Chapter Two
Hayden
I woke up to my phone buzzing on the antique nightstand, the unfamiliar ring tone jarring me from a restless sleep. Blinking groggily, I took in my surroundings: Evergreen Inn, Room 207—polished wooden floors, a warm area rug, and the faint aroma of fresh flowers drifting from the corridor. For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming, caught between memory and reality. But the phone kept vibrating, demanding my attention.
Rolling onto my back, I drew a slow breath to steel myself and picked up. “Hayden Brooks,” I said quietly, trying not to disturb any neighbors through the thin walls.
A crisp female voice came on: “Hayden, good morning! Marlene from the publisher’s PR department here. Sorry for the early call, but we have some updated demands for your schedule. We need you at two sponsor meet-and-greets this afternoon before your first lecture—plus a quick photo session, if possible. The festival crowd is apparently bigger than we anticipated.”
I forced away the remnants of sleep and sat up, the old bed creaking beneath me. “Got it,” I said, my voice sounding gruffer than I intended. “But let’s keep it within reason. I’d rather not spend all day posing with potted plants.”
A polite laugh came through the line. “We know you’re not thrilled about media obligations, but it’s important. After all, your how-to gardening book is top five in horticulture right now. Sponsors want face time with you, and the flower and garden show’s event coordinator believes your presence can boost turnout.”
I closed my eyes, half wishing I could vanish among the actual flowerbeds instead of playing the part of horticulture’s rising star. “Fine,” I replied, massaging my temple. “Text me the updated schedule.”
“Will do,” Marlene chirped. “Try to sound enthusiastic at these meet-and-greets, okay?”
I stifled a sigh. “I’ll do my best.”
She hung up, leaving me in the hush of the Inn’s gentle morning. Great, I thought, another day of forced smiles and small talk. All I wanted was to deliver a few lectures on sustainable gardening, maybe sign a handful of books, then retreat to the market grounds to view the new plant hybrids. But my publisher insisted on parading me around like a horticultural celebrity. It felt surreal; six months ago, I was just a university instructor, filming a few casual videos for students. The viral success that followed had thrust me into a role I neither asked for nor admittedly fully appreciated.
I swung my legs out of bed, glancing around the room. Soft sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, illuminating the gentle pattern of the wallpaper—old-fashioned floral motifs that reminded me I was, in fact, staying in a Victorian mansion. I exhaled, recalling why I’d chosen this place over the swank Wintervale Resort: an old building updated by owners rumored to be warm and discreet. I’d hoped the smaller, more private choice would soothe my nerves.
Then my gaze drifted to the side table, where I’d dropped my notes for today’s presentation. Next to them lay a battered file folder containing promotional materials the publisher wanted me to hand out. My heart twinged. Promoting a book is one thing, but hobnobbing with fans and sponsors… That’s another. I tossed a quick glance at the clock—7:15 a.m. I had a few hours before the festival started its official schedule. Time enough to get coffee, gather my wits, and try not to dwell on that night from last year’s Spring show. But the memory clung like smoke.
One year ago, I’d gone to a different gardening expo far from Wintervale, purely as an assistant to a senior horticulturist. That night, in a random hotel bar, I’d encountered a vivacious woman. A single conversation about soil acidity and floral design turned into laughter, flirtation… and eventually, a blazing night in her room. We never swapped real names—I was “Jack” and she was “Jane.” By dawn, we parted, no illusions that we’d keep in touch. It was a one-night fling that left me simultaneously regretful and enthralled. I can’t do that again, I reminded myself whenever the memory rose. I’m supposed to be serious about my career now.
But the recollection refused to vanish. An image of her soft, honey-brown hair looped through my thoughts, especially last night, as I tried to fall asleep in this bed. I cursed my restlessness, deciding a shower might help me face the day.
Hot water pounded my shoulders, easing tension I’d carried from the road. As I scrubbed shampoo through my hair, I let my mind roam. Wintervale had a crisp mountain charm, bursting with springtime color. I liked the idea of strolling through the festival booths, discovering new varieties of tulips or innovative seed blends. If only the sponsor obligations didn’t weigh me down.
After a quick shave, I dressed in practical jeans and a simple button-down, shrugging on a casual jacket for the chill still lingering in the spring air. One last glance in the bathroom mirror revealed wide gray-blue eyes, a face half-creased with worry. I forced a small smile, hoping to project calm. Focus on the horticulture, not the hype.
When I stepped into the hall, the faint aroma of lavender and furniture polish merged with the echo of distant footsteps. The floorboards underfoot creaked lightly, a reminder that this Inn was old—like the kind of place people came to for second chances or quiet getaways. I definitely felt more at peace here than in the sleek hotels my publisher usually arranged.
A smaller corridor branched off to the left, presumably leading to the side exit or some storage area. I glanced around and spotted something that made my stomach lurch: a bright swirl of color, an arrangement of fresh flowers cradled in the arms of a woman who’d just turned the corner. She pivoted, almost colliding with me. I barely stopped in time.
“Oops—sorry!” she exclaimed. Her voice was airy, friendly. But as she lifted her gaze to mine, our eyes locked, and a jolt shot through me like electricity. I recognized those warm hazel eyes, that honey-brown hair. My heart hammered, a thousand memories from that scorching night flooding back—the subtle moan in her throat, the way her curvy body felt pinned beneath me, the taste of her kiss. Impossible. It’s her ?
For a moment, we stood frozen, obviously both stunned. She opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “Oh… hi,” she managed, voice strangled.
I swallowed hard, forcing a polite nod. “Hey.” My mind reeled. So she’s real, and she’s here. My cheeks burned with the awkward recollection that I’d never given her my real name. I realized, in a rush, that I had no clue what to call her. I only had the memory of “Jane.”
Her expression twisted in half-embarrassed amusement. “I guess we should… um… I mean, hello. Officially.” She bit her lip, steadying the flowers in her arms, her face flushed. The tension in the air nearly crackled.
I coughed to hide my nerves. “Yes, hi.” We both forced small laughs, though we still stared too intently, as if verifying this wasn’t a mirage. It felt surreal to be meeting, for real, in a bright hallway with squeaky floorboards and a bundle of daisies and lilacs between us. She is the woman from that one-night stand. No question. But we’d parted on uncertain terms, no contact. Now we’re stumbling into each other at the Wintervale festival? Running into each other again hadn’t occurred to either of us but given our mutual interest in horticulture it made sense in a “doh!” kind of way.
“You’re… here for the flower and garden show?” she ventured, eyeing me warily, as if bracing for a trap.
I gave a slight nod, ignoring the hammering in my chest. “Yeah. I’m giving a few lectures, signing a gardening book. My publisher forced me to make an appearance.” The corner of my mouth quirked, a half-laugh. “And you’re—?”
She shifted the weight of the arrangement, her shoulders squared as though regaining composure. “I’m Daisy,” she said carefully, cheeks still pink. “Daisy Parker. And that’s actually my real name.” Her smile flickered with embarrassment. Clearly, she remembered that we’d used fake ones last year.
I nodded slowly. “I’m Hayden. Hayden Brooks. I’m a horticulture professor.” My voice felt rough, the memory of telling her a false name still fresh in my mind like a scarlet letter. We each had done that, though. I exhaled, taking in her features: her hair slightly wavier than I recalled, her lips parted in an uncertain grin. She looked just as vivid as she had that night. Or even more so.
For a tense moment, we just stared. She placed her flowers on a nearby side table, freeing her hands. “Okay,” she said softly, “this is weird.”
I barked a laugh, short and awkward. “I, uh, yes. Definitely weird.” My mouth felt dry. “I assume you’re a florist?”
She hesitated, then looked at me as though deciding whether to trust me with the truth. “Yes, I run a small business called Bloom & Grow. I have a booth in this year’s Spring market.” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t expect this.”
Her words resonated with my own shock. “Same here.” I scratched the back of my neck. My publisher’s instructions buzzed in my head, but all of that seemed distant now. How did we end up in the same small inn? The cosmic coincidence of being in such close proximity now felt almost too big to process. We lapsed into an awkward beat of silence, each likely recalling the last time we were alone—naked and lost in each other’s arms.
I was the first to break the tension. “So… I guess we’re properly meeting now, right?” I extended a hand, my pulse racing. “Pleasure to meet you, Daisy Parker.”
She stared at my hand for a heartbeat, probably also remembering that we had most certainly touched in more intimate ways. Still, she took it, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. “Good to meet you, too, Hayden Brooks.”
Our handshake held a bizarre mixture of professional courtesy and sizzling undercurrent. My mind reeled: Only a year ago, these very fingers traced her bare soft skin. I forced my grip to remain polite, not letting it linger too long. She must have thought the same, because she let go faster than normal, clearing her throat again.
“I’m staying here all week,” she said, tucking her hair behind one ear. “Room 205…,” She pointed at the closed door behind her, half-sheepish.
I nodded. “I’m in 207, apparently,” I admitted, feeling my face flush. “I arrived late yesterday.”
Her eyes widened. That small detail hung between us like an unspoken dare. “So, we’ll be crossing paths.”
“No doubt,” I replied, raking a hand through my hair. “I’m sure the festival will keep us both busy.”
She pressed her lips together, scanning my face in a searching way. Part of me wondered if I should apologize for last year, or for not tracking her down. But we’d left that bar, that hotel, with no illusions. It had been a fling, nothing more than a one-night tryst. Right?
“Well,” she said, voice soft, “best of luck with your lectures and new book. Word is a few big sponsors are here looking for new talent.”
I resisted a groan. “Yeah, so I’ve heard. The spotlight’s not really my thing, but it comes with the territory, I guess.” I paused, swallowing. “And you? Here to grow your business?”
She brightened, apparently grateful for the shift in focus. “I’m aiming for the ‘ Best in Bloom ’ prize. Rumor says it includes a home-and-garden magazine spread. That’d be huge for me.” Then her gaze dropped, shyness flickering in her eyes. “I know we’re not exactly strangers, but… should we just keep this professional? I mean…” She gestured vaguely as if referencing the swirl of memories between us.
My chest tightened. “Yeah, that might be simpler,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level. We can’t exactly slip back into bed or something. Not that I hadn’t fantasized about that once or twice in the past five minutes. “If you want that. I mean—unless—” I caught myself, not wanting to rush or spook her. “It’s your call.”
She looked torn, her eyes reflecting a swirl of complicated emotions. Then she squared her shoulders. “Professional courtesy first. We each have big goals this week. Right?”
“Right,” I echoed, my heart pounding. “I guess we can be, I don’t know… acquaintances?” The notion made my stomach twist—did I really only want to be acquaintances? But it was possibly the best approach to avoid meltdown.
She let out a short laugh, though it wavered with tension. “Yes. Or booth buddies, or something.” A small flush colored her cheeks. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I have to double-check my arrangement in the storeroom. The orientation meeting is at two, and I need to polish some final touches. So maybe we’ll, um, see each other around?”
Her attempt at casualness matched my own predicament. “Sure, definitely. I need to confirm some sponsor stuff,” I said, frowning internally at the forced appearances I had to make. “I’ll let you get to your flowers. Good luck, Daisy.”
She gave me a last, searching look, as if about to say more, but just sighed softly and nodded. Picking up her arrangement again, she nodded politely and stepped around me. The swirl of her hair brushed my shoulder in passing, and that faint floral perfume teased my senses—the same fragrance that haunted me for a year. For a moment, I closed my eyes, remembering in excruciating detail the warmth of her body under mine, the moan that escaped her when I pressed close, the playful banter we’d tossed around like firecrackers.
Then she was gone, footsteps fading down the corridor. The spot where she’d stood felt oddly vacant. So there it is, I thought, exhaling. We’re officially reacquainted, real names and all, and we’re going to pretend it’s no big deal. She’s Daisy Parker, a traveling florist. I’m Hayden Brooks, horticulture’s reluctant poster boy. And we were ironically neighbors in this cozy inn.
I made my way to the front lounge in a daze, half hoping I’d see her again, half relieved I didn’t. A small grouping of armchairs surrounded a coffee table where a pot of brewed coffee and a plate of pastries waited for guests. The smell called to me, so I poured a cup and took a sip, scanning the quiet hallway. Keep it casual. The words felt stifling. But what else could I do? She seemed set on focusing on her business. God knew I had my own tasks to juggle.
Still, my heart hammered. I wanted to blame it on leftover adrenaline, but some deeper part of me recognized the spark had never faded. We parted so abruptly last year, never once exchanging actual phone numbers or social media. Maybe we both had regrets. Though if I stepped in with personal interest now, would it distract her from the biggest event of her year?
I inhaled slowly, letting the coffee’s warmth soothe me. My phone chimed, and I glanced down: a text from my publisher with the updated schedule for the sponsor meets. I gritted my teeth. So I truly am stuck with forced publicity. Hiding from it might have been easier if I hadn’t discovered that Daisy was also right here. Great. So now I had a swirl of obligations and tangled feelings for a woman I’d known intimately for one night but never truly known at all.
One thing was certain: I couldn’t bury my head in the sand. We were both in Wintervale for the same event. We’d cross paths daily—booth openings, vendor mixers, the official garden tours. My mind conjured an image of her in a sundress, fussing over a grand floral arch, or smiling at passersby while I hovered nearby, forced to appear with corporate underwriters. The thought made me cringe and heat up simultaneously.
Pushing off the armchair, I decided fresh air might clear my head. Strolling outside, I found the Inn’s side garden, a small patch of lawn ringed by budding forsythia and early-blooming lilacs. The breeze brushed my skin, a bit cooler than inside. Pretend you’re just any guy who encountered an ex. Except she wasn’t exactly an ex, was she? We’d never been official—only heated. Recollection hit me again: her breathless laughter, our flirty banter about “Jack and Jane.” I’d told myself it was better that we parted cleanly, no chance of messy aftermath to dilute the euphoria of that night. Now fate had shoved us together again, but she’d made her intentions clear—she wasn’t interested in repeating the past, much less taking things to the next level.
I lingered by a low stone bench, hearing the gentle hum of bees among the newly opened flowers. A surge of calm overcame me—the outdoors always did that. Despite the swirl of confusion, I still loved the peace that nature provided. My phone buzzed with a second reminder: “Hayden, sponsor meet at 1:30. Please confirm you’ll be there.” I typed a quick acknowledgement.
As I returned to the Inn’s interior, my mind ran through the day’s schedule. There’d be time for a quick lunch, then a final run-through of my lecture notes, followed by that dreaded publicity meeting. When would I “bump into” Daisy again? The idea both thrilled and unnerved me.
Pausing at the foot of the stairs, I cringed recalling our awkward handshake—her palm so familiar yet made strange by the layers of polite distance we’d placed between us. I swallowed. If just shaking her hand stirred that memory of her thighs wrapped around my waist, how would I focus on lectures or signings without repeatedly losing my train of thought?
Exhaling, I climbed the steps. My mind conjured the image of Daisy’s face when she recognized me. Her cheeks had burned pink. She seemed as off-balance as I was.
Back in my room, I sat at the small writing desk, flipping open my outline on sustainable fertilizing methods. I tried to immerse myself in data about compost layering and natural pest controls, but Daisy’s hazel eyes and that flush in her cheeks kept intruding, swirling through my thoughts. My pen tapped the page rhythmically.
Eventually, I admitted defeat, shutting my notes. If I was going to get any real prep done, I needed to handle this emotional maelstrom with caution. She wanted to keep it professional. Fine. I would do the same. But I wouldn’t pretend last year didn’t happen.
I let my gaze wander to the window. An orchard spread out in the near distance, dotted with blossoming fruit trees. The swirl of springtime energy echoed how I felt: something fresh taking root, unstoppable. Pressing my lips together, I vowed not to let the festival’s forced PR or the leftover confusion from last year sabotage me. I was a horticulturist, and this was a flower expo. Nature itself thrives on new beginnings. I had to remain open to possibilities.
By noon, I emerged from my room, notes tucked under my arm. My phone beeped with one final note from the publisher reminding me of the names of the promotors I was scheduled to meet with. I scrolled the text, feeling my earlier frustration return—“Be sure to mention new initiatives. Photos, handshake ops. Possibly more synergy with other ‘celebrity florists.’” Celebrity florists? Was Daisy considered one, or would she be overshadowed by bigger names? I realized I had no clue how established she was in this business. She might be just a rising star like me, or a widely known phenomenon.
Either way, I had to handle these obligations. And Daisy had her own ambitions—winning that “Best in Bloom” award. Perhaps that joint sense of purpose could keep us tethered to reality instead of letting old passion derail everything. Right?
Yet, despite my mental pep talk, as I descended the stairs, all I could picture was her parted lips in that hotel bed last year, murmuring hushed phrases about how surprising it all felt. How right. Like we were meant to be. My chest constricted. Pretend. Keep it light. For the first time in ages, I actually felt a flicker of excitement about the possibility of exploring more, if she was open to it. But we hadn’t even begun the festival, and the swirl of tension already threatened to unravel my composure.
One thing was certain: my quiet time in Wintervale had just become a whole lot more complicated—and infinitely more enticing.