Chapter 15 Penny
15
PENNY
“Sandy!” I called, the bell above the front door of Petal Pusher jingling as it shut behind me. A large, grease-stained pizza box balanced in my hands—the unmistakable scent of extra pepperoni filling the air, mine and Sandy’s favorite, no question.
I made my way through the flower shop, weaving between bouquets of pastel lilies and bright sunflowers, past the chalkboard sign that read Today’s Mood: Petal to the Metal, and straight into the back room.
Sandy stood at the wash station, sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in soapy water as she rinsed out a cluster of glass vases. The soft clink of one tapping against another echoed lightly in the room.
“It’s about time,” she said, flipping the last vase upside down on the drying rack before wiping her hands on the front of her floral apron. “I was starting to think my Penelope stood me up. You know my rule.”
I let out a little laugh as I set the pizza box on the small table we always used. “I know, I know,” I said, huffing as I brushed some flower scraps from the table. “Home before dark.”
Sandy gave a knowing smile and nodded, untying her apron. “Let me lock the door. Plates are in the cabinet, same as always,” she added, pointing in that direction with a flick of her wrist like I hadn’t eaten dinner here at least a hundred times.
This little tradition of ours had become a rhythm. Neither of us had anyone waiting at home, so we found comfort in sharing these simple moments together. A makeshift family stitched together by pizza, gossip, and love.
The swinging doors creaked as Sandy returned from the front, her steps a little slower than usual. Her hand moved instinctively to her hip, pressing into it as though she were trying to soothe something tender. My brows pulled together as I set plates in our usual spots.
“You okay?” I asked, keeping my tone light but laced with concern. I turned to fully face her, arms folded across my chest as I watched the way she walked—controlled, a little too careful. She straightened up when she saw me watching, a practiced smile sliding across her face.
But her eyes told a different story.
“Sandy…” I said, the single word heavy with meaning as I followed her toward the office.
“I’m fine,” she replied quickly, shrugging out of her apron and tossing it over the back of her desk chair. “I just twisted my hip a little funny, that’s all.”
I didn’t believe her for a second.
Sandy was the kind of woman who would climb a ladder with a sprained ankle just to hang eucalyptus garlands across her storefront. She didn’t let people in easily—not really. When she did admit to needing help, it was usually more about keeping me from fussing than about her actually asking.
Still, I didn’t push. Not yet.
I made a quiet promise to myself that I’d totally be asking about this later.
“Come on, Penelope,” Sandy said as she brushed past me and out of her office. A gust of rose-scented perfume lingered in her wake, trailing through the air. I stood still for a second, watching her try her damnedest to hide the limp in her stride.
I sighed and followed after her, catching up just in time to beat her to the table. I pulled out her chair and offered my arm in a silent assist.
“Will you please,” she said with a light laugh, brushing me off. “I’m okay.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, backing off with my hands in the air in mock surrender. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
“And I appreciate that,” she replied with a pointed look, “but I don’t need you to coddle me.”
I opened the pizza box and grabbed two slices, handing her one before sitting down across from her. “I’m going to anyway,” I said with a wink, biting into my slice.
Sandy shook her head, trying to smother her smile as she took a bite of her own.
She could pretend to be annoyed, but we both knew better.
Sandy had been a constant in my life since I moved into the tiny apartment above Petal Pusher after high school. At this point, she was less of a landlord and more of a grandmother—sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and the most fiercely independent woman I knew. But that didn’t mean she got to limp around like her hip wasn’t screaming for rest without me stepping in.
She could push me away all she wanted, but I wasn’t going anywhere. I checked in, I hovered, I annoyed the hell out of her—and I’d keep doing it. Because once someone was in my circle, I loved them hard.
Maybe too hard sometimes.
I made them my priority, often at the cost of myself. I was working on that—slowly, painfully learning that I mattered too. That taking care of myself didn’t mean abandoning the people I loved. So for now, I took a deep breath, refocused on the pepperoni in front of me and the way Sandy folded her napkin like she was setting a place at a five-star restaurant.
“Have you heard from your mother?” she asked suddenly, dabbing her mouth with that perfectly creased napkin before placing it neatly back on the table.
With the holiday approaching, I guess I didn’t need to be so thrown off by her curiosity.
I let out a short, bitter scoff and leaned back in my chair, crossing my legs beneath the hem of my dress.
“Nope,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Don’t plan to, either.”
Sandy didn’t reply, just nodded with that soft understanding that came from someone who knew the situation.
I usually saw my mother once a year—if she felt like coming back to Faircloud.
The day I turned eighteen, I was handed my freedom like a set of hand-me-down keys and a goodbye. My mom sold her house, packed her things, and disappeared from my life like she’d been waiting for the exact moment I was no longer her legal responsibility.
It wasn’t that my childhood was tragic—it was just… bare. Minimal. I had food, a roof, and clothes, but no one tucked me in. No one showed up for parent-teacher conferences or clapped from the bleachers. I spent most of my time raising myself.
That’s probably why I’d latched onto Aspen and her family so fiercely. They’d given me something I never had—a sense of being wanted. Being chosen.
I didn’t carry resentment toward my mom. I’d made peace with the absence, the silence, the indifference. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t leave marks.
I think that’s why I poured so much of myself into others. Because deep down, there was a little girl in me who never thought she mattered in the first place. The same little girl that had no one cheering in her corner.
So, I learned to clap for myself.
I became my own cheerleader.
And somehow, in the quiet glow of a flower shop back room, with pizza on mismatched plates and a woman who pretended not to limp, I continued to learn I was worth something more.
Sandy had been there for me, and I was always going to be there for her.
For the rest of our dinner, Sandy and I laughed and gossiped like we always did—an easy rhythm between us, filled with warmth and routine. She filled me in on the latest Faircloud drama, from Mrs. Winchester throwing a fit at the new candy shop owner over a parking spot to something juicier—news about the new chef in town.
Apparently, some big-deal city chef had packed up his knives and moved to Faircloud of all places. Rumor was, he bought The Coffee Cup—the same little café where Aspen used to work before moving to Cassidy Ranch. Ironically, a few doors down from Petal Pusher.
The people of Faircloud were already stirring about it, naturally. Some were concerned he’d attract the “wrong crowd,” whatever that meant. I, for one, didn’t see the problem. Honestly, Faircloud could use a little shaking up. Some fresh energy. And, selfishly, maybe even a dish that didn’t involve pepperoni and a cardboard box.
A girl can only eat so many slices of pizza before the spark fades.
Sandy, on the other hand, was practically buzzing with opinions. She leaned back in her chair, clutching her mug of chamomile tea like it was gospel.
“Can you believe it?” she huffed. “He wants to turn it into some fancy steakhouse. A steakhouse, Penelope. Is that what we need?”
I smiled as I picked up her plate and headed for the sink. “Don’t be so close-minded. It could be good for everyone.”
She waved a dismissive hand at me. “No, Penelope. It isn’t.”
“What about southern hospitality?” I teased. “Aren’t we supposed to be welcoming?”
She took a long, dramatic sip from her mug. “Bless his heart,” she muttered with every ounce of southern sarcasm she had.
I laughed, the sound echoing softly in the quiet shop as I rinsed our dishes.
When everything was clean and put away, I stayed with Sandy while she locked up, making sure she got to her car safely.
Then I headed upstairs to my apartment, the warm smell of flowers still lingering in my hair and clothes. But as I reached the top step, something unusual caught my eye—a small something on the floor near my door.
I stepped closer.
A bouquet.
The red petals were unmistakable. I bent down slowly and picked it up, the scent sweet and familiar, the stems cool and dewy in my hands. A note was tucked between them, the paper rough under my fingertips. I flipped it over, heart already skipping ahead of me.
Penelope,
I’ll never let your pitcher go empty. It’s my promise to you.
Forever,
Mac.
I stared at the note, my heart thrumming as my breath caught somewhere between my chest and throat. He must’ve come straight from the library. And if these were from Sandy’s shop, which of course they were, she hadn’t said a word.
“That woman,” I whispered with a smile, shaking my head.
The grin that spread across my face was instant, unstoppable. My cheeks flushed, heart fluttering like I was seventeen again, and I held the bouquet close to my chest.
I walked through the door, the quiet of home wrapping around me like a soft blanket. And the very first thing I did?
I filled the pitcher.
For the first time in months, I watched the water rise to the brim and gently lowered the roses inside. They fit perfectly.
Then I dug through my purse until I found my phone and snapped a picture of the flowers right there on my little kitchen table.
Penny: I got the flowers. They’re beautiful
Unknown Number: Glad they didn’t wilt. They look good
Penny: OMG how long were they up here?
Unknown Number: Dropped them off before work, right after the library. Sandy said they’d be fine. That woman is never wrong
Penny: Suck-up
I laughed to myself as I walked toward the kitchen. I turned on the speaker and connected my phone, locking the screen and setting it face down on the counter.
Reaching into my fridge, I filled my wine glass with wine until it kissed the rim. Then, I leaned back against the counter and glanced across the room.
The pitcher caught my eye once again.
It looked foreign, being full—like a part of me I’d forgotten had come back to life.
Roses had always been my favorite. But after Mac… they carried more weight. More meaning. They were tattooed on him, inked on his skin in a place I had been close enough to kiss. Close enough to memorize.
I closed my eyes and took a long sip of wine, letting the memories rush over me like a tide.
Happiness.
Comfort.
Thrill.
He brought out a side of me I always enjoyed. And I knew, deep down, I did the same for him.
But no matter how much I wanted to lean in, to let the past go and fall again with abandon, I couldn’t. Not yet.
The hurt was still there, curled in the corners of my heart, waiting. And if I gave in too easily, if I folded now because of a few flirtatious words and a bouquet of my favorite flowers… what message would that send?
No. He needed to earn it.
Because this time, I wasn’t giving myself away so freely.