Chapter 2
Levi
My mother taught me that soil has layers. The good stuff sits on top, dark and a little dangerous, but what matters is how it holds together underneath. Life’s a lot like that, too.
That’s what I’m thinking about while I sift through a fresh delivery of loam in Full Bloom’s back room. It’s rich and damp, practically begging to grow. I love the smell. Practical and honest, like a fresh start if nurtured.
“So,” comes a voice behind me, thick with sarcasm. “You sure this dirt isn’t your soulmate?”
I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Ezra. My soil supplier slash casual hookup slash reminder that comfortable isn’t always exciting. Safe, easy, ridiculously good-looking, with just enough tattoos to hint at a trouble that’s nonexistent. The human equivalent to vanilla ice cream.
Even though he owns the supply store, he insists on delivering himself. Once, when I asked why, he shrugged and said: “Some things are worth the drive.”
I didn’t press, but part of me wonders if I’m that thing and whether that’s supposed to make me feel special…or guilty.
We have an arrangement. Simple, no complications. Ezra’s like that. Easygoing, with a smile that could make you forget your name.
But lately it feels hollow. I toss a handful of dirt back into the bin. “It’s black gold, my guy. Show some respect.”
Ezra raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You say that every time I drop off a batch. At this point, I’m starting to wonder if you’re running a secret dirt cult in here.”
I roll my eyes, wiping my hands on my apron. “If I were, you’d be my high priest.”
Ezra laughs. “Hell yeah, I would. But, for real, what’s got you deep in thought back here? Everything okay?”
I hesitate. “It’s nothing,” But as I say it, my thoughts drift back to him. Hayden Harlow. My pulse spikes just recalling his scowl.
Ezra’s not buying it. “Bull. Spill.”
I sigh and glance over at him. There’s that look again. Half playful, half concerned, like he’s carefully navigating some invisible line, trying to decide whether or not to push further.
I give in. “Hayden Harlow came in yesterday. He had opinions about sunflowers.”
Ezra’s brows shoot up immediately. “Harlow? The funeral director? What’s he got against sunflowers?”
“You tell me,” I reply, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’d think I committed some kind of sin by sending sunflowers to the funeral home. He was…kind of intense about it.”
Ezra laughs softly, leaning comfortably against the counter. “Well, to be fair, intense seems to be that guy’s default setting. I swear, he’s been in town forever, and I still know nothing about him.”
“No one does,” I agree, flicking potting soil off my sleeve. “Some towns get myths, we get Hayden Harlow. He practically invented ‘mysterious loner.’ ”
Ezra snorts, nudging my shoulder playfully. “And here you are, pissing off the most intimidating man in Stonevale. Bravo.”
“Mmm. Thanks,” I deadpan. “Love that for me.”
Ezra heads toward the door but turns back. “You’re still coming to the happy hour, right? Or are you skipping to write poetry about tall men in suits who scowl for a living?”
Stonevale has more bake sales, mixers, and obligatory social gatherings than any town could possibly justify, and I’ve got less than forty-eight hours to summon my good-citizen grin before the next one.
I chuckle, but it’s hollow. “I’ll be there.”
Ezra shrugs, that mischievous glint in his eye. “You better. It’s the only place in town where the wine’s as free-flowing as the gossip.”
I laugh knowingly and wave him out.
Our town has a way of wrapping itself around your heart. Brick buildings, hand-painted signs, neighbors who wave and immediately text the group chat. Charming, picturesque, predictable…like Ezra.
Which is why I opened the shop right in the center of Main Street, a florist shop that’s as much community gathering spot as it is business.
Weddings, funerals, last-minute “please forgive me” bouquets, I see it all.
It’s not glamorous, but it feels important.
It feels like mine. Between that and the Stonevale community garden I’ve been dreaming about for years now finally inching toward reality, I like to think I’m doing my part to keep our sleepy New Jersey town thriving.
Most nights I’m buried in grant applications and plot sketches long after the shop closes. Half my kitchen table is a war zone of sticky notes and to-do lists.
The problem? Some days it’s a lot. The shop, the greenhouse, the planning meetings and endless paperwork.
I love every piece of it, but there are mornings I wonder if I’m piling too many bricks onto my own shoulders, daring myself to see how much I can carry before I start to crack.
The work is comforting, though. My phone buzzes with a text from my mom: Saw this article about “The Healing Power of Ritual.” Thought of you.
Three heart emojis, like that makes it lighter.
I stare at it a moment too long before pocketing the phone.
I can’t bring myself to reply. Not right now.
Because if rituals worked, things might be different.
I pull out my notebook, trying to shake off the feeling. Flowers are easier. Predictable in their unpredictability. Water, light, growth. Done. People don’t work that way.
Take Hayden Harlow, for example.
Everyone in our small little town knows of him. The funeral director who keeps to himself and never shows up at community events. I’d heard whispers for years but never actually met him until now.
His blunt voice cuts through my mind, like it’s still hanging in the air, sharp and lingering.
The way he carries himself, all rigid formality, as if the world owes him something.
I glance down at my dirt-covered chinos and worn boots, the contrast between us suddenly feeling glaring. He and I couldn’t be more different.
But there’s something else. Something underneath the surface. I don’t know why I care, why it even matters. I’ve met enough men with walls as high as his and learned the hard way not to waste my time trying to climb them. And the look he gave me when he left the shop?
It was like I’d touched a nerve. Which is why the next morning I slip out of the shop with a single lily tucked under my arm, the funeral home looming ahead.
As I approach the front door, I hover for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest as if I’m about to confess some great sin.
I glance around the empty building before slipping inside, my footsteps muffled against the polished floors, and make my way toward what I assume is Hayden Harlow’s office.
There, on his desk, I gently place the lily, its pastel petals striking against the dark wood.
The note follows. I slip it in next to the flower, pressing it there as if I’m making some kind of offering.
Small. Maybe insignificant. Still necessary. Like laying a flower on a grave or flipping a penny for whoever comes next. I step back, leaving the office as quietly as I came, and as I walk back to the store, I feel lighter.
Maybe it’s because I’ve done something to balance the scales. Or maybe it’s imagining Hayden’s face when he finds the flower. A flicker of surprise.
Something that might even make him come back.
· · ·
If you’d told me I’d spend the day obsessing over a funeral director with the emotional range of a cinder block, I would have laughed.
Yet here I am, elbows deep in compost, replaying every terse word Hayden Harlow has grumbled.
At the grocery store I stare blankly at the spice jars; at the hardware store I somehow buy twice as many pots as I need.
It isn’t a crush. God no. Crushes are soft, morning glories up a trellis. This is a weed through concrete. Stubborn. Loud. Unkillable.
By the time I sit down to dinner with Dominic and Elijah, I’m desperate for a distraction.
But unfortunately for me, my poker face needs work.
“You’re suspiciously quiet tonight,” Dominic says as he swirls his wine.
Thick eyebrows frame eyes that have perfected the art of looking both amused and unimpressed.
Today he’s wearing another one of his flawlessly tailored sweaters, this one patterned just enough to signal his disdain for the ordinary.
It’s a skill, really, and he’d be the first to tell you.
Dominic Hart’s been my best friend since childhood.
Back when he ran our high school yearbook committee like his personal gossip column and dressed like he was too good for this town.
Now he’s Stonevale’s top real estate agent.
Granted, he might be Stonevale’s only real estate agent, but the distinction matters deeply to him.
With a mere three-day age difference, we’ve shared everything.
Secrets, first crushes, awful hairstyles.
Oh my god, the awful hairstyles. And when he married Elijah, it felt like Elijah had always been part of our messy chosen family, sliding into place like the puzzle piece we didn’t know was missing.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, poking at my pasta, hoping neither of them will press the subject.
Elijah, older by a decade and effortlessly polished, leans forward, his sleeves rolled haphazardly up his forearms. His beard is neatly trimmed, and a touch of silver at his temples accentuates how unfairly well he’s aging. He watches me closely over his martini.
“You’re fine?” He lifts an eyebrow he’s weaponized over a career teaching at Stonevale College. “Sweetheart, you’ve asked me how my day was four times already. That’s not fine. That’s…concerning.”
“Maybe I just genuinely care about your life, okay?” I shoot back. “Wild concept.”
Dominic snorts. Elijah tilts his head. “Oh, honey, you really don’t.”
“Fine,” I relent, leaning back in my chair, feeling the tension settle deep in my shoulders.
“It’s nothing major, but a guy came…”
Elijah interrupts, gasping dramatically and gripping Dominic’s arm for support. “Oh. My. God. Levi Wilder has met a man? Hold my tenure.”
“Can you keep it down?” I hiss, but I can already feel my face heating up. “Some guy came into the shop the other day to yell at me about sending sunflowers for a funeral.”
Dominic’s eyes narrow in amused disbelief. “Levi Wilder, florist and scandal maker. Sunflowers at a funeral? Please tell me you didn’t.”
“It was a small amendment to an order, dick!” I protest. “And it was a damn good one. Who looks at sunflowers and thinks, Ugh, joy? Psychopaths, that’s who.”
“For a funeral?” Dominic interrupts again, his tone unconvinced. “Clearly, Mr. Grumpy didn’t appreciate your brand of vitamin D.”
I groan, throwing my head back in exasperation. “Why does everyone have such a fucking hang-up with sunflowers? I already got the same lecture from him.”
Dominic chuckles softly. “Does Mr. Grumpy have a government name, or are we workshopping?”
“Hayden Harlow,” I admit grudgingly.
Elijah’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Hayden Harlow? The funeral director?”
Dominic blinks. “Stonevale’s recluse? Thought he was more of a local myth. Like Bigfoot, but with better posture.”
Hayden does have that whole tortured poet thing going on.
“Oh, he’s very much real,” I confirm, dragging a hand down my face.
Elijah grins. “Most people call him Stonevale’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”
“Most people?” Dominic cuts in. “Or just you?”
“Exactly.” I nod in agreement. “Does he come with a warning label?”
“Both of you, hush. Levi’s out here getting sunflower lectures from a town legend. I need details.”
“He’s…tall. And serious. Painfully serious. The kind of guy who survives exclusively on espresso and existential dread.”
Dominic nods sagely. “So, your exact type, then?”
“Exactly his type,” Elijah echoes.
I groan loudly. “He’s not my type. He’s moody, difficult, and scowls all the time.”
“Moody, difficult, and scowly?” Dominic smirks. “Oh, babe, that is your type.”
Elijah taps the table knowingly. “Levi, you’re blushing like a baby gay at his first Pride.”
“I am not—”
“You absolutely are,” Elijah cuts in gleefully. “Dominic, our dear Levi has a proper grumpy crush. I give it a week before he’s picking out pet names and joint dental insurance.”
Dominic laughs loudly. “Two days, tops.”
I bury my face briefly in my hands. “You’re both assholes.”
Dominic leans back smugly. “Let me guess. You left him apology flowers, didn’t you?”
My eyes widen. “How do you…?”
Dominic sighs dramatically. “Levi, please. You have, like, three moves total, and flower-based apologies are easily your favorite.”
“That, or strategic sexual diplomacy,” Elijah adds helpfully.
“Oh my god,” I groan, burying my face in my hands. “We’re definitely circling back to this running list of my moves you’re keeping.”
Elijah grins, leaning in conspiratorially. “It’s actually more of a spreadsheet at this point. Very thorough.”
Dominic nods solemnly. “Color coded and everything.”
I groan again, louder this time. “Please, for the love of all things holy, let’s change the subject.”
Dominic shrugs dramatically. “Fine, but I’m coming to happy hour tomorrow. You’ll need emotional support when Mr. Existential Crisis inevitably shows up.”
Elijah sighs dramatically. “I can’t believe I’m missing this for a work seminar. Academia hates me.”
“Rain check on the chaos?” I ask, smiling weakly.
“Always,” Elijah promises, raising his glass.
Dominic lifts his own in agreement. “To Levi’s questionable romantic choices. May they forever entertain us.”
“Fuck you both,” I say warmly, clinking glasses.
“Oh, honey,” Dominic purrs, patting my hand sympathetically. “We’ve been there, tried that…you know exactly how it went.”
Elijah sips his wine. “Ah yes, the infamous night two bottoms realized they have absolutely no idea what to do with each other.”
Dominic gasps, clearly offended. “Excuse me, I am versatile.”
His husband gives him a pitying look. “Sure you are, sweetie. And I’m still a twink.”
We burst out laughing, the kind of full-body, chest-aching laughter that only comes from a lifetime of shared embarrassment and closeness.
It hits me how deeply I love these two. How completely lost I’d be without their unwavering support.
Family isn’t always who raised you. Sometimes it’s who heckles you over pasta and wine until you can’t breathe.
Maybe tomorrow’s happy hour will help me forget Hayden.
Or…it’ll just make things worse.