Page 23 of The Florist By Chance
The bell over the door jingles, startling me. I whirl around, expecting maybe Zoe with more supplies, but instead—Mrs. Delgado from the bakery down the street hurries in, rain dripping from her umbrella.
“Oh, Mia!” she exclaims, hand pressed to her chest. “I saw the storm hit your windows—I brought extra tarps.”
Behind her comes her son, lugging rolls of heavy plastic, and then—like word traveled through the storm itself—more familiar faces. Mr. Chen from the hardware store, the college kids who sometimes buy daisies for dates, even Mrs. Patterson with her cranky dachshund wrapped in a towel.
The shop fills with voices and footsteps, a current of energy sweeping in with them. Buckets are emptied, plastic stapled across the broken window, someone sweeps the puddles back out the door with an old broom. It’s clumsy and chaotic, but it’s help, and my throat burns watching them.
Luke meets my eyes across the crowded shop, and for once we don’t need words. He nods, like he’s saying,See? This is why it matters.
I swallow hard and manage a smile for Mrs. Delgado, who insists I sit down for a minute while she wrangles the broom like a general commanding troops. My pulse slows as I watch them—neighbors, customers, friends—all pitching in to rescue what I thought I had to guard alone.
For a moment, grief loosens its grip. This shop isn’t a shrine. It’s alive, because of the people who keep walking through its door.
Luke squeezes past me with a roll of duct tape, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. “Told you we’d get through this,” he murmurs, voice low but steady.
I want to argue, to remind him we’re not out of danger yet. But instead I whisper back, “Maybe we will.”
The moment feels fragile, a flower stem balanced between my fingers—something that could bloom or snap. My chest aches with the possibility.
The bell jingles again, and I turn, expecting more neighbors with towels or tools. Instead, a woman steps inside in sleek blackheels, her umbrella dry as if the storm parted just for her. Her lipstick is precise, her suit too sharp for a place like this.
Ms. Eldridge. Titan’s rep.
She surveys the wreckage with a practiced smile, eyes gleaming like she’s already calculated the cost. “My, my. Quite the mess you’ve had here.” Her tone drips with sympathy that feels colder than the rain outside.
Luke stiffens beside me, his shoulders going rigid.
“We don’t need your commentary,” I say, crossing my arms even as water drips from my hair. “We’re handling it.”
“Of course you are,” she replies smoothly, heels clicking across the damp tile as though puddles don’t dare touch her. She stops at the counter, fingertips grazing the warped wood. “But handling and recovering are two very different things, Miss Mia.”
I bristle at her use of my name, sharp and professional, like I’m a line item in her report.
“What do you want?” Luke asks flatly, stepping between her and me.
She smiles, folding her umbrella with a neat snap. “To help, naturally. Titan has resources. Connections. We could repair all this—windows, roofing, even new refrigeration units—at no upfront cost to you.”
My stomach drops. I don’t trust that kind of generosity. Not from her. Not from Titan.
“And in exchange?” I ask, though I already know.
Her smile deepens, smug as ever. “Just a simple agreement. Partial ownership ofCollins Floral. You’d still run day-to-day operations, of course. But Titan would ensure stability. No more storms like this derailing your livelihood.”
The words hang in the damp air, heavier than the storm clouds outside.
Around us, the neighbors keep working, unaware of the deal hanging in the air like a guillotine. My pulse hammers, and I grip the counter edge to steady myself.
Luke’s jaw clenches, his hand curling into a fist at his side.
I meet Ms. Eldridge’s gaze and force my voice steady. “We’ll think about it.”
But inside, my chest is split wide open. Because the truth is simple, terrifying, and undeniable: I don’t know if I can save this place on my own anymore.
And Titan knows it.
Chapter Twelve
The papers are still spread across the counter when I walk back in, rain dripping off my jacket. Titan’s offer sits in the middle, smug in bold print like it already owns us. Partial ownership. Repairs covered. Strings knotted so tight you’d choke before you noticed.
