9. Sadie #2
“I’ll be in touch about next week’s pickup,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that suggests he’s planning much more than just flower arrangements.
“Morning, Tessa.”
“Sadie, thank goodness I caught you early. We need to discuss the Harvest Festival immediately. Can you come by my office? There’s been a development.”
Something in her voice cuts through the lingering arousal from this morning’s alpha encounter. “What kind of development?”
“The kind that changes everything. How soon can you get here?”
I look around my shop, suddenly feeling like the morning’s romantic complications were just a warm-up for whatever’s coming. “Twenty minutes?”
“Perfect. Bring your portfolio. The comprehensive one.”
She hangs up and I’m staring at my phone, my earlier confidence evaporating like morning mist.
Tessa never calls for emergency meetings unless something major is happening. And she never asks for the comprehensive portfolio unless the stakes just got significantly higher.
Twenty minutes later I’m sitting in her office, surrounded by official-looking paperwork and trying not to panic while she organizes her thoughts.
“The state tourism board is sending a representative to evaluate our festival,” she says without preamble, watching my face carefully.
My stomach plummets. “The state what?”
“For potential inclusion in their official Montana tourism marketing campaign. And that’s not all.
” She spreads out correspondence across her desk.
“Mountain Living magazine wants to feature us in a story about authentic small-town festivals. They specifically mentioned showcasing local artisans who represent genuine Montana community values.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. State tourism board. National magazine. This isn’t the cute community festival where I usually do some seasonal arrangements and call it good.
“Tessa, I can’t. This is way beyond what I planned for.”
“Your work is what caught their attention,” she continues, showing me photos from last year. “They called it ‘authentically artistic’ and ‘representative of Montana’s creative spirit.’ The tourism board specifically requested more information about our floral designer.”
I stare at the pictures, and last year’s displays suddenly look amateur compared to what they’re probably expecting now.
“What exactly are they looking for?”
“Complete autumn transformation. Festival grounds, main street displays, centerpieces for every vendor booth, plus a signature installation that will be the centerpiece of the magazine feature.” She pauses. “Preliminary estimate is about three times your usual scope.”
Three times. With my current bank account, supply delays, and lapsed insurance, I’m not sure I could handle last year’s workload, let alone triple it.
“When do they need confirmation?”
“Tomorrow. The magazine photographer wants to schedule the shoot for next week to ensure perfect lighting conditions.”
I feel like I’m drowning. This is every small business owner’s dream scenario—the kind of exposure that could establish my reputation permanently and bring lasting economic benefits to the entire community.
It’s also completely beyond my current capabilities, and I have less than twenty-four hours to decide.
“The committee authorized triple the original floral budget,” Tessa adds, mentioning a figure that makes my head spin.
Enough to solve my immediate financial problems and fund everything they’re requesting. Also enough to destroy me completely if something goes wrong and I can’t deliver.
“What happens if I can’t pull this off?”
Her expression grows serious. “Honestly? The tourism board will look elsewhere for their campaign. The magazine will feature a different town. And Honeyridge Falls will miss an opportunity that might not come again in our lifetimes.”
The weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders like a boulder. This isn’t just about my business anymore. It’s about River’s hardware store, Millie’s diner, every family business trying to survive in this small mountain community.
Every person who’s ever chosen to build their life here instead of moving to a bigger city with more opportunities.
All of it potentially riding on my ability to create something spectacular enough for state tourism campaigns and national magazine features.
“I need some time to think about this,” I say, though we both know the decision was probably made the moment she explained what was at stake.
“Of course. But Sadie?” Her voice is gentle but urgent. “We need your answer by tomorrow morning. The tourism representative arrives next week for the preliminary assessment.”
I walk back to my shop feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck, my mind spinning through logistics and possibilities and the overwhelming scope of what I’ve just been asked to undertake.
This morning started with waking up slick and desperate from memories of Levi’s mouth on mine, then navigating the territorial dance of two alphas in my space.
Now I’m facing the most important professional challenge of my life, with my entire community’s economic future potentially hanging in the balance.
As I flip my sign to “Open” and try to process everything that just happened, one thing becomes crystal clear.
If I’m going to take this on, I’m going to need more help than I’ve ever been willing to ask for.
And for the first time in three years of stubbornly proving my independence, that doesn’t terrify me.
It feels like maybe I’m finally ready to trust that the people who care about me—especially the alphas who seem determined to take care of me—might actually want to help me build something bigger than any of us could manage alone.