Page 5 of The Florist By Chance
And for the first time, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—she’s right.
The shop is too quiet once the couple leaves with their “compromise” bouquet—half white roses, half blush carnations. I can still feel Mia’s glare burning a hole in my back.
I crouch near the workbench, more to give myself something to do than out of real necessity, when my hand brushes againstthe bottom shelf. It wobbles. No, it groans, the kind of sound wood makes right before it decides to quit.
“Perfect,” I mutter.
Mia is at the register, tapping her pen against a ledger like the ink might start paying bills if she hits the page hard enough. She doesn’t even notice the shelf tilting until I press on it again, making it creak.
“What are you doing?” she asks, suspicion dripping from every word.
“Preventing a floral avalanche,” I say, testing the joints. The screws are stripped, the wood cracked. “How long’s this been like this?”
Her nose scrunches. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” I nudge it and the whole thing sways. “One wrong move and your precious inventory ends up in a heap on the floor.”
She sighs like I’m overreacting, but when the shelf dips again, her eyes flicker. Just for a second. “I’ve been meaning to fix it.”
I glance up at her. “Meaning to. Big difference.”
Her arms fold, chin tilts. That defense stance again. “And what exactly do you plan to do? Charm it back together?”
I grin, pulling the multitool out of my back pocket. “Better. Fix it.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t stop me. Which feels like progress.
I get to work, stripping the shelf down, tightening the supports, replacing the useless nails with actual screws I find in the back. Years of working construction jobs between gigs taught me how to make do with what’s on hand. My fingers know the motions before my brain does.
Mia hovers nearby, pretending she isn’t watching. She fiddles with ribbons, rearranges pens, clears her throat. The longer I work, the less noise she makes.
Finally, I press my weight against the shelf. Solid. Doesn’t budge an inch.
“There,” I say, brushing sawdust from my hands. “Good as new.”
Mia steps closer, testing it herself. Her fingers press against the wood like she doesn’t trust me—or maybe doesn’t want to. But when the shelf holds steady, she goes still.
“Well,” she says at last. “It’s… decent.”
“Decent?” I laugh. “That’s the best compliment I’ve had all week.”
The corners of her mouth twitch before she clamps them down, straightening her shoulders. “Don’t get used to it. One shelf doesn’t make you indispensable.”
“Maybe not.” I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “But at least I’m not completely useless.”
For the first time since I got here, her eyes soften. Just a flicker, like sunlight breaking through clouds before the storm rolls back in.
And against my better judgment, I like the look of it.
The bell over the shop door jingles, and I glance up from brushing sawdust off my shirt. Thought it might be another customer looking for tulips, but the woman who walks in isn’t here for flowers. Not with that gray power suit and heels that strike the floor like they own the place.
Mia stiffens instantly. I can feel it even without looking at her.
“Ms. Mia?” the woman asks, scanning the shop like she’s already calculating its resale value. Her gaze flicks over the cracked window, the stacks of invoices, even the shelves I patched up this morning.
“Yes,” Mia answers, her voice tight.
The woman smiles without warmth and holds out a manicured hand. “Claudia Eldridge. I represent Titan Corporation.”
