15. Sophie
SOPHIE
I can’t sleep.
No matter how many times I shift positions—on my side, on my back, curled into a ball—nothing helps. My mind refuses to quiet down, replaying the moment in the flower shop over and over like a movie I can’t turn off.
Graham’s face, inches from mine. His hands on my face, gentle and warm. The way his eyes flickered down to my lips. How my breath caught in my throat, heart hammering in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have.
And then—the crash.
The vase hit the floor, shattering into a hundred jagged pieces.
I exhale sharply, flipping onto my stomach and burying my face in the pillow. That stupid vase. It was as if the universe itself decided to intervene, reminding us that whatever was about to happen shouldn’t happen at all.
And yet, I can’t stop thinking about it.
What would’ve happened if the vase hadn’t fallen? If we hadn’t snapped back to reality? Would he have kissed me? Would I have let him?
I groan, turning my back again and staring up at the ceiling.
This is a problem.
The last thing I should be doing is catching feelings for Graham. We’re supposed to work together, designing the outdoor setup for Ethan and Riley’s wedding, not get caught up in… whatever this is. It was supposed to be simple, clean, and professional.
But no. Of course, it had to become something else. Something complicated.
And the most frustrating part?
Deep down, beneath all my logic and rational thinking, I can feel that it’s already too late. I like him. I don’t want to, I shouldn’t, but I do.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fingers to my temples.
This is not part of the plan.
I left Bardstown years ago to chase my dreams, to build something for myself. I didn’t come back to fall for a man who keeps his emotions locked up tighter than a vault, who can go from warm to distant in a single heartbeat.
But no matter how much I tell myself this is just a fleeting attraction, something my heart will get over soon enough… I know I’m lying.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to get over it.
T he smell of coffee is the only thing keeping me from crawling back into bed.
I drag myself into the kitchen, my socks skidding slightly against the hardwood floor. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish from a night of tossing and turning.
Mia is already at the counter, scrolling through her phone with one hand while sipping from her favorite mug with the other. She’s effortlessly put together—hair in a sleek ponytail, blazer perfectly fitted, looking every bit like someone who actually got a full night’s sleep.
She barely looks up before saying, “Exactly what time did you get home last night?”
I blink, still half-asleep. “What?”
She finally lifts her eyes, scanning me from head to toe. “And why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” I mumble, heading straight for the coffee pot.
“It’s like you fought off an exorcism in your sleep and lost.” She frowns. “And were you drenched last night?”
I hesitate for a second before pouring my coffee, stalling. “Graham dropped me off,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
Mia raises an eyebrow and then shrugs. “That was thoughtful of him.”
I hum in response, carefully sipping my coffee, hoping that’s the end of the conversation. But this is Mia, and I should’ve known better.
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Did you sleep at all? You’re not your usual annoying morning self. And…” She steps closer, squinting at my face. “Sophie, are those eye bags?”
I groan, rubbing at my temples. “I’m just tired.”
Mia doesn’t look convinced, but to my relief, she lets it go. Instead, she grabs her bag from the chair. “Well, take care of yourself, okay? Maybe do a little skincare before you start haunting the townspeople.”
I shoot her a glare over my coffee. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She grins. “I have a meeting with Aunt Dotty for book club, but I’ll be back later. Try not to spiral into whatever emotional crisis you’re clearly in before then.”
I roll my eyes as she winks and starts heading for the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen, staring into my coffee.
I hate that she can read me so well, and I hate even more that she’s right. I turn my back around so I can talk to her better. “Before you go, there’s something you need to know,” I tell her.
Mia turns back around with a curious look in her eyes. “Make it quick, Soph.”
“I can’t keep working with Graham.”
She pauses, cocking her head in question. “What?”
I take a breath, wrapping both hands around my mug. “It’s about time we wrapped things up anyway. The bulk of the designs is set, and there’s nothing left for us to do together.”
Mia gives me a long, assessing look. “That’s interesting,” she says, drawing out the words. “Because I thought things were getting better between you two.” She leans against the counter, one brow raised. “I mean, he dropped you off last night. That doesn’t exactly scream I-can’t-work-with-this-person energy.”
I tighten my grip on my mug, staring into the dark liquid. “It’s complicated.”
Mia snorts. “That’s what people say when they don’t want to explain something.”
“Exactly.” I lift my eyes to hers. “I’m not ready to explain.”
She watches me for a beat longer, probably debating whether to push. But to my relief, she exhales, grabbing her bag from the chair. “Fine. I’ll let you be mysterious—for now.” She points a finger at me. “But whatever this is, don’t let it mess up the wedding plans. Ethan and Riley deserve the best.”
I nod, though I don’t think this—whatever this is—has anything to do with the wedding anymore. It’s me. It’s him. It’s the fact that every time I try to put up a boundary between us, something happens that makes me want to cross it.
Mia gives me one last knowing look before heading for the door. “I’ll be back later,” she calls over her shoulder. “Try not to spiral.”
I sigh as the door clicks shut behind her.
By the time I finish my breakfast, my mind is set.
I have to end this.
Whatever this is.
I rush upstairs, shedding my pajamas and pulling on something neutral, something effortless. A fitted black turtleneck is tucked into high-waisted cream trousers, and my sleek ankle boots click against the floor as I move. My makeup is minimal—just enough concealer to hide the lack of sleep, a swipe of mascara to keep me from looking too exhausted, and a nude lip that says, “I’m composed.” I’m fine.
Even if I’m not.
I pull my hair back into a loose bun, a few strands framing my face. I tell myself I don’t care how I look, that it’s just another workday at Mia’s flower shop, where Graham and I were supposed to be finalizing wedding designs for Ethan and Riley.
But as I catch my reflection in the mirror, I realize the truth.
I do care. I tell myself it’s just the job, but I know better. I need to stay away from Graham before he further takes hold of my heart.
And that ticks me off more than anything.
With a frustrated exhale, I grab my bag and head outside.
And that’s when I see it.
My car.
The flat tire that left me stranded yesterday? Fixed.
I freeze, blinking at it like it might somehow explain itself.
Mia never mentioned getting it repaired. I didn’t call anyone. And yet, here it is, good as new.
A slow realization creeps in, settling deep in my chest.
Graham.
I don’t want to name it, the warmth that blooms at his thoughtful gesture, at the way he’s trying to rescue me. Before I can dwell too much on it, my phone vibrates in my bag.
I sigh, already bracing myself as I pull it out. “Claire?”
“Emergency,” she says, breathless. “Mrs. Whitmore is losing her mind because the wrong centerpiece designs were sent to her. She’s threatening to drop us if we don’t fix it—now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. This woman.
“Fine,” I mutter, already slipping into problem-solving mode. “Give me two minutes. I’ll jump on a video call when I get to the shop.”
“Make it fast.” Claire sounds one breath away from combusting. “She’s threatening to hire another planner.”
I hang up, slide into my car, and head straight for Mia’s flower shop—the place she so graciously let Graham and me use to work.
The moment I step inside, the scent of fresh roses and eucalyptus fills the air, but I barely register it.
My focus is on fixing this mess.
I move quickly, setting up in the back corner, away from customers. Within seconds, I’m on a video call with Mrs. Whitmore, nodding through her frantic complaints and taking notes with practiced precision.
I don’t notice the door open, but I know when he walks in because my body suddenly becomes aware that he is nearby. I finish the call and look up.
And there he is.
Graham.
Standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, watching me. My stomach flips before I can stop it. I hate that it does.
He looks… unfairly good. Like he didn’t spend the night battling his thoughts, like he didn’t almost kiss me in this very shop yesterday. His dark jeans fit a little too well, and his black Henley stretches across his broad chest. The sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal those forearms—the same ones I spent way too long thinking about last night.
My stomach flips, but I force myself to stay steady.
I lift my chin. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he says, voice low. He hesitates before adding, “I fixed your tire.”
I blink, caught off guard even though I already knew it was him.
“You… what?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. It’s normal for him to go out of his way to help me when I’m trying to push him away.
“Thought you might need it.”
My throat tightens. I should say thank you. I should acknowledge that it was a thoughtful thing to do. But I don’t trust my voice.
Instead, I straighten, gripping my planner a little too tightly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
I came here with a plan—to tell him we needed to wrap things up and that we didn’t need to see each other anymore.
But now, standing here, I can’t say it.
His voice drops. “Look, Sophie, about last night?—”
I shake my head quickly, my heart hammering. “We don’t have to talk about it.”
“But we do.” He steps closer. “Because it keeps happening. And I—” He exhales sharply. “I need to know where your head’s at. Because mine—” He clenches his jaw. “Mine’s a mess.”
His response catches me off guard because I didn’t think he was going through the same agony as I am. Hearing him admit it just confuses me further. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Graham, I don’t know what to do with this.”
“With what?”
“This.” I motion between us, frustration bubbling over. “The tension. The almosts. I don’t know what to do with you.”
His gaze darkens, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Then stop overthinking and just?—”
And then he’s there.
And then I’m there.
And then—we’re kissing.
It’s not tentative. It’s not hesitant. It’s every bottled-up moment bursting at once.
His hands find my waist, pulling me in like he’s been holding back for too long, and he’s finally done pretending. And maybe he has. Perhaps I have, too. Because I don’t hesitate. I don’t push him away.
I melt into him, gripping his shirt, tilting my head to deepen the kiss because I don’t just want this—I need it.
The world tilts.
I forget everything—where we are, what this means, why I told myself I shouldn’t.
Because right now, nothing else matters.
And then?—
His phone rings.
Loud. Jarring. Unforgiving.
We freeze.
The moment shatters.
His breath is heavy against my cheek, his grip still firm on my waist. But his phone keeps ringing, and reality comes crashing back down around us.
I don’t know which of us pulls away first, but suddenly, there’s space between us—too much space, too fast, and I hate it.
Graham clenches his jaw, pulling his phone from his pocket and glancing at the screen. His entire expression changes.
“I—” His voice is rough, as if he’s as thrown off as I am. “I have to take this.” Graham heads outside before I can respond.
I nod, stepping back quickly, forcing myself to breathe, to think, to do anything but wish we hadn’t stopped.
He answers the call, voice clipped. “Yeah?” I hear him say as he walks out, but I don’t hear the rest.
Because I’m already turning away.
Already running.
Already wondering why I ever thought I could stay away from him.
The moment Graham steps back into the flower shop, I know something’s wrong.
The air around him feels… different.
Gone is the warmth from just minutes ago, the intensity that had drawn me in, the quiet way he had looked at me like I was something he couldn’t help but want. Instead, his jaw is tight, his movements stiff, and?—
He won’t look at me.
I straighten, heart pounding as I watch him walk toward me. There’s something final in his steps, like he’s already halfway gone, and I don’t know why, but it sets off every alarm in my body.
“Graham?” I say carefully. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls a file from his bag and hands it to me. I know what’s in there before I even hold it: the designs and drafts.
My fingers close around it on instinct, but my chest tightens when I see what’s inside—everything.
I was right. All the designs. The seating arrangements. The outdoor setup plans for Ethan and Riley’s wedding.
Everything we worked on.
Everything we were supposed to finish together.
I blink up at him, my stomach dropping. “What—what is this?”
His voice is even. Too even. Like he’s forcing himself not to waver. “That’s all you need.”
My grip tightens on the file. “Graham, slow down.” My voice wavers despite my best efforts. “Just—just tell me what’s going on.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
His jaw tenses. “Both.”
I stare at him, heart hammering, panic clawing its way up my throat. This isn’t happening.
I shake my head. “Graham, please. Just talk to me.”
“I have to leave town.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
I step forward. “What? Why?”
He starts packing up his things.
His notebook, his sketches, the scraps of paper we scribbled ideas on when we were too caught up in planning to be neat—he grabs everything, moving with purpose and desperation I don’t understand.
Like he needs to get out of here.
Like he needs to get away from me .
“Graham, stop,” I say, my voice shaking now. “You’re not making any sense.”
He still won’t look at me.
Still won’t explain.
I step closer, forcing myself into his line of sight, but he dodges my gaze so smoothly. It’s like second nature; he’s trained to do it.
“What happened?” I whisper. “Was it the phone call? Who was it?”
Nothing.
“Graham, please.” My chest aches. “Don’t do this.”
He grabs his bag and strides toward the door.
Panic spikes through me.
He’s actually leaving.
I don’t know why it hurts so much, but it does. It kills.
Just as he reaches the door, he hesitates.
And then—he turns.
His eyes finally find mine for the first time since he walked back in.
And it’s the worst part.
Because they’re full of something I can’t handle.
Regret.
Pain.
Something so deeply unspoken it makes my stomach twist.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. Then—soft, barely above a whisper?—
“I’m sorry.”
I freeze.
His grip tightens on the strap of his bag. “I wish things were different.”
Then—
He walks out.
And I can’t do anything but stand there, staring at the door, wondering what I’m supposed to do.