Chapter 4 #2
I swear on all that is holy that time slows as I watch the plant sway. The ceramic pot it’s in retails for over one hundred dollars. Please, oh please, don’t let it shatter. Not while I’m watching at least.
Sawyer’s eyes go wide. He lunges, more gracefully than I was expecting, and catches the plant mid-swing.
“Got it,” he says triumphantly, holding it steady. “Didn’t even break eye contact.”
I close my eyes and exhale. “How did you…?”
“Don’t know.” He sets the plant back exactly where it was and straightens, hands up again. “But, crisis averted.”
I look at him. Really look at him. The coffee. The effort. The way he caught the plant like it mattered. The way his hair is slightly messed up from the wind and there’s a small scar near his left eyebrow I didn’t notice before.
“Okay,” I say, laying down the stack of paperwork that our new friend Carol brought us, while also giving myself a cease and desist on noticing things about Sawyer. “Let’s start here.”
Sawyer peers at the pages like they might bite. “That’s a lot of paper.”
“Welcome to civic enthusiasm,” I say. “Apparently, Carol does not do subtle.”
I flip to the first page, scanning the neatly bulleted list. “Okay. She’s given us a list of ideas of what to do with you. First suggestion: regular in-store appearances.”
Sawyer brightens immediately. “I could do that.”
I don’t even look up. “Easy there, hero. This is a small shop. We don’t have crowd control, security, or insurance for stampedes.”
“I wouldn’t cause a stampede,” he says, wounded.
I glance at him. He’s sincere. That’s the problem.
“I’m saying people would want photos. Autographs. A moment to chat.” I gesture at the surrounding greenery. “This is not an arena. This is a jungle with a cash register.”
“But I could meet your customers,” he says. “Say hi. Smile. Make people want to come in. People like my autograph.”
I pause. Blink. Look at him. Blink again.
“Make people want to come in,” I repeat slowly.
He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. That’s kind of the point, right? Visibility for the shop. More foot traffic.”
My brain does the math before I can stop it. More foot traffic means more sales. More sales means I can pay the supplier invoice. Maybe even have enough left over for Theo’s birthday.
“You’d bring people in,” I say carefully.
“I mean, probably?” He looks almost embarrassed. “Not to sound like an ass, but...yeah. The team’s pretty popular right now.”
I glance at the invoice still sitting on the counter. $847. Four days.
I arch an eyebrow, recovering. “You think people would want your autograph that much?”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Historically? Yes.”
I press my lips together, both trying not to laugh at his honesty but also, considering. “Fine. We’ll put an asterisk here and revisit this one.”
An asterisk. The most dangerous punctuation mark. He nods seriously. “Not a no. Just…pending.”
“Exactly.”
He leans closer, scanning the list, finger hovering carefully above the page like he’s been dared not to touch it, which is probably a little my fault. His cologne is subtle—cedar and something clean, not overwhelming. I notice this and immediately hate myself for it.
“Ooh. Youth-focused programs. What if we did something with kids?” he asks, enthusiasm warming his voice. “I’m good with kids.”
“That sentence required bravery,” I say dryly.
He winces. “Fair. But, if we do something to connect the kids with your plants…”
I reread the bullet point. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Wouldn’t you know it, against my better judgment, and the fact curiosity did kill the cat, I need more info.
“What do you mean exactly?” I ask.
“Well,” he says, warming to the idea, “hockey’s all about discipline. Showing up. Learning from mistakes. Growth.” He gestures vaguely between us. “Feels like that could…translate.”
I hesitate. Then nod. “It could.”
His eyes light up. “Goals and growth.”
I grin. “Did you just accidentally brand a workshop?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a good brand.”
I hate that he’s right.
“Okay,” I say carefully. “That one’s promising.”
“Yes,” he says, standing up a little taller, pleased with himself. Sawyer then points to the next bullet point on the list. “Next: social media content.”
“No,” I say instantly.
Sawyer cocks his head to one side. “Why not?”
“I just—” I stop myself, flip the page. “No.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“No, you’re right it’s not. It’s a boundary.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “Okay. Noted.”
I exhale, relieved he doesn’t push.
“Community event,” I continue to the next suggestion. “We could do a planting day with school kids. I feel like it would make Carol happy because she could get the press to come. I could ask Theo’s school?”
“And,” he says, tapping another line, “what’s this? Player’s Pick?”
I follow his finger. “That’s where you choose a plant. We feature it. Customers buy it because you picked it.”
His grin turns sheepish. “Will I need to know what the plant is?"
“I don’t know.” I tilt my head, amused. I’m beginning to see that this is like talking to a larger version of my son. “What do you think?”
He mulls over my words. “I’ll learn. How’s that?”
“Fine.” I sigh. “That one also gets an asterisk.”
He laughs. “I’m sensing a theme.”
“Earn your asterisks,” I say. “That’s how this works.”
“Maybe stickers next time?”
I can tell by his tone he’s teasing, but I’m not biting. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He leans back against the counter, his eyes sparkling and a tiny dimple appearing when he smiles. I hadn’t noticed that before. But right now, he’s looking at me with something like respect. “You’re really organized.”
“I have to be.”
“For Theo,” Sawyer says gently. Not assuming. Just stating it like a fact he’s already privy to.
I nod. “For Theo. And for this place. And for…” I trail off, because listing everything I’m holding together feels dangerously close to admitting how heavy it all is.
How I’m one bad month away from losing everything.
How the supplier invoice isn’t the only bill I’m juggling.
How Theo’s birthday is coming up fast and I have exactly seventy-three dollars in my savings account.
Once again, he doesn’t push. Instead, he looks around the shop again.
At the plants, the stationery, the sunlight, the careful order under the charm.
His gaze lingers on the empty space near the window—the spot where I used to have three fiddle leaf figs before I had to return them to the supplier because I couldn’t afford to keep them in stock.
He doesn’t comment. But I wonder if he sees it. The gaps. The places where this shop should be thriving but is barely surviving.
Then his gaze comes back to me.
“I know this probably isn’t what you asked for,” he says. “Me, showing up here with a schedule, a learning curve, and a natural tendency to knock into things.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say.
“But,” he adds, quieter now, “I’m not here to make your life harder. I swear.”
There’s something in his voice when he says it. Not performative. Not polished. It’s earnest.
I study him for a long second. The way he’s standing like he’s trying not to take up too much space. The way he hasn’t once touched anything he wasn’t invited to. The way he listened when I said no. The way he blushed when Charlie congratulated him, like praise still catches him off guard.
While I’m now feeling like this won’t be as hard as I thought, eight weeks of a hockey player in my carefully balanced world is a lot. Eight weeks of explaining, negotiating, trusting—things I’ve learned to ration carefully.
But standing here, coffee warming my hands, paperwork spread out between us like a tentative truce, I realize something about myself. I don’t feel braced for impact. I feel curious.
And maybe I also feel dangerously, desperately hopeful. If he really can bring people in, if this partnership actually works, then maybe I can save this place. Maybe I can give Theo the birthday he wants. Maybe I won’t have to choose between paying the electric bill and keeping plants in stock.
“All right,” I say, squaring the papers and meeting his eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Stockton.”
His smile is slow this time. It’s not teasing, nor cocky, but I’ll be darned if it isn’t disarming.
“Deal,” he says. “I’ll try not to mess it up.”
I believe him, which feels like the bigger risk. I take a moment to glance around the shop myself, see if there’s anything I can get Sawyer to help with while he’s here today, when the bell over the door chimes.
I glance up automatically—customer service smile already forming—and freeze.
A woman in her mid-thirties stands in the doorway, dressed too well for a Monday morning plant shop visit. Tailored blazer. Professional camera bag over her shoulder. The kind of purposeful energy that makes my stomach drop.
“Hi!” she says brightly, stepping inside. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for Juliette Gianelli?”
My mouth goes dry. “That’s me.”
She extends a hand, smile widening. “Melissa Torres, Alexandria Gazette. I heard through a little birdie that Sawyer Stockton’s taking part in a team-and-city community outreach here?
” Her eyes land on Sawyer, and her expression shifts into something that’s half-recognition, half-delight. “And there he is! This is perfect.”
I don’t move. Can’t move. My brain is trying to process what’s happening, but it feels like the words are arriving through water. Dramatic? Yes. But I have my reasons.
Sawyer straightens, his easy smile flickering slightly. He glances at me—quick, checking—and something in my face must alarm him because his expression shifts immediately.
“Hi,” he says to Melissa, polite but cautious. “I’m Sawyer.”