Knot in Bloom (Honeyridge Falls #2)

1. Sadie

Sadie

T he dripping starts at five AM. Which is either terrible timing or exactly what I deserve for ignoring that water stain for three months.

I lie in bed telling myself it’s just the bathroom faucet. Please, just the bathroom faucet. But the sound gets louder and…

Not dripping anymore. Rushing, cascading water that makes my stomach drop.

That’s coming from downstairs. From my shop.

No, no, no.

I bolt upright. Scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the covers. My bare feet hit the cold floor and I’m running. Taking the stairs two at a time in my oversized sleep shirt. Heart hammering.

The smell hits me before I even reach the bottom step. Not my usual morning blend of fall flowers and earthy chrysanthemums. Wet carpet. Soggy wood. The unmistakable stench of disaster.

I flip on the lights and freeze.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Water pours through the ceiling right over my expensive fall display.

The rehearsal dinner centerpieces I finished at midnight for Thursday’s Kerr event float like sad lily pads.

Seven elegant arrangements drift around in a very expensive parade.

The golden chrysanthemums I arranged yesterday look like tiny suns in a very sad solar system.

I slosh to the utility closet. Turn off the main valve. The rushing dies to a trickle, then stops.

But the damage is done.

My hands shake as I wade through ankle-deep water. My hardwood floors are warped and buckled. My vintage display case sits in standing water, brass already tarnishing.

Water has seeped into everything. The wooden shelves where I store ribbon and wire are swollen and splitting.

My computer sits on the counter, thank God, but water drips steadily from the ceiling onto my order book.

The carefully written notes for Thursday’s rehearsal dinner, the Walker anniversary party, Mrs. Woodbury’s weekly standing order.

All of it bleeding into illegible smears.

The sunflowers have given up entirely. Heads drooping toward the water like they’re bowing in defeat. Marigolds drift past my feet like orange life preservers.

I try moving the surviving arrangements to higher ground, but there isn’t much.

The back counter, a few upper shelves. Everything else is either soaked or sitting in water.

I grab my phone to call... who? My insurance lapsed last month.

The emergency restoration services I find online want $200 just to come assess the damage.

My savings account has $347 in it.After I replace the rehearsal dinner flowers, I’ll still be two months behind on my mortgage payment.Not enough for emergency repairs. Not enough for new flowers. Not enough for anything but the sick feeling that I’m about to lose everything I’ve worked for.

I sink down into the cold water, letting it soak through my pajama pants. My scent spikes with stress—sharp honeysuckle turning bitter, vanilla curdling. I take a shaky breath, trying to calm down before the whole building reeks of panicked omega.

Three years of proving I could do this. That omegas could run businesses just as well as alphas or betas. That I didn’t need anyone taking care of me or making decisions for me.

All of it washing away with the morning light.

My phone rings from upstairs.

Perfect.

I wade back to grab the cordless. Check the caller ID.Sarah Kerr. The bride.

My stomach sinks.

“Sadie! I’m so sorry to call this early. I couldn’t sleep. I’m so nervous about Thursday’s rehearsal dinner!” Way too cheerful for five-thirty AM. “The centerpieces are still on track for delivery by six PM, right?”

I watchthe rehearsal dinner centerpiecesdoing the backstroke. “Absolutely. Right on track.”

“I can’t believe the wedding is this weekend!

But first we have to get through Thursday’s dinner with both families.

The centerpieces you designed are going to be perfect—elegant but not too formal.

My future mother-in-law specifically said she hoped they wouldn’t be ‘fussy.’ These are going to be exactly what we need. ”

Right.The most important family gathering before the big day.Currently doing laps around my shop.

“I know I’m being crazy, but the restaurant just confirmed they can accommodateone more table.Tom’s college friends decided they can make it after all—four more people!Could we possibly add one more centerpiecefor their table?”

A rehearsal dinner centerpieceattempts to swim out the door. “Of course.One more centerpiece. No problem.”

“You’re absolutely saving my life, Sadie. This dinner means everything to us—it’s when both families finally meet properly. I knew from the moment I walked into your shop that you understood exactly what I wanted. What would I do without you?”

Good question.Probably panic and order grocery store bouquets like a sensible person.

After I hang up, I sit on the only dry spot left. Fight back tears that would only make my scent worse. Three years running this place, proving that an omega could handle a business just fine without any alphas swooping in to “help.”

Now I’m about to ruin the most important family gathering before the wedding because I was too stubborn to fix a leak. Too proud to admit I might actually need someone.

That’s when I see Maeve Bennett’s face in my window. Silver hair catching the early light. She’s holding a thermos. Wearing the concerned expression of someone who’s raised kids and knows disaster when she sees it.

She pushes through the door without waiting for permission. “Oh honey, what happened here?”

“Roof leak.” I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “Everything’s ruined.”

Maeve surveys the destruction with the practical eye of someone who’s weathered plenty of storms. Rolls up her sleeves like she’s preparing for war. “Well then. We’d better get to work.”

“I’ve got it handled.” Obviously a lie since I’m still in pajamas sitting in ankle-deep water.

She gives me that look. The one she probably perfected on teenagers. “Sadie Quinn, you look about as handled as a cat in a rainstorm.”

The thermos turns out to be coffee. Real coffee, not the instant stuff I’ve been drinking to save money. She presses it into my hands and the warmth spreads through my fingers. The maternal comfort she radiates makes my omega side want to curl up and let someone else handle everything.

“Now,” she says, wading into the water without hesitation. “Tell me aboutthe rehearsal dinner arrangements.”

“Eight centerpieces by Thursday at six PM.”

“Mm-hmm.” She starts gathering floating flowers with surprising efficiency. “And where were you planning to get replacement flowers?”

“I... hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

Maeve nods like this is perfectly reasonable. “My old friend’s son runs the wholesale flower market in Springfield. Good boy, if a little too fond of his cologne. I’ll give him a call.”

“Maeve, I can’t afford?—”

“Can’t afford to ruin a rehearsal dinner either.”She interrupts gently. “Sometimes asking for help isn’t admitting failure, dear. Sometimes it’s just admitting you’re human. Omega, alpha, beta, doesn’t matter. We all need people sometimes.”

She studies my face with those sharp blue eyes. “You know, when I first opened the bakery thirty years ago, I had a grease fire that took out half my kitchen three days before Christmas. Wanted to throw in the towel right then and there.”

“What did you do?”

“Asked for help.” She says it like it’s obvious. “Turned out half the town had been waiting for an excuse to pitch in. People like helping, Sadie. Especially when it’s someone who’s been helping them for years.”

She leaves with promises to call her friend’s son and round up volunteers. I sit in the growing daylight and take inventory. The vintage cash register still works. The cooler in back is on higher ground. Whatever flowers are in there might have survived.

It’s like a flower bed after a storm. Messy on the surface, but the roots are still strong.

I’ve survived worse than this. Like opening this shop when everyone said I was crazy to think an omega could handle the stress of running a business. Like my first year when I nearly went under twice. Like the time I accidentally ordered five hundred white roses instead of fifty.

I can figure this out.

But first, I need to get out of these wet pajamas and find a mop. And maybe call that plumber’s number that’s been stuck to my refrigerator for six months.

Outside, the sun is starting to rise over the mountains. Same colors as the marigolds currently doing laps around my shop floor. There’s something almost poetic about it, in a disaster-movie sort of way.

Through the front window, I catch movement across the street. Someone walking by with what looks like a coffee cup. Slowing down as they notice the chaos inside.

The scent hits me even through the glass. Leather, cedar, and something expensive. Sophisticated and polished, completely out of place in this small mountain town. My omega instincts recognize it before my brain does, making me want to straighten my pajamas and pretend I have my life together.

For a moment, our eyes meet through the glass.

Dark hair perfectly styled, sharp jawline, intense green eyes that seem to catalog everything they see.

He’s wearing a tailored jacket that probably costs more than what I pay for rent.

He takes a half-step toward my shop like he’s thinking about coming over to help.

Then he seems to catch himself and moves on, and I’m left wondering if I imagined the way his scent affected me. Or why a man who clearly belongs in boardrooms would be walking around Honeyridge Falls at dawn.

I shake my head. Now is not the time for mysterious strangers and whatever that was.

The clock on the wall reads six AM now.I have exactly forty-eight hours to replace the rehearsal dinner centerpieces, get fresh flowers for the weekend wedding, and somehow prove that Meadow’s End Florist doesn’t ruin the most important family gatherings of people’s lives.

Time to get to work.