Page 31 of The Florist By Chance
The town square is already alive when I haul the first crate of flowers out of the truck. Banners ripple in the morning breeze, laughter spills from food stalls, and the air smells like cinnamon sugar and fried dough. It’s the kind of festival that draws every soul in town, which means one thing: our booth has to shine or Titan wins without lifting a finger.
Mia’s already at the stall, crouched over a bucket of peonies, sleeves rolled, hair twisted into a knot that’s slipping loose. She’s biting her lip as she fiddles with the arrangement, frowning at it like it insulted her.
“Careful,” I say, setting the crate down beside her. “Those flowers are innocent. They didn’t do anything to deserve that glare.”
Her head snaps up, and for a second I think she’ll bite back with one of her sharp comebacks. But instead, her mouth curves. Small, reluctant, but there.
“Maybe they shouldn’t be so stubborn,” she mutters.
I crouch beside her, pick up a stray stem, and spin it between my fingers. “Flowers aren’t stubborn. They just know what they’re meant to be. Sometimes you just need to give them the right soil to belong.”
She blinks at me, then laughs, shaking her head. “Luke, philosopher of petals. Who knew?”
The sound loosens something in my chest. I didn’t realize how badly I missed that laugh until now.
We get to work side by side, arranging buckets, stringing garlands across the wooden frame of the stall, draping linen cloths that catch in the wind. My hands are steady, practical—I measure, balance, anchor. Mia’s are quick and imaginative—tilting stems just so, tucking sprigs of green in places I never would’ve thought to. Together, it looks like something better than either of us could’ve done alone.
“Slide that display three inches left,” she calls, standing back with her hands on her hips.
I move it, and she squints, then shakes her head. “No, back an inch.”
I give her a look. “Are we arranging flowers or calibrating NASA equipment?”
Her grin flashes bright. “Precision is everything.”
I grunt, but move it anyway. And when I see the finished effect—the way her design pulls eyes straight to our shop’s name—I can’t argue.
The hours blur. People wander by to watch us set up, and I catch a few murmurs—beautiful,so fresh,better than Bloom & Vine. Each word sparks a quiet pride I haven’t felt in years.
When I glance at Mia, cheeks flushed, hair coming loose as she leans over the table to adjust one last bouquet, it hits me square in the gut: I’m falling.
It sneaks up quiet, like roots pushing deep without you noticing. But now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. The way she hums when she works, the way she tilts her head just before she laughs, the way her fire makes me want to be better, sharper, more alive.
I swallow hard, adjusting the garland one more time just to keep my hands busy. This was supposed to be temporary—help her, redeem myself, then leave before the town swallowed me whole again. But the truth is here, staring me in the face. I don’t want to leave. Not from her.
And that’s the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years.
By the time the booth is finished, the sun’s high and the festival’s in full swing. Music drifts from the gazebo—fiddles and banjos threading through the crowd. Children run with sticky fingers and balloons, couples meander with paper cones of kettle corn. It’s small-town chaos at its finest, and somehow it feels good to be in the middle of it.
Mia brushes pollen off her jeans, then steps back to survey the stall. The garlands sway gently in the breeze, the buckets are bursting with color, and the hand-painted sign she insisted on hangs proudly across the top:Evergreen Blooms.
I whistle low. “Not bad. Almost looks like we know what we’re doing.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s mischief in them. “Almost? That’s the best you’ve got?”
I shrug, leaning against the post. “I’m just saying, if this whole florist thing doesn’t work out, you could probably get a job… maybe as an overly critical art teacher.”
Her jaw drops in mock offense. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know, this display is perfection. People will be talking about it all day.”
“They’ll definitely be talking,” I say, keeping my tone serious. “Probably about how the buckets are off-center.”
She gasps, scandalized, then smacks my arm with a ribbon spool. “You didnotjust say that.”
The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. It’s been years since I’ve laughed like this—with my guard down, easy. And thebest part? She’s laughing too, shoulders shaking, cheeks pink from more than just the sun.
I don’t even notice when my hand drifts, catching hers as she tries to swat me again. The contact is quick, accidental maybe, but electric all the same. She stills, eyes flicking to mine, and for one reckless second I almost forget where we are.
Almost.
