Page 20 of The Florist By Chance
Her head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “Do you want to do it?”
“Nope,” I reply, folding my arms. “I prefer to watch you lose a wrestling match to fabric. Much more entertaining.”
The glare lingers, but the corner of her mouth twitches. She yanks at the ribbon with exaggerated force, finally unraveling it. “Fine. Round one goes to you.”
The thing about Mia is she doesn’t know when she’s funny. She thinks her sarcasm is a shield, but half the time it just makes me want to laugh. And laugh is exactly what I do, surprising us both. It comes out unguarded, easy, like the sound hasn’t existed in me for a while.
Her brows shoot up, then soften. “Wow. Was that… humor from Mr. Spreadsheet himself?”
“Careful,” I say, crouching to adjust a wobbly table leg. “If word gets out that I can laugh, my entire reputation will crumble.”
She smirks, tugging the ribbon tight around the edge of the table. “I’ll keep your secret—for a price.”
“Extortion. Classic Mia.”
“Classic effective Mia,” she corrects, patting the finished bow with unnecessary flourish. “Admit it, the table looks better because of me.”
I glance over the line of neatly tied ribbons she’s already finished. She’s not wrong. The burlap adds texture, warmth—the kind of detail I’d never think to bother with but that makes the whole room feel less like a spreadsheet of tasks and more like a celebration.
“You’ve got an eye,” I admit, softer than I mean to.
Her hands still, fingers brushing the fabric like it might vanish if she lets go. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I tease, but the truth hums under my rib cage: she deserves more than grudging respect. She sees things I don’t. Beauty where I see logistics, heart where I see ledgers. And maybe that’s exactly what this place—what I—need.
Mia tilts her head, studying me like I’m another one of her half-finished arrangements. “You’re not bad at this, you know. Chair stacking, table leveling, making bad jokes. Real renaissance man.”
I snort, straightening the table. “If that’s your version of praise, I’ll take it.”
The air feels lighter now, less like a battlefield and more like… something I don’t want to label. Our words still spark, but the heat is different—not fire meant to scorch, but warmth that lingers. For the first time since stepping foot back in this town, I feel like maybe I’m not an intruder here.
She steps back from the table, brushing her hands off her jeans. “Guess we don’t make a terrible team.”
“Guess not,” I echo, and the words settle deeper than they should.
The last table is dressed, burlap ribbon tied and candles waiting in their glass jars. The church hall looks… good. Better than good. I step back and catch Mia standing at the far end, head tilted as she surveys the room. Her lips purse in concentration, then spread into a satisfied little smile that she doesn’t even know she’s wearing.
I shouldn’t notice that. But I do.
“This will work,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
Something tugs inside my chest. The words are small, but the pride in them is clear, and it hits me harder than it should. Because for once, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the outside, waiting to be dismissed. I feel… part of it. Like the work I put in actually matters.
I shake it off, crouching to test another chair leg, though I already know it’s steady. “Not bad,” I say.
She shoots me a look. “Careful, Luke. Two compliments in one day and I’ll think you’re softening.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re just earning them.”
Her laugh startles me—it’s bright, genuine, filling the hollow space of the hall in a way I didn’t know I’d been craving. She shakes her head and moves to adjust a candle. And I realize, with a sting of unease, that I like this. I like working with her, matching her pace, watching her ideas take shape and knowing my hands helped make them real.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. Belonging. I’ve spent years keeping my distance from people, jobs, places—never giving them enough room to claim me. If you don’t belong, you can’t be left behind when things fall apart. That was the lesson I learned early and hard.
But now? Here? I want it. I want to belong.
The thought knots in my stomach, half comfort, half warning.
“Luke?” Mia’s voice breaks in. She’s closer now, holding a sprig of eucalyptus between her fingers, the scent faint and fresh. “You okay? You look like you’re plotting a hostile takeover of the centerpieces.”
