13. Becky
Chapter thirteen
Becky
T he grand reopening of Flourish Floral is just days away, and I should be focusing on making sure I don’t run out of stock before then. My apartment had been completed first, and that’s when I had moved in.
I toured the rebuilt property. It’s pretty much ready to go.
Connected to the back of the shop by a charming arched doorway, the hot house greenhouse is where I will grow and care for my more exotic and temperamental plants.
The glass walls and ceiling, framed by white-painted wrought iron, allow sunlight to stream in from every angle, making it feel like a hidden garden paradise. Along the back wall, a potting station is set up with clay pots, gardening gloves, and nutrient-rich soil, where I will tend to seedlings and repot plants in need of extra care.
I really like the new fridge room. Tucked behind the main shop floor, a temperature-controlled walk-in floral fridge is where the most delicate flowers will be stored, keeping them fresh for custom orders and special events.
The updated layout will be better than before. I need to think about the reopening.
But all I can think about is Mike.
And how I barely see him anymore.
At first, I didn’t think much of it. He’s been recovering, dealing with the ranch, still helping out at the fire station. But then he started dodging my calls, and every time I asked Lulu if she’d seen him, she got weirdly quiet.
Something is off.
The worst part is, I haven’t even had a chance to tell him how I feel.
I pace around the shop, running my fingers over the smooth petals of a fresh bouquet of peonies. The shop is coming together beautifully, but I can’t enjoy it when I have this gnawing doubt in my chest.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, taking a deep breath. “You’re being ridiculous. You know Mike isn’t like that. He’s not pulling away because he’s losing interest.”
At least, I hope he isn’t.
The soft chime of the shop’s bell fills the air as I arrange a fresh bouquet of daisies and peonies in a glass vase. The scent of roses, eucalyptus, and lavender drifts around me, a comforting reminder that the shop is alive again. The town has rallied behind me in ways I never expected, and their unwavering support fuels my resolve to make my florist business thrive once more.
Since the opening, orders have been pouring in—bouquets for anniversaries, table arrangements for the Cake Walk Café, corsages for a high school dance.
Even Maggie Ann and Ellie have stopped by to place orders for their shops, wanting fresh flowers for their displays. It feels like my world, once tipped off balance, is finding its rhythm again.
But there’s still one thing unsettled.
Mike.
I have been trying to find the right moment to talk to him about everything—the feelings that have been building between us and the way my heart seems to know he’s the one.
I’ve been carrying these thoughts like a bouquet of fragile blooms, afraid that if I move too fast, they’ll fall apart.
Today, I’m done waiting.
It’s Friday night, and I’ve had enough. I march straight to the ranch, fully prepared to demand some kind of explanation. But when I get there, the place is practically deserted.
Pete greets me at the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hey, Becky. Looking for Mike?”
“Yeah,” I say, planting my hands on my hips. “Where is he?”
Pete grins like he knows something I don’t. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Pete,” I warn.
He just chuckles. “Be patient.”
I narrow my eyes but don’t press further. Something is definitely going on, and I don’t like being left in the dark.
I find Mike leaning against the porch railing of the ranch house, B. curled up on his lap. The sight of him there, relaxed and at ease, tugs at something deep inside me.
He looks up as I step onto the porch, and for a moment, his gaze lingers, like he’s trying to figure out what’s on my mind.
“Hey,” he says, giving B. a slow scratch behind her ears.
“Hey,” I reply, taking the seat beside him. The cool evening air carries the scent of honeysuckle from the garden, wrapping us in quiet intimacy.
For a long moment, we sit there in comfortable silence, the only sound being the distant whinny of a horse from the stables.
Then, finally, I speak.
“This thing between us,” I start, forcing myself to be brave. “It is becoming something more than I expected, Mike. And I think we both know it.”
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I worry I’ve said too much. But then he exhales, long and deep, like he’s been holding something in.
“You’re right,” he admits. “It has felt more involved for a long time.”
The weight of his words settles between us, shifting the ground we’ve been standing on.
“I don’t want to ignore it anymore,” I whisper.
Mike reaches over, his fingers brushing against mine, slow and deliberate. “Me either,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.
He turns to me fully, his hand warm as he takes mine. “Becky, I don’t just care about you—I love you. And not in some easy, casual way. You make me feel things I never expected, never planned for. And I don’t want to go another day without making that clear.”
My breath catches, my heart soaring.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
The last of my fears fall away.
After we sit there for what feels like forever, wrapped in the comfort of our confessions, Mike shifts beside me, like he’s remembering something.
“There’s something I need to show you,” he says.
He reaches down and lifts a small, aged wooden box, setting it on the table between us. The surface is worn smooth, the edges slightly singed, a remnant of the fire. The intricate floral carvings along the lid catch the fading sunlight, revealing craftsmanship that’s both delicate and strong.
“This was found inside the walls when they were rebuilding the shop,” Mike explains. “The guys pulled it out from the back storage area. It must have been hidden there for years.”
I trace my fingers over the carved patterns, a strange sense of familiarity stirring inside me. And then, all at once, realization crashes over me.
“This belonged to my grandmother,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mike’s brows lift in surprise. “You’re sure?”
I nod, my heartbeat picking up. “I used to see it when I was little—she always kept it on the top shelf of her closet. I remember asking her what was inside once, and she told me it held secrets.”
Mike leans in, his eyes locked on mine. “Do you know what kind of secrets?”
I shake my head, running my thumb over the small brass lock securing the lid. It’s sturdy, untouched, like it’s been waiting for someone to find it.
The air between us shifts, thick with the weight of discovery.
“What do you think is inside?” Mike asks.
I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the edges of the box.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I think it’s time to find out.”
I glance up at Mike, and he gives me a small nod, his fingers curling over mine as we hold the box between us.
“Whatever’s in there,” he says, his voice low and certain, “we’ll figure it out together.”
And somehow, I know we will.