Page 32 of Off the Beaten Path

“Not today.”

He doesn’t give me any more than that, and although it’s not much different from the Holden I’ve come to know over the last four years, it feels vastly different from my friend of the last few months and from the man who just had his hands tangled in my hair, his fingers moving gently against my skin.

I almost want to cry, can feel the tears pricking at the backs of my eyes, but I tell myself they’re from the cold. Any other reason would be ridiculous. Hangovers always make me emotional, and I’m running on very little sleep. It’s certainly notHolden Blankenshipor his coldness that finally makes me feel the chill in the air, the dampness seeping into my bones, freezing the tears in my eyes.

It’s not Holden Blankenship, because I know my place with him, and it’s certainly not on his porch with his hands in my hair. It’s across the yard, a neighbor who drives him crazy and a friend who sends him GIFs of cats on bad days.

That’s where I belong, so I turn on my heel and head to my house without another look back.

Even if Unlikely Places weren’t the only florist in town, it would still be my favorite. While I’m a fan of bright pops of color, there’s something to be said about a flower shop decorated in muted earthy tones—forest greens, dusty blues, and warm pinks, natural wood and original scarred floors, creamy off-white walls and sunlight pouring in through the large windows. It’s the perfect tribute to our little town nestled in the mountains and trees, and it makes the flowers lining every available square inch of the shop look like they’re growing straight up from the wildflower fields at Misty Grove.

A little golden bell chimes as I let myself in the front door. It’s covered in peeling white paint, an ivy trellis climbing up and over the door frame. Finley Blankenship looks up from where she’s reading a book behind the counter, a smile brightening her face.

“Is it ten already?” she asks, consulting her watch. “Must have lost track of time.”

Soft, quiet folk music plays through the shop, making it feel that much more cozy.

“What are you reading?” I ask, moving closer to the counter.

She closes the worn mass market paperback and slides it across the counter to me. There’s a classic stepback cover depicting what I suspect is a Regency romance couple.

“I’ve read some of her books.”

Hazel eyes, so much like Holden’s, light up, crinkling at the edges. “I didn’t know you were a reader,” she says. “You should join the book club.”

“The one Stevie is in?”

If possible, Finley’s expression brightens even more, and she tucks a shoulder-length strand of golden blond hair behind her ear. “Same one. You should come.”

I nod, warmth spreading through my chest. This isexactlywhat I need. I’ve been trying to fix my loneliness with Holden, of all people, but I realized yesterday that it might be fairly one-sided. Just because I think he’s as lonely and in need of closeness as much as I am doesn’t mean he’s willing or wanting to do anything about it.

The problem with small towns is that you know everyone, but you never really know people the way you want to be known. I could go to Smokey the Beans and name every town resident who walked through the doors, but it’s easy to feel lonely in a crowd of people who know you without understanding you.

“I’d love to,” I tell Finley, pulling myself from my depressing thoughts. “Maybe after the Galentine’s Auction and my cabin’s finished. I still have so much to do.”

“Right, flowers,” she says, standing from her chair, a determined look entering her eyes. She disappears into the back room, coming back out with a worn leather notebook. “I’ve got a list here of all the centerpiece designs I thought would look good. If you want to pick a couple, we can test them out and see what you think.”

Taking the soft leather-bound notebook in hand, I glance through her pages of meticulous notes, written in straight, neat lettering. Her attention to detail is unmatched, and although I don’t know what every single one of these flowers is, I know whatever she makes will be beautiful and original.

When I look back up, I’m startled to find her watching me, an intense look on her face. Pink tinges her cheeks at being caught, and her eyes dart away from mine. “Sorry, I was staring. I’ve been told I can stare too much.”

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “No big deal. I don’t mind.”

Her eyes meet mine for one quick second before moving away again to focus on my curls. “I just love your hair,” she says.

A pleased warmth suffuses my cheeks, moving its way up to the tips of my ears. It’s a lovely compliment, especially considering how long it took me to learn how to properly take care of my rambunctious curls. Always dampening my hair before brushing. Making sure it’s dripping wet, making a puddle on my bathroom floor, as I apply my products. Sleeping with my hair tied up in a silk bandanna.

“Thank you,” I say, tugging on one of my curls. It immediately bounces back up into place.

Finley watches the movement, assessing. “I think June’s hair could look like this if she ever let anyone take care of it.”

A smile touches my lips as I imagine June running through the backyard in the fall, rust and amber and currant leaves catching in the tangled locks as she jumps into the pile Holden spent all afternoon raking up. I remember wondering how he could look so carefree and happy watching her ruin all his hard work, but so surly at me for attracting raccoons by failing to toss out my jack-o’-lantern. I ordered a raccoon fridge magnet and sent it to his house later that week, but I don’t know if he kept it. I bet it ended up in the trash cans that the raccoons now like to pillage.

“It took me forever to figure out a routine that worked,” I say, tugging on another curl. Pointing at one of the options in her meticulously thought-out notebook, I say, “Let’s try this one.”

She consults the arrangement I chose before moving around the silent shop, picking out individual flowers from vases and galvanized buckets. “Do you want something traditional?” she asks, her hand hovering over red roses. “Or maybe something a little more modern and flirty? Not quite as on theme.”

I feel a smile lift my face. “Nontraditional is perfect.”

---