Page 10 of The Florist By Chance
Mia sets the scissors down with a sharp click, folding her arms. “And you think the community is going to keep us afloat when Titan’s measuring spreadsheets?”
“I think loyalty counts for more than you’re giving it credit for.” My chest tightens, because the truth is, I believe it down to my bones. I’ve seen what happens when people rally for each other. “When I was still with the department, we had a fundraiser for a firefighter’s family after a line-of-duty death. The city showed up. People who never set foot in a station before. You give them a reason to care, they show up. That’s what Collins needs.”
Her expression falters for just a beat before she hardens it again. “Luke, this isn’t a firehouse. It’s a flower shop.”
“Exactly.” I lean on the counter, close enough to catch the stubborn set of her jaw. “And right now, it’s not enough to just keep trimming stems and hoping business walks through the door. We’ve got topullthem through the door. Give them a reason.”
She grabs the scissors again, snipping clean through a rose stem with more force than necessary. “And what if I don’t want Collins Florals to turn into a gimmick circus?”
“It’s not a gimmick.” My voice sharpens before I can rein it in. “It’s survival.”
I eye the counter display like it’s an enemy formation—too much lace ribbon, pastel vases straight out of a retirement catalog, and a chalkboard sign in handwriting so curly it looks like a toddler got ahold of it. Mia stands beside me, arms crossed, that stubborn tilt to her chin I know means I’m about to get steamrolled.
“We could streamline this,” I say, gesturing at the clutter. “Neutral tones, clean lines. People don’t want to feel like they’ve walked into their grandmother’s attic.”
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me? That’scharm,Luke. People love charm. It’s called personality.”
“Personality or chaos?” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, but she’s already bristling.
“People don’t come here for sterile catalog spreads,” she snaps. “They come because the shop feels warm and alive. You start stripping it down to beige and chrome, and you might as well slap Titan’s logo on the door.”
I bite back a laugh. “There’s a middle ground between Titan and hoarder chic.”
Her mouth drops open, scandalized, but before she can retort, the bell over the door jingles. An older couple ambles in, eyeing the arrangements. The woman leans close to her husband and whispers, not nearly quietly enough, “Oh, I just adore how quaint it all feels, don’t you?”
Mia smirks at me like she just won the Super Bowl.
“See?” she whispers.
I refuse to back down. “One customer does not make a business, strategy does.”
I stride over to the cooler, pull out a bouquet wrapped in shiny foil that clashes violently with its container. “Case in point. This looks like it belongs on a gas station counter.”
“Don’t you dare insult my seasonal display,” Mia fires back, storming over to snatch the bouquet from my hands.
The husband chuckles under his breath, clearly entertained. The wife clutches her pearls like she’s stumbled into a soap opera.
“Everything okay here?” she asks.
Mia flashes her brightest customer smile. “Of course! Just… spirited creative discussion.”
“More like a tactical standoff,” I mutter, earning a sharp elbow to my ribs.
The woman beams. “Well, I think it’s lovely. So much more heart than those big-box stores.”
I gesture toward her. “Exactly! That’s what I’m saying—keep theheart, but tighten up the presentation. You don’t need fifteen bows on one bouquet for it to be special.”
Mia glares. “You don’t need everything boiled down to some sterile efficiency chart either. This is art, Luke. Not a military operation.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you’d notice a profit margin if it smacked you in the face.”
“Better that than turning Collins into FlowerBots Incorporated.”
The couple exchanges amused glances. The husband clears his throat. “Young man, I’d listen to her. Women usually know best about these things.”
