you?” Grace asks it so casually I want to throw my napkin at her.
The barista drops my latte and scone at the table. I grab the mug like a lifeline, inhaling the steam. “I was justified.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I glare at her, but she’s immune. Always has been. Grace and I met in high school debate, and she’s been dismantling my arguments ever since.
“Okay, fine.” I tear off a piece of scone. “Maybe I was a little sharp. But can you blame me? He hasn’t been around for years, Grace. He has no idea what this place means. And suddenly he’s… reliable. Like he actually cares.” The words taste bitter on my tongue.
Grace’s eyes soften. “And that bothers you.”
I set down the scone, appetite gone. “It confuses me.”
Grace lets me vent for twenty minutes—about Luke’s spreadsheets, about the way customers light up when he talks to them, about his maddening habit of being right in the most infuriating way possible. She listens without interrupting, just nodding occasionally, until I’ve wound myself into a tangle of resentment and reluctant admiration.
When I finally pause to gulp my latte, she leans forward. “Mia, sweetie, you don’t hate him.”
I choke. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t hate him,” she repeats, eyes twinkling. “If you did, you’d ignore him. You’d roll your eyes and move on. But you don’t. You engage. You fight. You watch him. Every little thing he does, you notice.”
“That’s because he’s undercutting me at every turn.”
“Or,” Grace says gently, “because he matters.”
My stomach knots. “Grace, no.”
“Oh yes. You should see yourself right now.” She gestures with her spoon. “You’re glowing. Irritated, sure, but glowing. He gets under your skin because some part of you lets him in. Otherwise he’d be just another guy at the shop.”
I want to argue, but the words won’t form. I press my hands around the mug instead, letting the heat burn my palms.
Grace softens her voice. “Mia, I know what the shop means to you. I know how it feels—like keeping it alive is keeping your mom alive. But maybe Luke isn’t trying to erase her. Maybe he’s trying to help you carry her legacy.”
The air in my chest tightens. Images flash—Mom at the counter arranging lilies, her laugh when Luke and Jake tracked mud through the back room, the pride in her eyes when I made my first solo bouquet. This shop is the last piece of her I can hold. Losing it would feel like losing her again.
“I can’t let him mess this up,” I whisper.
Grace reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. “Maybe you should stop assuming he will.”
I blink down at our joined hands, surprised at how steady hers is compared to mine.
We talk for another half hour, drifting into safer topics—her latest dating disaster, a new yoga class she says I need. I laugh more than I expect to. The café grows louder as the lunch crowd filters in, and for once, I don’t feel like I’m drowning in responsibility.
When we finally stand to leave, Grace tugs me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and coffee beans. “You’re stronger than you think,” she murmurs. “And maybe—just maybe—you don’t have to fight him on everything. Sometimes teamwork looks like surrender. The good kind.”
I roll my eyes but can’t quite smother my smile. “You should stitch that on a pillow.”
“Please. You’d buy three.”
We part at the door, her heading toward the bookstore, me back toward the shop. The city air feels cooler, sharper, and I let it sting my cheeks. Grace’s words echo no matter how hard I try to shake them.
