Page 28 of The Florist By Chance
The words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be. I busy myself with the roses, but my hands aren’t as steady as I want them to be.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, I jab my thumb with the clippers.
“Ow—”
Before I can even process it, Luke is at my side, taking the clippers from me and inspecting my hand like I’ve lost a limb. “You okay?”
“It’s just a nick,” I say, trying to tug my hand back. But he doesn’t let go right away. His fingers are warm, steadying mine, and suddenly the shop feels about ten degrees hotter.
He finally releases me, but not before murmuring, “You’ve got to stop trying to do everything at once, Mia.”
My laugh is shaky. “And you’ve got to stop acting like you’re the boss of me.”
“Never gonna happen,” he says, but there’s a grin in his voice this time, not a challenge.
And somehow—somehow—it feels good.
The clock strikes ten, and it feels like the hands are moving slower on purpose. The arrangements are only half done, and my energy is running on fumes and caffeine. Luke, of course, looks annoyingly composed—shirt sleeves rolled up, hair a little mussed from running his hand through it too often, jaw set in quiet concentration. He’s the picture of competence, and I hate that I notice.
“Why do your roses always look perfect?” I ask, eyeing his arrangement. The stems fall into place like they’ve been choreographed. My own vase looks like it survived a minor windstorm.
“Trade secret,” he says, lips twitching.
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “Oh, come on. You can’t just swoop in here, rearrange my shop, and keep secrets.”
His eyes flick to mine, something playful sparking there. “Sure I can.”
The way he says it, low and smug, makes my stomach flip. I grab a carnation just to have something to do with my hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet here you are, working late with me.”
I toss the carnation at him. He catches it midair, grinning like it’s a game. “Reflexes,” he says. “Another trade secret.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betray me. “Do you ever get tired of being so full of yourself?”
He steps closer, still holding the flower between two fingers, and tucks it gently behind my ear. My breath catches.
“Not when it makes you smile,” he murmurs.
The room tilts. For a second, it’s just the sound of my heartbeat and the faint hum of the cooler. He’s too close, too steady, and I hate how much I don’t want to move away.
I break the spell by snatching the flower from my hair and setting it back on the bench. “Don’t think you can charm your way into this shop, Luke.”
He smirks, but there’s something quieter under it, like he’s testing boundaries. “I’m not trying to charm my way into the shop.”
The air thickens with meaning I refuse to touch. I force a laugh, sharp around the edges. “Good. Because it wouldn’t work.”
“Wouldn’t it?” His tone is light, but his eyes linger, searching.
I turn back to my half-finished bouquet, throat tight. “You should focus on the arrangements, not on… whatever that was.”
“Arrangements,” he echoes, amusement curling around the word. “Got it.”
But the warmth in his voice, the heat in his gaze—it lingers, pressing against me in ways I’m not ready for.
I remind myself, firmly, that this is dangerous territory. Luke is good at looking reliable, at making me feel like maybe I could lean on him. But I’ve been burned before, and trusting him again? That’s like balancing a vase on the edge of a shelf—sooner or later, it’ll crash.
Still, when he laughs again, low and easy, I can’t help the way it lodges in my chest.
