7. Becky
Chapter seven
Becky
J ulia, Mike’s mom, pulls out her event planning binder in the spacious Thorn kitchen.
It’s bursting with notes, sketches, and clipped-out ideas for the upcoming firefighter charity gala. She flips through it like a seasoned pro, pausing every so often to make a note on this year’s to-do list.
My friends and I have gathered today to pitch in.
“Becky,” she says, looking up at me with a warm smile, “would you mind helping with the flowers for the gala? We’ll need arrangements for the tables, the entryway, and the stage. I can’t think of anyone better to make it beautiful.”
Her confidence in me warms my heart. “I’d love to,” I say, trying to hide the lump forming in my throat. Working with flowers again feels like stepping back into myself after the fire, and the thought of contributing to something meaningful fills me with purpose.
“I’ll bring cupcakes,” Maggie Ann pipes up from her seat at the table. “And maybe a few trays of cookies. A gala isn’t a gala without good food.”
Ellie, who’s perched on the counter, grins. “Between Becky’s flowers and Maggie Ann’s baked goods, this gala might turn into a matchmaking event. Romance in the air, beautiful flowers, and sugar? It’s a recipe for love.”
Maggie Ann laughs. “You’re always scheming, Ellie.”
Julia steps out to get more planning supplies from her office.
“Not scheming, just… observing,” Ellie replies, her eyes sparkling. “And I’ve observed a lot of sparks between a certain firefighter and our favorite florist.”
Maggie Ann raises an eyebrow, and even Rachel and Josie, who’ve joined the planning meeting from the bakery, lean in. “Are you saying Mike and Becky…?” Rachel asks, leaving the question hanging.
Before Ellie can answer, Lulu walks into the kitchen, and the group abruptly quits talking. The sudden silence is so obvious that Lulu glances around, confused.
“What?” Lulu asks, setting her bag down. “Why does it feel like I just walked into a secret meeting?”
“No secret. Actually, it’s no secret to anybody,” Maggie Ann says quickly, though her grin gives her away. “Just planning the gala.”
I let it go, too distracted by the detailed list of floral arrangements needed. The challenge excites me, and I can’t wait to get started.
Over the rest of the day, I dive into the arrangements, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of trimming stems, selecting blooms, and piecing together designs. Mike checks in on me occasionally, his presence steady and reassuring.
“You’re coming as my date, right?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe of the room where I’m assembling a centerpiece.
“Your date?” I glance up, surprised.
“For the pretense,” he clarifies, though there’s a flicker of something in his expression I can’t place. “It’ll sell the story if we’re seen together.”
I nod, though the idea of walking into a gala on Mike’s arm sends a nervous flutter through me. “Of course. For the pretense.”
The night of the gala arrives faster than I expected.
The Junction Falls Event Hall, where the Fireman’s Gala is being held, is a charming mix of elegance and small-town warmth. It’s a historic brick building with large arched windows, its exterior framed with climbing ivy and twinkling fairy lights that cast a soft, romantic glow over the entrance. A red carpet runner leads up the steps, a playful nod to the formality of the night, though inside, the atmosphere is anything but stuffy.
When Mike meets me near the entrance, my breath catches. He’s dressed in a tailored black suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders, and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he looks at me.
“You look amazing,” he says, his voice low.
“Thank you,” I manage, my cheeks warming. The dress fits like a dream, the soft fabric flowing around me in a way that feels almost magical.
As we step through the grand wooden double doors, we’re greeted by a breathtaking scene. The event hall has been transformed into a stunning display of twinkling lights and elegant table settings. The high vaulted ceilings are strung with delicate chandeliers that sparkle like firelight.
I can’t help but notice the way people glance at us, their smiles warm and approving. Mike keeps his hand lightly on my back, guiding me through the crowd, and I try not to think about how natural it feels.
Round tables draped in deep navy linens are accented with my floral centerpieces—bold red roses, golden lilies, and sprigs of eucalyptus, all arranged in elegant glass vases. Seeing them in place fills me with pride.
A spacious dance floor at the center of the hall, polished to a shine, is already filled with people swaying to the soft music playing from the live band in the corner.
The evening is a whirlwind of laughter, music, and conversations. Maggie Ann’s desserts are a hit, and Ellie flits around the room, no doubt planting matchmaking seeds wherever she can. I find myself relaxing, the stress of the past few weeks momentarily fading as I enjoy the event.
I feel stunning in my soft dress that flows as I move.
But no matter where I go, I feel Mike’s eyes on me. Every time I glance his way, he’s watching me with an intensity that sends my heart racing. It’s not just the pretense—it’s something more, something real.
We circulate through the crowd, greeting familiar faces, and thanking guests for supporting the firefighter fundraiser. But soon enough, I find myself dragged to the dance floor by Lulu and Ellie, laughing as they twirl me around.
Mike watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips as he pretends he’s above all the dancing nonsense.
That is until I march over and pull him in.
“Mike Thorn, if I have to be on this dance floor, so do you.”
He grumbles, but when I give him a pleading look, he sighs, muttering, “You’re impossible.”
Then he surprises me—pulling me in close, one arm firm around my waist, his other hand threading through mine as he expertly leads me into a slow, easy dance.
“Mike,” I whisper, eyes wide, “you can dance?”
He laughs, his breath warm against my ear. “Sweetheart, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
We move effortlessly, my heart pounding not from the dance but from the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the only thing in the entire room.
Laughter, music, and the soft glow of candlelight surround us, but all I can think about is how, for the first time in a long time, I feel completely and utterly safe.
Just as Mike is about to say something—something that makes my heart stutter in anticipation—his fellow firefighter Burt appears at his side, face set in something serious.
“There’s someone outside asking about Becky,” Burt says in a low voice.
The warmth of the moment vanishes instantly.
I stiffen in Mike’s arms, and when I look up at him, I see it in his expression—protectiveness, worry, and something darker beneath it.
“I’ll be right back,” Mike says. His expression hardens, and he excuses himself, his jaw tight as he strides toward the exit. I watch him go, a flicker of unease settling in my chest.
After a few minutes, I step outside, hoping there’s no real issue. But the cool night air isn’t as refreshing as I’d hoped.
Then I hear a voice behind me, sharp and unwelcome.
“Becky.”
I whirl around to see Paul stepping out of the shadows, his expression dark and angry.
Before he can say another word, another voice cuts through the tension.
“She said leave her alone.”
I turn to see Mike standing a few feet away, his eyes locked on Paul with a look that could stop anyone in their tracks.
Relief floods through me as Mike steps closer, his presence solid and unyielding.
Paul glares at Mike but doesn’t argue. Instead, he mutters something under his breath and disappears into the night, leaving me trembling.
Mike doesn’t say a word. He just stays close. And right now, that’s enough.