13. Sadie
Sadie
D awn is breaking over the mountains when I finally admit defeat with the third centerpiece. I’ve been at this for two hours already, and nothing is working.
The magazine photographer arrives at nine. Four hours to create three centerpieces plus one signature installation, all perfect enough for national publication. Four hours to either establish my reputation or destroy it completely.
And I’m failing spectacularly.
The focal arrangement looks lopsided no matter how I adjust it.
The color balance is off in ways I can’t quite identify but definitely can’t ignore.
Every time I step back to assess, something else jumps out as wrong.
Too heavy on the left. Uneven height distribution.
Clashing undertones that shouldn’t clash but somehow do.
My hands shake as I reach for another stem. The pressure of creating something magazine-worthy is unlike anything I’ve faced before. Even with all the help I’ve been getting, the final execution still comes down to me.
The bell chimes.
“We’re closed,” I call without looking up, my voice strained with barely controlled panic.
“It’s me.”
Levi’s voice cuts through my spiral. I turn to find him standing in the doorway with two coffee cups, concern creasing his features.
“Saw your lights on from across the street,” he explains, stepping inside. “Figured you’d be here early, working yourself into a panic.”
I probably look as frazzled as I feel. Hair escaping from yesterday’s ponytail, yesterday’s clothes because I never made it upstairs last night, dark circles under my eyes from stress and caffeine and approximately three hours of restless sleep.
“Sadie.” His voice carries the same tone he uses when recommending books to customers who’ve lost themselves in the wrong genre. Patient but determined to guide them somewhere better. “When did you last eat?”
“I don’t remember.” The admission comes out smaller than I intended.
He sets the coffee cups on my counter and moves toward me with deliberate calm. “What’s not working?”
“Everything.” I gesture helplessly at the arrangements scattered across my work space.
“The photographer gets here in four hours, and I can’t make any of this look like it belongs in a magazine.
The colors are wrong, the proportions are off, and I’m missing half the blooms I need because the supplier truck broke down yesterday. ”
My scent spikes with stress—bitter honeysuckle, vanilla turning sharp—and I see Levi’s expression shift. Protective instincts kicking in.
“Show me what you’re trying to achieve.”
I walk him through my vision. Autumn elegance that speaks to Montana’s natural beauty without looking rustic or amateur. Sophisticated enough for national publication but authentic enough to represent genuine small-town artistry.
“The bones are right,” he says after studying my half-finished pieces. “But you’re overthinking the details.”
“I can’t afford to get details wrong. This isn’t Mrs. Woodbury’s weekly arrangement. This is?—”
“This is you doing what you’ve always done, just with higher stakes.” His hands settle on my shoulders, steadying. “You create beauty from chaos, Sadie. That’s your gift.”
The simple certainty in his voice cuts through some of my panic. But not enough.
“I’m still short on key blooms. The burgundy dahlias, the bronze chrysanthemums that tie everything together. Without those?—”
The bell chimes again. Then again.
Caleb and Reid arrive almost simultaneously, both moving with purpose like they’ve been coordinating this rescue mission. Which, knowing small towns, they probably have. Levi must have texted them while I was wrestling with color balance.
“Supply shortage?” Caleb asks, taking in my disaster zone with military efficiency.
“Truck breakdown,” I confirm. “The burgundy dahlias, bronze chrysanthemums—everything that ties the pieces together.”
Reid checks his watch. “Pine Valley wholesaler opens in thirty minutes. What exactly do you need?”
I rattle off specific varieties and quantities, watching Caleb take notes with the same focused attention he brought to fixing my roof.
“I can be there and back before eight-thirty if I leave now,” Caleb says, already reaching for his keys.
“My car’s more reliable,” Reid offers immediately. “And I can cover costs if they need cash up front.”
“I can pay for my own?—”
“Emergency flower runs sometimes require deposits,” Reid explains practically. “I have liquid funds available immediately.”
I watch these two men—who barely know each other—coordinate my rescue mission with surprising efficiency. Not because they’re naturally compatible, but because they’re both focused entirely on solving my problem.
“Go,” Levi says when I hesitate. “I’ll stay here and help with arrangements.”
“But you don’t know anything about?—”
“I know how to follow directions and hold things steady while you work.” His smile is warm and reassuring. “Let me help the way I know how while they handle what they do best.”
Twenty minutes later, Caleb and Reid are gone, leaving me alone with Levi and a disaster that suddenly feels manageable.
“Okay,” Levi says, rolling up his sleeves. “Where do we start?”
For the next hour, I work while he assists with the focused attention he brings to everything—holding stems while I adjust angles, fetching supplies before I ask, offering quiet encouragement when I start spiraling into self-doubt.
“This focal piece,” he says, studying the arrangement I’ve been fighting with since dawn. “What if you moved this branch here? Create asymmetrical balance instead of forcing symmetry?”
I make the adjustment and everything clicks into place. Suddenly the piece looks intentional rather than struggling. Elegant in its imperfection.
“How did you see that?” I ask, staring at the transformation.
“Sometimes you need fresh eyes. Someone who sees the forest instead of individual trees.” He hands me another stem. “You were so focused on making each element perfect that you lost sight of the overall composition.”
As we work, I become aware of how comfortable this feels. His quiet presence grounding my creative energy instead of distracting from it. The way his scent—cedar and rain and books—wraps around me like a safety blanket, making everything feel possible again.
I forgot to take my suppressant yesterday.
Too stressed about the photo shoot to stick to my usual routine.
Being this close to Levi, breathing in his comforting alpha warmth, my body responds more strongly than it should.
Pulse quickening, skin warming, that telltale slick gathering between my thighs.
The realization hits me suddenly—I’m about to spend hours with three alphas while my suppressants are wearing off. My scent will broadcast every reaction, every flutter of attraction. But looking at Levi’s focused attention as he helps me work, I can’t bring myself to care about the vulnerability.
If he notices my body’s response, he doesn’t mention it.
Just continues helping with gentle competence, occasionally brushing against me when we both reach for the same tool.
Each brief contact sends warmth racing through me, making concentration more difficult but somehow also easier.
Like his presence gives me permission to trust my instincts instead of overthinking every decision.
“Tell me about the vision again,” he says as I work on the second centerpiece. “Not the technical details. The feeling you want people to have when they see these.”
I pause, considering. “Home. I want them to see autumn in Montana and think ‘this is where I want to be.’ Not because it’s perfect or polished, but because it’s real. Because it represents a place where beauty grows naturally from the landscape and the people who care for it.”
“Then stop trying to make them look like magazine photos,” Levi says gently. “Make them look like Honeyridge Falls in October.”
The advice hits like revelation. I’ve been trying to create what I thought a national magazine would want instead of showcasing what makes this place special. The authentic beauty that drew the photographer’s attention in the first place.
With that perspective shift, the arrangements begin flowing together. Each piece distinct but cohesive, sophisticated but unmistakably rooted in this place and this community.
By eight-forty-five, Caleb and Reid return with boxes of perfect blooms, arriving with barely twenty minutes to spare before the photographer.
“Traffic was murder coming back,” Caleb explains, setting down supplies with slightly less composure than usual.
“But we got everything,” Reid adds, checking his watch with the same concern I feel.
“You look different,” Caleb observes, studying my face. “Less panicked.”
“Levi helped me remember what I was trying to say,” I explain, accepting the burgundy dahlias like precious gifts.
“Good.” Caleb starts unpacking flowers with systematic efficiency. “What needs these burgundy ones first?”
For the final fifteen minutes, all three of them help me complete the signature installation.
Caleb holds heavy branches steady while I secure them.
Reid fetches tools and supplies with methodical efficiency.
Levi offers color suggestions with the eye of someone who understands how elements work together to create meaning.
They coordinate around each other with surprising naturalness, considering how recently they met.
When Reid needs to reach something behind Caleb, he simply touches his shoulder and says “excuse me.” When Levi disagrees with my placement choice, he phrases it as a gentle question rather than criticism.
When Caleb’s military efficiency threatens to rush my creative process, Reid quietly redirects him to tasks that benefit from speed.
I watch them work together and something warm settles in my chest. This is what support looks like. Not three men competing for my attention, but three different strengths focused on the same goal.
At exactly nine o’clock, the photographer arrives to find arrangements that exceed even my own expectations.
Autumn elegance that captures Montana’s natural beauty without sacrificing sophistication.
Each piece tells the story of this place—mountains and valleys, seasons and cycles, community and care.
“These are exactly what we hoped for,” the photographer says, already setting up equipment. “Authentic artistry that speaks to place and tradition without being quaint or precious. And I love seeing the community collaboration—that’s what makes these small-town stories so compelling.”
He gestures toward the three men cleaning up around me, and I realize how this must look. Local florist supported by her community, everyone pitching in to showcase their hometown. It’s not just about the flowers anymore—it’s about the people who helped create them.
As the photographer works, capturing each arrangement from multiple angles, I catch the three alphas watching me with expressions that make my heart skip. Pride, yes, but something deeper. Something that looks like belonging.
“Couldn’t have done it without all of you,” I tell them when the photographer packs up, pleased with his preliminary shots.
“Yes, you could have,” Levi says quietly. “But you didn’t have to.”
The simple statement hits me harder than elaborate compliments. He’s right. For the first time since opening this business, I didn’t have to handle a crisis alone. I had support— different kinds from each of them, but all focused on helping me succeed.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it completely. “All of you. For the flowers, the help, the...” I gesture helplessly, trying to encompass everything they gave me this morning.
“The teamwork,” Reid suggests with a slight smile.
“The partnership,” Caleb corrects.
“The family,” Levi says, and his words settle something deep in my chest.
We clean up together, post-crisis exhaustion mixing with giddy satisfaction. The arrangements sit ready for tomorrow’s festival setup, more beautiful than anything I’ve created on my own.
But it’s not just the flowers. It’s the realization that I don’t have to choose between independence and support. That accepting help doesn’t diminish my achievements—it amplifies them.
Three alphas, each offering something different. Levi’s creative insight and emotional grounding. Caleb’s practical competence and protective strength. Reid’s resources and strategic thinking.
Not competing with each other. Collaborating for me.
As we lock up the shop, I notice how their scents have mingled with mine throughout the morning. Cedar and sandalwood and bergamot layering together on my clothes, creating something richer than any single fragrance.
My suppressants are definitely wearing off. My body’s response to all three of them grows stronger by the hour. But for the first time, that doesn’t scare me.
Maybe I’m finally ready to trust that some things—some people—are worth the risk of wanting them.
In two weeks, the festival will tell this community’s story to the world. But today taught me something more important.
I don’t have to face any of it alone.