Chapter Three
Daisy
The next morning, I woke to my alarm’s insistent chirp, heart already fluttering with anticipation. Festival day one—game face on. A swirl of pre-show nerves and excitement had fueled my dreams, and I couldn’t wait to see the event grounds in full bloom. After a quick shower, I gathered an array of floral supplies from the Inn’s storeroom, thankful that Cass and Rory had let me stash my crates there. With arms weighed down by ribbons and bundles of fresh-cut blossoms, I headed out to the site before dawn had fully broken.
A hush still lay over Wintervale’s streets, but as soon as I neared the open field designated for the Flower torrential rain was the last thing I needed.
My assigned booth was near the heart of the grounds, or so the festival map had indicated. The dais around the central stage stood partially erected—workers adjusting the support beams for a main performance area. Strolling between rows of half-constructed tents, I scanned for the marker that read Booth #12. A murmur of voices rose around me as vendors chatted about supply runs, new seeds, or the day’s schedule. Even at this early hour, the hum of potential was palpable.
When I finally located my booth, I paused, letting out an appreciative breath. It had decent foot traffic potential—a wide aisle in front, a pretty vantage of the distant orchard behind me. Just as I set down my load, my gaze snagged on the sign next to my space: Ariana St. James: “America’s Floral Sweetheart .” The text was done in glitzy gold letters. Beside it hung a glossy banner depicting a breathtaking arrangement of roses and orchids, the tagline boasting “As featured on HGTV’s ‘Floral Dreams even told me I was dreaming if I thought I could actually succeed. That’s partly why I…” I hesitated, cheeks warming. “Why I let loose with you that night at the other expo. I’d been dying to prove to myself I wasn’t who he made me out to be.”
A half-smile tugged at Hayden’s mouth. “You’re a go-getter. I saw that then. I see it now.”
My heart stuttered. I couldn’t help smiling, even as my mind buzzed with longing. “Well,” I said, voice lower than before, “thank you for saying that. But maybe we should keep it professional, like we said.”
He gave a short nod, albeit reluctantly. “Right. Professional.” Then a swirl of movement on the path behind him made us both look up. A flash of crimson caught my eye. Ariana St. James approached, her trademark confident stride drawing immediate attention. To my dismay, her focus zeroed in on Hayden.
“Oh, hi, Hayden!” she called out in a tone too bright, heading straight toward us. My pulse sank. They know each other of course. Ariana’s impeccably styled hair glinted in the sunlight as she halted next to him, ignoring me entirely. Her manicured hand brushed his arm. “I was hoping to track you down about a potential joint photo op… The sponsors love the idea of ‘America’s Floral Sweetheart’ meets horticulture’s rising star.” Her pageant smile glowed.
I stiffened, trying to maintain neutrality. Hayden offered a polite nod, though tension gathered at his jaw. Or perhaps that was just my imagination. “Sounds good. I’m heading to a meet-and-greet now in fact. I’m sure the photogs will be there.”
Ariana beamed, hooking her arm around his. “Perfect. I’ll walk over with you, and we can talk more about it.”
I tried to mask the churn of jealousy in my stomach. Ariana was already leaning close to him, exuding a claim over the conversation. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. Hayden flashed me an apologetic glance, and I forced a tight smile, stepping back. No reason to stand here feeling overshadowed. Ariana turned, acknowledging me with a faint flick of her gaze. “Oh, hi again, Daisy,” she said, then promptly refocused on Hayden.
I kept my chin high. “Yes, hi. I’d better get back to my booth. Good luck.” I spun on my heel, hugging the foam blocks tight to my chest. My face burned at the sight of Ariana’s polished French tips resting on Hayden’s jacket sleeve. Why do I care so much? It’s none of my business. I marched away, blinking against the sting of envy coiling in my gut. We said we’d be professional. He can talk to whomever he likes. Still, the tension in my limbs wouldn’t ease.
As I distanced myself from them, I glanced over my shoulder. Shaking my head, I told myself to stay focused on my work. But an ache throbbed in my chest, telling me this might be more complicated than I’d ever planned.