Blooming Up My Second Chance (Twin Waves #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

DELILAH

The brass bell above the door of Petals & Promises chimes two notes—high then low, almost musical—and Jo and Mads burst through it like a hurricane made of shopping bags and enthusiasm.

Mom always said that bell was magic. That it sang differently for different customers. I’d thought she was being dramatic, but after months behind this counter, I’m starting to think she was right. Some entrances sound cheerful. Some sound resigned.

This one sounds like chaos.

“Delilah!” Jo’s arms are full of fabric swatches. “Please tell me you have coffee.”

“I have a flower shop.”

“Close enough. We need your brain.” She dumps the swatches on my counter, narrowly missing the “Sorry For Your Loss” display. A satin swatch drapes itself over the sympathy card samples like it’s auditioning for a soap opera. “Wedding emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“The kind where I’m getting married and I still can’t decide between ‘coastal romantic’ and ‘beachy boho’ and Dean is zero help because he thinks flowers are flowers.”

“Flowers are not just flowers,” I say, because this is a hill I will die on.

I’ve been running this place since my mother handed me the keys and moved to Florida with suspicious speed, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that nobody walks into a florist for the flowers.

They come for the feelings. The courage. The words they can’t say out loud.

Mads rolls her eyes with familiar affection. “What she means is, we need centerpiece opinions. And possibly wine.”

“It’s ten in the morning,” I point out.

“And?” Jo raises an eyebrow.

I’ve known these women since I took over the shop and the book club adopted me like a stray cat they were determined to fatten up.

In that time, I’ve learned that “wine” is Jo’s love language and “it’s ten in the morning” is not a valid counterargument.

I’ve also learned that Jo plans her wedding the way some people wage war—with intensity, spreadsheets, and an alarming number of Pinterest boards.

“I don’t have wine. I have leftover coffee from this morning and some questionable tea bags that might be older than me.”

“We’ll take the coffee.” Mads is already perching on my workbench stool, pushing aside a pile of ribbon spools to make room. “Jo’s been up since five looking at Pinterest boards. She needs caffeine or she’ll start crying about napkin folds again.”

“I cried about napkin folds once. Once!”

“It was twice. And the second time you also cried about whether the sunset would match your color scheme.”

“The sunset is important, Mads!”

I pour the lukewarm coffee into mismatched mugs—one says “Bloom Where You’re Planted” and the other has a cartoon cactus in sunglasses that says “Looking Sharp,” a gift from Michelle—and slide them across the counter.

Jo wraps both hands around the Bloom mug and takes a sip without flinching, which tells me everything I need to know about her current stress level. That coffee has been sitting since dawn. It’s basically plant water at this point.

“Okay.” I pull out my notepad. “Coastal romantic versus beachy boho. Walk me through the vision.”

“Coastal romantic is elegant. Hydrangeas, roses, eucalyptus. Very ‘fairy tale wedding on the beach.’” Jo spreads out a swatch of dusty blue fabric. “Beachy boho is more relaxed. Wildflowers, pampas grass, that effortless look.”

“Which one feels more like you and Dean?”

Jo pauses. Actually considers the question instead of launching into another Pinterest reference, which might be a first. “Dean would probably be happy getting married in the fire station parking lot as long as I showed up.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It’s accurate.” She grins. “The man grunts more than he talks. But he’s mine, so I’ll keep him.”

“You two are disgusting,” Mads says, but she’s smiling into her coffee.

The love in Jo’s voice makes my chest ache in a way I don’t let myself examine too closely.

I’m happy for her—genuinely, throat-tightening happy.

But there’s a shadow underneath it that I’ve gotten very good at ignoring.

The part of me that wonders what it feels like to be that sure about someone.

To say he’s mine without any fear attached.

I’ve been in love. Twice, actually. Both times with the same person.

And both times, I ran. In between, I married a man I didn’t love enough—chose him specifically because he was safe, because he didn’t make me feel too much—and that fell apart too.

Three chances at love, and I’ve wrecked every single one.

That’s the real reason I understand my customers so well—the nervous boys with their crumpled twenties, the women agonizing over whether to send peonies or tulips, the brides who cry when they see their bouquets for the first time.

I know what it feels like to stand at the edge of a cliff with your heart in your hands and not know if you’re about to fly or fall.

The difference is, they’re brave enough to jump.

I just help them pick the right flowers for the leap.

But that’s a box I keep locked and buried, and we are not opening it on a Tuesday morning over lukewarm coffee.

“Coastal romantic,” I decide. “But with some wildflower accents to keep it from being too formal. You want elegant, but you’re not a stiff person. The flowers should feel like you—warm and a little chaotic.”

“I’m not chaotic.”

Mads and I exchange looks.

“I’m enthusiastically spontaneous,” Jo amends.

“Sure.” I pull my notepad closer and start sketching, my pencil moving almost on its own.

Hydrangeas as the base—they’re lush and full, perfect for that coastal elegance without feeling uptight.

Roses for romance, obviously, but garden roses, not the stiff long-stemmed kind.

The ones that look like they’ve been blooming in a grandmother’s backyard for fifty years.

Eucalyptus for texture, because every arrangement needs something unexpected to keep the eye moving.

I add ranunculus to the sketch—those delicate layered petals that look like tissue paper and always make brides cry. Maybe some sweet peas, too. They’re softer, more whimsical. The kind of flower that doesn’t try too hard.

The arrangement takes shape under my pencil. Loose, romantic, a little wild at the edges. Like a bride wandered through a garden and it just happened.

That’s the trick with wedding flowers. They should look effortless, even though nothing about them is.

“Yes.” Jo clutches the sketch like it’s a treasure map. “That. Exactly that. This is why I come to you and not the internet.”

“The internet doesn’t judge your napkin fold meltdowns.”

“Neither do you. Out loud.”

I grin. “What about the wedding party?”

“Small. Mads is my maid of honor, obviously.” Jo gestures at Mads, who does a little bow from the workbench stool.

“Savannah is a bridesmaid—Dean’s daughter, have you met her?

She’s precious. And Asher’s walking Rex down the aisle, which is going to be a disaster but I don’t care.

And Dean’s got his guys. His brother is best man—”

“Jo.” I hold up my hand. “Can we back up to Rex walking down the aisle?”

“He’s wearing a bow tie. It’s going to be adorable.”

“It’s going to be chaos. Last week you brought me a sourdough starter and it exploded in my fridge. There was dough on the ceiling. Your judgment on what’s ‘adorable’ is questionable.”

“That means it was healthy,” Jo says without an ounce of remorse. “Anyway. Dean’s guys. His brother is best man—”

The bell chimes.

I look up automatically, and my customer service smile freezes on my face.

Dean walks in first—tall, broad, looking like he’d been dragged here at gunpoint. Which, knowing Jo, he probably was.

Behind him is another man. Baseball cap pulled low, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to disappear into the background of his own life.

He looks up.

Levi Beckett.

Or, as the rest of the world knows him, Levi Cole. Country music’s golden boy. Three platinum albums. A voice that fills stadiums and breaks hearts and has been on every radio station in America for the past five years.

But to me, he’s just Levi Beckett. Dean’s younger brother.

The boy who kissed me on the pier when I was seventeen, tasting like salt water taffy and summer and the kind of reckless hope that only exists when you’re too young to know better.

The man who broke my heart at twenty-seven—or maybe I broke his.

The truth is tangled up in between, knotted with my mother’s opinions and my own talent for running away from good things.

He writes songs that sound like they’re about me.

Because some of them are. I checked. More than once.

His third album has a song called “Petals” that made me cry in a Trader Joe’s parking lot in Charlotte.

I sat there with my groceries melting in the back seat, listening to a man I left sing about a woman who smelled like flowers and never stayed.

Our eyes meet.

The world stops. The cooler hums. A petal falls off a wilting peony on the display shelf. Outside, a seagull screams. And I stand there holding a notepad covered in flower sketches for his brother’s wedding, with my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Delilah.” My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer he’s been holding for years. Like a word he’s been turning over, wearing smooth, afraid to say out loud in case it breaks.

“Levi.” My voice comes out steady, which is a miracle, because my internal organs are staging a full rebellion. My stomach has dropped to my knees, my heart is in my throat, and my brain is cycling through every possible response and rejecting all of them.

The sunlight through the front windows catches the dust motes in the air, turning them gold, and for a second the whole shop feels suspended—like even the flowers are holding their breath.