Page 19 of The Florist By Chance
He pauses mid-keystroke. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t let me off the hook.
My cheeks burn. I hate this—apologies feel like prying open armor I’ve welded shut. Still, Grace’s words keep needling me.Shrine. Pushing people away.
“I know you’re just trying to help,” I manage, softer now. “And I—I bite too fast. Sometimes.”
He finally turns, eyebrows lifting in something halfway between surprise and suspicion. “Did you just… admit that?”
Heat rushes up my neck. “Don’t make me take it back.”
His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smirk. It’s not forgiveness, not really, but the air between us shifts a fraction lighter.
I set the lilies down, suddenly aware of how bruised their petals look under my grip. My voice drops lower, almost a whisper. “I just… This place is all I have left of her. So when you jump in and change things, it feels like you’re rewriting her, too.”
There. I’ve said more than I intended, more than I wanted him to know. My throat burns, and I pretend to reach for another bundle of stems just to give my hands something to do.
Luke doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He studies me with that unreadable look, like he’s cataloging my words the same way he does receipts—precise, careful. Then, quietly: “I’m not trying to erase her, Mia. Or you.”
The words land heavier than they should, rattling something loose inside me. I nod, unable to hold his gaze, and retreat into the comfort of scissors and flowers.
It’s not peace. But it’s not war, either.
And maybe—for today—that’s enough.
Chapter Ten
The morning hums with the kind of energy I usually avoid—the bustling, chatty, too-many-hands-on-deck chaos of a community event. I’m more comfortable with spreadsheets, clear deadlines, and the certainty that numbers don’t lie. But today, Mia is standing in front of me with a clipboard, tapping her pen like she’s the general of a flower army, and somehow, I’m enlisted.
“Don’t look so grim,” she says, thrusting a list into my hands. “It’s not a funeral. It’s a garden showcase.”
I scan the paper. Vendors, seating charts, floral arches—every detail inked in her tidy scrawl. “You’ve overbooked the booths. There are six spots and seven vendors.”
Her eyes flash, but there’s a spark of humor beneath it. “Then you’ll figure out a way to make it work, Mister Efficiency.”
For once, the bite in her voice doesn’t sting. I actually find myself grinning. “You realize you’re terrible at math, right?”
“Only when it’s convenient,” she shoots back.
We spend the next hour juggling deliveries and wrangling volunteers. She’s quick with ideas, waving her hands as she describes where each arrangement should go. I follow her lead, adjusting logistics, moving tables, tightening bolts. Our rhythmsurprises me—it’s less like sparring and more like… harmony. Her imagination sparks, and I ground it. I lay the bones, and she fills them with color.
At one point, she smudges dirt on her cheek while wrestling a potted fern. I laugh, and she makes a face, swiping at me with her dirt-streaked hand. “Don’t even think about it,” I warn, but she lunges anyway, leaving a brown streak across my shirt. The volunteers snicker as I groan, but I can’t stop the warmth spreading in my chest.
This—this feels like belonging. Like a place where I’m not just filling in gaps, not just the guy trying not to screw up. Here, with Mia barking orders and smiling at old ladies who stop to admire the arrangements, I feel… part of something. Needed.
It terrifies me almost as much as it comforts me.
As the afternoon winds down, clouds gather thick over the horizon. I catch the shift first, the smell of rain sharp in the air. Then a crack of thunder shakes the ground, and wind whips across the street, rattling the canopy tents. Mia looks up, her clipboard clutched to her chest.
“Please tell me that’s not headed for us,” she mutters.
A gust rips through, sending petals swirling like confetti. Across the street, one of the volunteers shouts as a banner snaps loose. I grab Mia’s arm, steadying her as the first drops splatter the pavement.
And then I see it—the shop’s front awning straining against the wind, metal groaning, glass rattling in the windowpanes.
The storm isn’t just coming. It’s already here.
Mia wrestles with a roll of burlap ribbon like it’s a python, muttering under her breath while I stack folding chairs. The church hall smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old hymnals, sunlight slanting through tall windows, catching in her hair as she growls at the knot she’s made.
“Pretty sure the ribbon’s supposed to decorate the tables, not strangle you,” I say, lining the last chair.
