Chapter 7 #2
When I glance back, he’s watching me with that perceptive, almost amused look he wears when he’s about to drop wisdom disguised as small talk.
He clears his throat, “Well, as I always say, a mystery rose is better than a dozen apology bouquets and a patient who bakes me brownies.”
I blink.
He adjusts his glasses and gives me a dry look. “Maisie, everyone’s talking about you and Beau. You’re the town’s favorite subplot. I try not to eavesdrop unless it’s medically relevant, but let’s just say…if what I’ve seen and heard counts for anything? That man’s not just fixing porches.”
Then he nods once, matter-of-fact, and gathers his bouquets, turning to leave the conversation behind as though it never happened.
The bell above the door jingles loudly, forceful enough to alarm Peaches and make her scurry under my work bench. Dr. Brooks, just feet away from the exit with his bouquets in hand, is forced to sidestep as Tess bursts through the door, nearly bumping him into the display of chrysanthemums.
“Careful,” he says, quick-witted as ever, “your hurricane nearly took out my roses.”
Tess barely acknowledges him. She sweeps into the shop, a woman clearly on a mission, cheeks flushed from the warm breeze and gaze laser-focused. She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear and zeroes in on the coral rose.
“I was hoping you’d still have that rose,” she says, nodding toward it as she crosses the shop in four purposeful steps.
She lets her eyes drift over the shop. “This morning I heard from Franny, who overheard it from Laura during the early shift at the Griddle & Grain, who swears that a certain florist found a rose waiting for her. And here you are, rearranging your flowers like it didn’t mean a thing.”
I protest, “Tess...”
“And besides that, I talked to my brother last night.”
I pause mid-snip over a bouquet.
She leans her hip against the counter and folds her arms. “He said—casually, like it was nothing—that he’s enjoying this whole matchmaking thing more than he expected. Which, coming from him, is practically a grand romantic declaration.”
“You’re smart, Maisie. Thoughtful. You overthink literally everything except this. That man is halfway down the mountain trail of falling in love with you, and you’re still looking at the map as if it’s just a hike.”
“Maybe he’s just…nice,” I say.
Jenna laughs. “He’s nice to Peaches. You he looks at as if you’re the first patch of dry land after miles of treading water. You’ve got both the grit and the heart to keep him safe and exactly where he wants to stay.”
I groan. “Can we not do metaphors right now? I have an actual event to prep for.”
“Oh yes,” Tess says with a grin. “The Compatibility Scavenger Hunt. Which is just another excuse for the Stitch Sisters to manufacture some suspiciously convenient sparks.”
We share a best friends laugh as we go on with our agendas, but the contest is about to notch up a level.
The scavenger hunt begins in front of Town Hall, where each pair is handed a rolled-up scroll tied with twine. Reenie beams as she explains the rules:
“Each clue leads to a local business or landmark. At each stop, you’ll find a task. Complete it as a couple. Points for communication, cooperation, and creativity.”
Our first clue reads:
“Where petals bloom and love once wilted, find the place where hearts are lifted.”
I glance at Beau, trying not to smile. “That’s my shop.”
He nods. “Obvious start. Low risk.”
“Do not jinx us.”
Sure enough, we arrive to find a mini bouquet bar set up just outside Botaniq?e. The task? Create a bouquet that tells your partner’s story.
Beau steps up to the table, frowning thoughtfully. “Uh…okay. Storytelling through flowers. No pressure.”
I hand him a stem. “Let’s see if the ‘fix-it guy’ can also fix a floral narrative.”
He glances at the daisy in his hand, then carefully picks up lavender, rosemary, and a single yellow tulip.
“This one’s for how you make people feel at ease.
This one’s for the way you always say something unexpected.
And this one’s for hope. You don’t always believe in it, but you plant it anyway. ”
I feel a twist in my chest, caught between surprise and wonder. The meanings aren’t just poetic, they’re painfully accurate. I hadn’t realized how closely he’d been paying attention.
I bite down on my lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood.
He shrugs. “That’s…probably not how this works, huh?”
“No,” I say softly. “That’s exactly how it works.”
The next clue sends us to the Sweetpines Hardware Co., where we have to hammer a nail into a marked spot on a plank.
“You go first,” I say.
Beau shakes his head. “Ladies first.”
I grimace but swing the hammer.
The nail immediately bends.
Beau coughs into his fist. “Could’ve been worse. You might’ve hit my foot.”
I elbow him, probably harder than I should have. “Don’t test me. I can throw a trowel like a boomerang.”
He laughs, takes the hammer, and with precise aim, drives the next nail in clean. “We make a good team. I’m not put off by bent things. You keep things lively with pruning shears.”
By the third clue, we’re at the Griddle & Grain, guessing the type of mystery pie baked by Pen, who was blindfolded while Marty shouted ingredients.
“It’s cherry-lime,” I declare.
Beau tastes a bite and grimaces. “Nope. Rhubarb. Possibly…grapefruit.”
We argue, giggle, and finally agree to write, “too many ingredients in the fruit salad pie” on our card.
We’re not winning. But we’re laughing.
Somewhere between solving the pie riddle and jogging across Pinecone Park to find our next clue, I feel something shift.
My shoulders ease and breaths deepen, the way they do when I stop trying so hard to be acceptable.
And when I glance over and see Beau quietly laughing beside me, I realize: it’s not about winning.
It’s about this. The rhythm we’ve found.
The way our mismatched instincts somehow sync.
At the last stop, I press my thumb to the final clue card and smile. The paper is still crisp, the ink clean, fresh, like the moments we’ve shared today.
The riddle reads: “Where coffee is inhaled and pie is served, where love and laughter are preserved.”
It leads us back to the diner, where we didn’t get the pie right, but we get to eat slices of an apple pie with a heart pierced by an arrow baked into the crust.
Today we had fun. We laughed. We were seen.
Together. Not just as part of the festival, not as a pretend pairing.
But as us—working side by side, trading glances, feeling like we belonged in the same story.
And maybe what felt different today wasn’t that the town saw it, but that I finally did, too.
That night, after the day’s sideways flirting, missteps, and clumsy flower metaphors, I pull the crumpled clue card from my pocket, rotating it between my hands and smoothing it with my thumbs.
The paper still smells faintly of grass and apple pie, and a trace of dust clings to the crease where I folded it.
I remember how his fingers grazed mine when he handed the clue to me.
I don’t throw it away.
Because maybe in that second—the clue, his touch, our chemistry—there was something real.
And I know that’s why I want to keep it.