Chapter 16
JOY
The shop had never felt smaller.
It wasn’t the square footage—McKinley Flowers had always been narrow, long and bright, with its front windows pulling the street inside whether you wanted it or not.
It was the way my skin felt too tight, like I’d stepped into my own life a size too small and couldn’t quite stretch it back into place.
I unlocked the door, disarmed the alarm, and inhaled.
Eucalyptus. Damp earth. The faint sweetness of roses that had opened overnight and were now slightly too honest with the air.
Normal.
That was the word I kept reaching for, like if I said it often enough, the day would believe me.
I tied my apron on with practiced movements and went straight to the cooler, inventory list already running in my head. The wholesaler mistake had been real—wrong varieties, wrong ratios—and fixing it required the kind of focus I’d trained myself to slip into like armor.
Count. Replace. Rebalance. Call favors in.
Work had always been my safest place. Flowers didn’t abandon you if you treated them right. They showed their needs plainly. They didn’t lie.
But even as my hands moved—lifting buckets, trimming stems, rehydrating fragile heads—I felt him.
Micah.
Not physically. Not yet.
But in the way my awareness kept tilting, like my body expected him to walk through the door at any second. Like some part of me had recalibrated overnight and now registered absence as loudly as presence.
It annoyed me.
That loss of equilibrium.
I’d built my whole adult life on steadiness. On being the woman people could count on. The one who didn’t spin out because of feelings or men or moments that threatened to rearrange everything.
And yet.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron.
I froze.
Not fear—anticipation. Sharp and traitorous.
I told myself not to look. Told myself it was probably my momma, or Britney checking in, or the wholesaler calling back with excuses.
I looked, anyway.
Micah: Locked up like you asked. I’m nearby if you need me.
Nearby.
The word hit low in my stomach.
I stared at the screen longer than necessary, my thumb hovering. I hadn’t asked him to stay nearby. Not explicitly. I’d said lock up. I’d said go.
And yet here he was, reading between lines I wasn’t even sure I’d drawn.
I typed back before I could overthink it.
Me: Thank you. I think I’ve got it under control.
The reply came almost immediately.
Micah: I know you do. Still here.
A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with air conditioning.
Still here.
It should have felt intrusive. Overbearing. Like someone stepping too far into a life that wasn’t theirs.
Instead, it felt like a net.
Not tightening.
Just … ready.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket and forced my attention back to the flowers. The event tonight was big—white and green, upscale, the kind of order that carried reputation with it. There was no room for distraction.
By midmorning, the shop was alive.
Britney breezed in late, cheeks flushed, ponytail crooked, apologizing before I could even open my mouth.
“I know, I know, I’m so sorry,” she said, dumping her bag behind the counter. “Traffic was insane, and my GPS—”
“It’s fine,” I said, meaning it. “I need you on centerpieces. Hydrangeas first. Go heavier on the eucalyptus to balance what we lost.”
She blinked. “Already adjusted?”
“Already adjusted.”
She grinned. “You’re magic.”
I smiled back, but the word magic felt wrong. This wasn’t magic. This was control. This was contingency planning. This was me refusing to let something beautiful fail because of someone else’s mistake.
And still—my pulse skidded every time the bell chimed.
Late morning brought brides and planners and tourists who drifted in just to inhale and say things like it smells so lovely in here, as if scent were something you could hang on the wall and keep forever.
Around noon, an older woman I didn’t recognize lingered too long near the front display.
She wasn’t browsing. She wasn’t scanning prices or arrangements or even really looking at the flowers.
She was looking at me.
I felt it before I saw it—the prickle at the back of my neck, the sensation of being assessed instead of observed.
She was polished in a way that felt deliberate. Dark hair. Neutral dress. Fancy shoes.
When our eyes met, she smiled.
It wasn’t unfriendly.
It also wasn’t warm.
“Can I help you?” I asked, stepping out from behind the counter.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m looking for Joy McKinley.”
“That’s me.”
Her gaze flicked over me—apron, hands a little dirty, braid slipping loose over my shoulder—and something unreadable crossed her face.
“I was told you’re very good at what you do,” she said. “Detail-oriented. Reliable.”
“I try to be,” I said carefully.
She nodded, as if ticking a box. “I’ll need a consultation. Something … private.”
A warning bell rang in my mind. Not loud. Just insistent.
“Of course,” I said, anyway, because that was who I was. “We can schedule—”
“Now would be better,” she said. “If you have a moment.”
I hesitated.
Then nodded. “Britney?” I called. “Can you cover the floor for a few minutes?”
“Got it!”
I led the woman to the back workroom, the one with the scarred wooden table and shelves stacked with vases and ribbon spools. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quieter. Less visible.
She didn’t sit when I gestured to the chair.
Instead, she folded her hands and said, “You’re seeing Micah Dane.”
The air left my lungs.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just enough to make me very still.
Because Dane landed differently than Micah ever had.
I’d never asked for his last name.
The realization surprised me—not because it was careless, but because it hadn’t mattered. Micah had arrived in my life whole and immediate, like a presence instead of a résumé. He was Micah. That had been enough. Names beyond that felt like edges I hadn’t needed yet.
But now the surname echoed.
Dane.
I’d heard it before.
Portia.
Portia Dane.
The woman who had quiet authority in her eyes.
Dane.
The coincidence tugged at something in the back of my mind, but I resisted the urge to pull at the thread.
I could, if I wanted to, jump straight to conclusions.
I could wonder if Portia was his wife. His ex. His sister. Someone he belonged to in a way I didn’t yet understand. I could start mapping ownership and hierarchy and meaning onto a situation I barely grasped.
But I didn’t.
Not because the thought didn’t occur—it did—but because I refused to become that woman.
I had never been jealous. Not of other women, not of attention, not of history I hadn’t lived. Jealousy felt like a shortcut to a version of myself I didn’t recognize—smaller, sharper, ruled by fear instead of trust. And trust, whether deserved or not, was something I’d always chosen deliberately.
Besides, speculation felt indulgent.
And indulgence wasn’t an option when there was a stranger standing in front of me, saying my private life out loud like it was a data point.
“I’m not sure that’s your business,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.
The steadiness didn’t come from confidence.
It came from discipline.
From years of learning how to keep my face calm when something unexpected cut too close to the bone. From knowing that reacting too quickly—too emotionally—gave people information they hadn’t earned.
Her lips curved faintly. Not a smile. More like acknowledgment.
“I imagine he would say the same.”
The way she said he—with familiarity, with certainty—was deliberate. Meant to unsettle. Meant to test whether I’d flinch.
I didn’t.
Instead, I met her gaze and held it, even as my mind quietly filed the name away.
Dane.
Interesting.
Not urgent.
Not yet.
What mattered now wasn’t Micah’s last name, or Portia’s, or how they might intersect in ways I didn’t understand.
What mattered was the woman standing across from me—why she was here, how she knew what she knew, and what she wanted enough to step into my shop and cross a line she clearly knew existed.
And I had no intention of letting curiosity distract me from that.
My pulse started to race. “Who are you?”
“Someone who likes to keep track of things,” she replied. “People. Patterns.”
“Then you’ll understand,” I said coolly, “that you’re crossing a line.”
She studied me for a long moment. Then: “Be careful.”
With that single word, she turned and walked out, heels clicking with the certainty of someone who didn’t expect to be stopped.
I stood there long after she was gone, my heart hammering.
I didn’t chase her. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t call Micah.
Not yet.
Because the first thing that rose wasn’t fear.
It was anger.
Not at her—but at the sudden awareness that whatever Micah carried in his past didn’t stay neatly behind him. That being near him meant being seen. Noticed. Entered.
And some part of me—some newly awakened, reckless part—didn’t immediately reject that.
I locked the back room door and went back to the shop.
My phone buzzed again fifteen minutes later.
Micah: Something wrong?
I stared at the message.
How did he know?
I typed slowly.
Me: Why would you ask that?
The reply came faster this time.
Micah: Because my gut says.
My throat tightened.
I didn’t tell him everything. I didn’t know how.
But I didn’t lie.
Me: A woman came in asking questions. About you.
There was a pause.
Long enough that my anxiety started to bloom.
Then:
Micah: Did she scare you?
The question stopped me cold.
Not what did she say.
Not who was she.
Not what did you tell her.
Did she scare you?
I exhaled slowly.
Me: No. But she crossed a line.
Another pause.
When his response came, it was different. Shorter.
Micah: I’m coming by.
My stomach flipped.
Me: Micah, you don’t have to—
Micah: I know.
The bell chimed just minutes later.
Every nerve in my body lit up.
He didn’t look angry when he walked in. Didn’t look rushed or keyed up or dangerous in the obvious ways.
He looked focused.
Alert.
Like a man who had just narrowed his world down to one point and eliminated everything else.
His eyes found me instantly.
I felt it like a hand on my spine.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t even come around the counter.
He simply stood there, taking in the shop, the customers, Britney’s wide-eyed stare, the way I was holding myself too carefully.
Then his gaze came back to me.
“All right?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” I said automatically.
His jaw tightened a fraction.
“Don’t answer me like that,” he said quietly. “Answer me like it matters.”
Heat rushed to my face.
I swallowed. “I’m shaken. Not scared.”
His eyes darkened—not with lust, but with something colder. Sharper.
“Who was she?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She knew your name. Knew about us.”
Us.
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
Micah’s attention snapped to it like a weapon locking on target.
“And?” he prompted.
“She told me to be careful.”
Something in his expression shifted. He stepped closer now—not invading, but undeniably present.
“No one gets to say that to you,” he said.
The certainty in his voice sent a ripple through me.
“Micah,” I said softly. “I don’t need—”
“I know what you don’t need,” he interrupted. “I also know what you didn’t ask for.”
His gaze flicked briefly to Britney, then back to me. “Are you safe right now?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He nodded once. “Then I’ll handle the rest.”
A strange mix of relief and resistance tangled in my chest.
“You don’t get to take over my life,” I said, even as some part of me leaned toward him.
His eyes held mine.
“I don’t want your life,” he said. “I want you protected in it.”
The distinction landed harder than I expected.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Because I wasn’t sure which part of that scared me more—the protection, or the wanting.
He didn’t stay long after that. Just long enough to reassure Britney with a nod and me with a look that said I see everything you’re not saying.
When he left, the shop felt different.
Not quieter.
Guarded.
And as I went back to work—finishing arrangements, checking deliveries, tying ribbons with steady hands—I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d said no one gets to say that to you.
Not like a threat.
Like a promise.