2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Ella
I dip my chin to shield my face from the brunt of the winter chill as I walk the two blocks from my house to Main Street. The air is crisp, with a sharp bite that nips at my nose. My breath forms delicate clouds that dissolve into the clear, frosty sky.
Just the way I like it.
Despite my deep and everlasting hatred for Valentine’s Day, I love winter. It’s my favorite season. And my quaint little town, nestled high in the Appalachian Mountains, is a winter wonderland, wrapped in a thick, pristine blanket of white.
With its snow-covered streets, twinkling lamplights, and postcard-perfect storefronts, Honeysuckle Ridge looks like it was plucked straight from the set of a Hallmark movie. The town goes all out for every holiday—pumpkins in the fall, twinkle lights at Christmas, and now, an explosion of pink and red for Valentine’s Day.
I suppress a groan as I take in the decorations. Storefronts drip with garlands of paper hearts, shop windows showcase sickeningly sweet displays of love, and worst of all: So. Many. Cupids. They’re everywhere. It’s a Cupid infestation.
Chubby, smug-faced Cupids with their ridiculous little bows, perched in windows, dangling from lampposts, and plastered on banners stretched across the street. And, of course, the one I hate most of all: the menacing, life-sized cardboard cutout of Cupid that stares at me from the window of Gigi’s Sweet Treats, his tiny arrow aimed right at my heart.
“If you ask me, Cupid’s a menace,” I mutter at him as I yank open the door to my friend’s bakery.
Gigi’s sliding a tray of oatmeal raisin cookies into the display case when I walk in. Her wavy, shoulder-length brown hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, and she’s wearing a colorful apron over jeans and a crisp, white button-up shirt. Not for the first time, I feel a pang of envy. How does she manage to look so flawless—and so awake —this early in the day?
She flashes a toothy grin at me. “Good morning, neighbor.”
I pinch my lips together. “I’ll concede that it’s morning, but the verdict’s still out on whether it’s good. ”
She points out her storefront window to mine across the street. “I can’t help but notice that Ella’s Blooms doesn’t have any Valentine’s decorations,” she teases. “That’s practically a crime in Honeysuckle Ridge. Maybe you should stick some paper hearts in the window?”
I quirk an eyebrow. “It’s a shop filled with beautiful blooms. My entire inventory counts as decorations .”
She chuckles. “I suppose, but you should at least have a Cupid. You’re welcome to borrow mine if you’d like.”
I snort. “Tempting… if only so he’d be staring across the street at you instead of at me. ”
“What do you think of my holiday selection?” She gestures to the display case of pastries and sweets.
Gigi’s fully embraced the holiday spirit. Nearly everything is pink and red. Her display case is filled with tasty Valentine’s Day treats, including frosted heart-shaped cookies and cupcakes with miniature Cupids perched on top. She also has a few layered, heart-shaped cakes that look delicious. They’re beautiful, and I have no doubt they’re delicious. Nevertheless, I shake my head.
“ Valentine’s Day is the worst,” I grumble.
I know it’s stupid to hate Valentine’s Day so much. I own a flower shop, for goodness’ sake. Valentine’s Day should be my favorite holiday. It’s great for business, after all. Prom season, wedding season, graduation season . . . they all bring in steady income. But Valentine’s Day? It’s a goldmine.
And I hate every second of it.
For one thing, men only want one type of flower for their wives and girlfriends: roses . As if nothing else exists in the world. I love roses as much as the next girl, but there are plenty of beautiful flowers to choose from. Camellias, lilies, ranunculus, and more—each with their own charm. But no. It’s always roses. It feels like no one even thinks about what their partner might actually like. Just buy the roses, check the box, and move on.
Maybe I’m just cynical. Perhaps I’ve seen too many breakups and divorces. Half the weddings I’ve done arrangements for have ended in disaster, and I’m the one who gets the awkward calls years later. “Hey, Ella, remember those gorgeous centerpieces you made for my first wedding? Think you could do something like that—but different—for my second one?”
I’m not convinced that true love even exists. If you ask me, people would be better off avoiding love altogether. Most relationships end in heartbreak, so why bother? Cupid should mind his own business and quit flinging arrows where they don’t belong.
Gigi hands me a bag, and I peek inside. I can’t help but smile when I see that she’s added a second scone without my having to ask. My friend knows me well. I start to thank her, but she’s already busy assisting a customer. So, I give her a wave, leave her shop, and cross the street to Ella’s Blooms.
I slide the big, antique metal keys into the corresponding locks, and push open the front door. The scent of fresh flowers washes over me, and I inhale deeply. Roses, yes, but also peonies, lilacs, eucalyptus, and hints of earth from the potted plants near the window. Sunlight filters in, making the petals glow in soft hues of pink, white, and lavender. This is my happy space.
The shop is warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the frigid world outside. And there’s not a Cupid in sight… as long as I don’t look out the window at Gigi’s store across the street. Wooden shelves line the walls, overflowing with vases, ribbons, and decorative charms. A chalkboard sign behind the counter stands ready for me to scrawl the day’s specials in my neat, curving script. With a sigh, I write, “Valentine’s Special: One Dozen Roses, $60."
I shrug off my coat, tie on my apron, and get to work.
First, the morning bouquet orders—some for birthdays, a few for anniversaries, and an arrangement for the funeral of a beloved grandmother. Then I start prepping for the endless Valentine’s Day pre-orders. I trim stems, arrange delicate petals, and wrap them in soft tissue paper. I water the displays, fluff up the greenery, and double-check my stock. The coolers hum softly in the background, keeping the delicate arrangements fresh.
A frazzled woman comes into the shop looking for a last-minute gift for a co-worker, and I point toward a display of potted plants. “Does her office have a window? If so, I’d suggest a lovely plant to liven up the space.”
We discuss the various options, and she selects a beautiful snake plant. As she’s leaving, the phone rings.
“Hello, Ella’s Blooms,” I answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I continue wrapping a bouquet.
“Hi, Ella. It’s Maureen Matthews, Joe’s mother. Joe Matthews, I should say, starting quarterback for the Louisville Leopards.”
I roll my eyes. Maureen has given me this same unnecessary introduction every single year, as if I’ve somehow developed amnesia about the most famous person to come out of this town.
Of course, I know who Joe Matthews is. Honeysuckle Ridge’s very own golden boy. The pride of the town. And now that he’s the highest-paid quarterback in the NFL, practically everyone in America knows who he is.
He’s also the guy I had a hopeless, unreciprocated crush on in high school. Not that he ever noticed. We didn’t exactly move in the same circles. He was athletic and popular. I was… well, not that.
“Of course, Mrs. Matthews,” I say, keeping my voice polite. “Are you calling to arrange this year’s Quarterback Cupid deliveries?”
I practically choke on the name. Quarterback Cupid. Ugh.
To be fair, it’s a nice enough charity. Every Valentine’s Day, Joe—excuse me, star quarterback Joe Matthews —funds a program that delivers flowers to every nursing home resident in the county. A sweet gesture. And a good cause.
But let’s be real. Joe doesn’t lift a finger. His mother calls me to set things up, and then I do all the work. I doubt Quarterback Cupid was even Joe’s idea. Some PR firm probably came up with it. I bet Joe just signs the checks and lets everyone praise him for being such a thoughtful hometown hero.
I brace myself as Maureen launches into the details. Despite this being the fifth year in a row that we’re collaborating on this, she repeats every last detail like it’s the first time. I think it’s time for that second scone…
I break off a piece and chew it slowly, savoring the burst of chocolate on my tongue. Every now and then, I murmur, “Of course,” and “Mmm hmm,” as Maureen drones on and on about the origins of the charity.
“The residents are in for a special treat this year,” Maureen says. When she doesn’t continue, I realize that she’s waiting for me to fish for details.
I swallow a too-large bit of scone, swallowing thickly. “More than flowers, you mean?”
“Oh, yes,” she says coyly. “Joe will be visiting the residents in person this year.”
My heart thunders in my chest. “He’s coming to Honeysuckle Ridge?”
“He is,” she answers. “You’re a very lucky woman.”
“I am?” I squeak. “Why?”
Maureen sighs, as if I’m the dumbest person she’s ever had the misfortune of speaking to. “Because you’ll get to meet him! Not for long, of course. He’ll just be at the nursing home for a few minutes during the flower delivery. But still… many girls would kill to be in your shoes.”
Seriously? “Ms. Matthews, I’ve met Joe. We went to high school together,” I remind her.
“But he wasn’t rich and famous then, was he?”
I guess not. But he was the high school equivalent, which is pretty much the same thing. And considering how full of himself he was then , I can only imagine how insufferable he must be now .
Even so, I have to admit that there’s a part of me that’s excited about the prospect of seeing Joe again. It’s been years since he’s set foot in Honeysuckle Ridge. And just the thought of his broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes make my cheeks flush. Despite his massive ego .
When Maureen finally ends the call, I hang up and stare out the front window. The cardboard Cupid stares back at me.
Don’t even think about it, Buster . Keep that arrow where it belongs.