Chapter 7 #2
I look up too, expecting another customer.
It’s Levi.
He’s carrying a baseball cap in his hands—the universal gesture of a man who knows he’s entering uncertain territory. His eyes find mine first, then drop to Ruffy, who has risen from his spot and is standing at full attention. Ears forward. Still. Seventy pounds of quiet assessment.
“Hey,” Levi says.
“Hey,” I say back.
My voice comes out normal, which is a miracle, because the rest of me is doing that thing again—the thing where every nerve ending wakes up and starts paying attention, like my body has its own memory of him that my brain hasn’t agreed to.
“You got a dog,” Levi observes.
“Yup.”
“He’s, uh...” Levi takes in Ruffy’s watchful stance, the unblinking eyes, the floof that somehow makes him look both cuddly and regal. “Big.”
“His name is Ruffy.”
“Ruffy.” Levi tries a friendly smile in Ruffy’s direction. “Hey, buddy.”
Ruffy stares at him with the focused intensity of a dog who is deciding things. Not hostile—just thorough. Like he’s reading Levi’s entire history through scent and body language and whatever other frequencies dogs operate on that humans can’t access.
A small, petty part of me enjoys watching Levi Cole—three platinum albums, sold-out arenas—get evaluated by a seventy-pound rescue dog with trust issues.
“He doesn’t warm up to strangers,” I say. “He’s particular about people.”
“I’m getting that.” Levi stays by the door, hands in his pockets. “Does he...want me to leave?”
“He wants to figure you out first. Give him a second.”
Levi holds still while Ruffy considers him. After a long moment, Ruffy apparently reaches a verdict: not a threat, not interesting. He sits back down at my feet and looks away, which in Ruffy language is the highest compliment a stranger can earn. You may exist in my space. For now.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I need flowers.”
“You need flowers.”
“For Jo. A thank-you. For...” He waves vaguely. “Everything.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, and we both know it. Jo doesn’t need thank-you flowers from her future brother-in-law. But I’m not going to call him on it, because the truth is—
I’m glad he’s here.
That thought is terrifying, so I shove it down and focus on the flowers.
“What does Jo like?”
“Things that are...colorful?” Levi ventures. “She’s got a lot of colors at her house. Painted furniture and stuff.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m not great at this.”
“I noticed.” I move toward the cooler, and Ruffy pads along beside me—not guarding, just staying close, the way he does. My shadow with fur. “You can come in, you know. He’s decided you’re acceptable.”
“Acceptable. High praise from Ruffy.”
I pull together an arrangement—bright gerbera daisies, some orange roses, purple statice for texture.
Cheerful and chaotic, like Jo herself. My hands know what to do even when the rest of me doesn’t, and I’m grateful for that.
For the muscle memory of stems and scissors and ribbon, the familiar rhythm that keeps me anchored when everything else feels unsteady.
Because Levi is watching me work. I can feel it the way you feel sunlight on the back of your neck—warm, constant, impossible to ignore.
He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, and I don’t have to look up to know his eyes are tracking my hands as I trim stems and tuck blooms into place.
This is what he used to do when we were young. Sit on the counter in Mom’s shop and watch me arrange flowers for hours, chin in his hand, that lazy half-smile on his face. He said once that watching me work was like watching someone speak a language he didn’t know but wanted to learn.
I am not thinking about that. I am thinking about gerbera daisies and proper stem angles and absolutely nothing else.
“So,” Levi says. “When did you get him?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday? And you already brought him to work?”
“I couldn’t leave him home alone. He just got adopted. That would be cruel.”
“So instead you brought your brand-new rescue dog to a public-facing business.”
“He’s doing great. He’s ignored every single customer so far. Very professional.”
“Very professional,” Levi repeats, glancing at Ruffy, who is in fact ignoring him completely now in favor of watching a fly near the window. “What a work ethic.”
I finish the arrangement and bring it to the counter. Ruffy follows, settles at my feet.
“Twenty-seven fifty,” I say.
Levi approaches. Ruffy doesn’t react—he’s moved on from his earlier assessment. Levi pulls out his wallet and puts cash on the counter.
“Keep the change,” he says.
I almost laugh. Almost. Because Levi Beckett, who once jumped off the pier at midnight on a dare, who drove his truck through a thunderstorm to bring me soup when I had the flu, who built his entire career on being fearless in front of thousands of strangers—this man just tiptoed past a dog who’s already forgotten he exists.
Something about that softens me more than it should.
“He’s really not scary. He’s just had a hard life. People kept giving up on him.”
Something shifts in Levi’s expression. The humor drains out, replaced by something quieter. Something that recognizes itself in what I just said.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know how that feels.”
The words hang in the air between us. And I’m standing behind my counter with my hands full of ribbon scraps, thinking about how Levi and Ruffy are more alike than either of them would appreciate—guarded, particular, waiting for someone who won’t leave.
“How’s the writing?” I ask, because I don’t know what else to say.
“Slow. But...better.” He picks up the flowers, cradling them carefully. “I wrote something yesterday. First time in months.”
“That’s great, Levi.”
“It’s probably garbage.”
“Most first drafts are. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth something.”
He looks at me then—really looks at me—and for a moment, I’m seventeen again, standing on the pier in the moonlight, feeling like maybe this boy could see all the way through me. Like he could read every thought I’ve ever had and still choose to stay.
Except he’s not a boy anymore. And I’m the one who didn’t stay.
“Thanks,” he says. “For the flowers. And the...conversation.”
“Anytime.”
He heads for the door, then pauses. Looks back.
“For what it’s worth,” Levi says, “I think Ruffy’s lucky. To be chosen by someone who understands that trust takes time.”
Then he’s gone, the bell chiming behind him.
I stare at the door for longer than I should. The shop settles back into its quiet rhythms—the cooler humming, a car passing outside, Ruffy’s nails clicking on the floor as he returns to his post.
To be chosen by someone who understands that trust takes time.
He wasn’t talking about the dog.
Ruffy nudges my hand with his nose, demanding attention.
“I know,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “I know. It’s complicated.”
He huffs.
“Don’t give me that. You just met him. You don’t get to have opinions yet.”
Another huff, more pointed this time.
“Fine. You can have opinions. But I’m not required to listen to them.”
Ruffy sighs heavily, as if the burden of watching out for me is already exhausting.
“Welcome to your new life,” I tell him. “It’s a mess. But it’s ours.”
He settles back into his spot behind the counter, chin on paws, eyes on the door.
Waiting. Watching.
Just in case that man with the flowers decides to come back.
That night, I’m on the couch with Ruffy sprawled across my feet—all seventy pounds of him—when my phone buzzes.
The Bookaholics Anonymous group chat. Of course.
Jo: Ladies. I just got the most beautiful flowers from Levi. He said Delilah made them. They’re gorgeous.
Michelle: Levi went to the flower shop?
Amber: Interesting timing since he literally never buys flowers.
Jessica: Scott mentioned Levi seemed “different” after their talk. More open.
Hazel: Different how?
Jessica: He used the word “hopeful.” Which for Levi is basically a marriage proposal.
Jo: Wait. Did he go to see Delilah specifically?? Using flowers as an excuse???
Amber: The man’s a songwriter. He’s supposed to be romantic. Flowers as a cover story is pretty basic.
Jo: Delilah. We know you’re reading this. Spill.
I stare at my phone. Ruffy lifts his head, interested in my elevated heart rate.
Me: He bought flowers. For you. That’s literally all that happened.
Jo: But how did he seem?
Amber: Did he say anything meaningful?
Hazel: Did the air feel charged?
Jessica: Ignore them. But also...did it?
I think about Levi at the counter. The way he looked at me when I said first drafts are worth something. The way he said Ruffy was lucky to be chosen by someone who understands that trust takes time.
Me: He met my new dog.
Jo: You got a dog???
Amber: Priorities, people. Dog first. Then romance.
Hazel: What kind of dog??
Me: German Shepherd/Chow mix. His name is Ruffy. He’s perfect and he ignores everyone except me.
Jo: Did he ignore Levi??
Me: He gave Levi a very thorough stare-down. Then decided he wasn’t interesting enough to worry about.
Jo: Competition for her affection. I can’t breathe.
Hazel: Jo, breathe.
Michelle: Can I say something that might not be popular?
The chat goes quiet for a beat. Three dots from Michelle.
Michelle: I like Levi. I do. He’s been nothing but kind since he got here.
But he’s leaving in a couple months. He has a whole life in LA.
And Delilah just got settled. She’s building something real here for the first time in years.
I just don’t want to watch her get swept up in something that has an expiration date.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Jo: Michelle...
Michelle: I’m not saying don’t be happy. I’m saying be careful.
Amber: She’ has a point.
Jessica: She really does.
Jo: Fine. But also, have you SEEN the way he looks at her?
Michelle: I have. That’s what worries me.
My phone keeps buzzing, but I set it down. Ruffy resettles his head on my ankle, sighing contentedly.
“They’re ridiculous,” I tell him.
But Michelle’s words sit differently than the teasing. Because she’s not wrong. Levi is leaving. He said it himself—a couple months, then he’s gone. And I’ve already let him take up more space in my head than is safe for a man with a return ticket.
Outside, the neighborhood is settling into evening. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The porch light next door flickering on. The ordinary sounds of a place where people come home to each other.
Levi looked at me today like he used to. Like I was something precious. Something worth waiting for.
I’m not sure I deserve that look anymore. And I’m not sure I can survive earning it only to watch him leave.
But for the first time in a long time, I think I might want to try.
Ruffy’s tail thumps once against the couch cushion.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time to stop running.”
He thumps his tail again, as if to say: Obviously. I’ve been saying this all along.
I fall asleep on the couch with my dog at my feet and something that feels suspiciously like hope blooming in my chest.
Even if hope has an expiration date too.