Page 27 of The Florist By Chance
I grip the wheel tighter, because the thought terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
At a red light, she studies me, head tilted. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say too quickly.
Her brow arches. “You were staring.”
“Just… surprised.”
“By what?”
“That you’re here. That you’re not running from this.”
She leans back in her seat, expression softening in a way I don’t see often. “I’ve been running for months, Luke. From grief, from the shop, from—” She stops, swallows. “I’m done running. If Titan wants a fight, they’ve picked the wrong florist.”
Something lodges in my throat. God, she’s incredible. Fierce, resilient, standing tall even with the storm still at her back.
And for the first time since I came home, I let myself admit it: being beside her doesn’t just feel like belonging. It feels like hope.
The light turns green. I press the gas, heart pounding harder than it should for a simple drive across town.
“Okay then,” I say, my voice low. “Let’s see what Bloom & Vine is hiding.”
Chapter Thirteen
The shop feels different at night. Quieter, softer. The street traffic outside has thinned, and the steady hum of the cooler is louder than usual. Petals litter the workbench like confetti after a parade, and the air smells faintly of lavender and coffee—because Luke insisted on brewing a pot at nine p.m. “For stamina,” he said, sliding a mug across the counter as if I’d cave to his logic.
I didn’t. But I drank it anyway.
Now it’s just the two of us, surrounded by unfinished arrangements for tomorrow’s charity gala, and every tick of the clock makes the room feel smaller. I trim stems with a little more force than necessary, pretending I’m not hyper-aware of him humming under his breath across the bench.
“You always hum when you work?” I ask, finally breaking the silence. My voice comes out sharper than I intended, like I’m annoyed by the sound, but the truth is I find it… soothing.
He glances up, sheepish. “Bad habit. My mom used to say it kept me out of trouble.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Guess it didn’t work.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile—one of those sideways ones that tug at my chest in ways I’d rather not acknowledge. “You’re not wrong.”
We lapse back into work, but something’s shifted. The tension in the room isn’t just jagged edges anymore; it’s got a pulse, a rhythm. I drop a handful of greenery into the wrong vase, and Luke’s low chuckle follows almost immediately.
“Planning to reinvent floral design, or just mixing genres for fun?” he asks, nudging the vase toward me.
Heat creeps up my neck. “Maybe I like breaking rules.”
“Oh, I know you do,” he says, voice warm with amusement.
I roll my eyes, but a laugh escapes before I can swallow it. The sound bounces off the shop walls, startling me. When was the last time I laughed here without it feeling forced? Probably before Mom got sick.
Luke notices—of course he does. His expression softens, like he’s cataloging the moment. I look away quickly, focusing on the stubborn rose stem in my hands. My pulse is too fast, my smile too easy.
“This is dangerous,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
“What is?”
I shake my head, dodging. “Staying up this late. Tomorrow we’ll both regret it.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me with that steady gaze that sees too much. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s worth it.”
