The Valentine Arrangement

Chapter One

Holden

The bell over the door had rung six times before noon.

I kept count because each ring meant another conversation that I didn't have time for this.

Mrs. Redding swung by to check in on the wedding order for her daughter's big wedding next month.

A man I'd never seen before wanted to know if I sold balloons.

And somewhere between those interruptions, I'd lost my place in the supplier spreadsheet for the third time.

To anyone walking past, Hutchinson Florals looked quiet. Empty, even—just an ordinary January day. A few potted plants in the window, some greenery arrangements on the display table, nothing that screamed Valentine's Day is coming.

That was the point.

The real work was happening in the back, in the cooler, in the notebooks and spreadsheets I'd been buried in since New Year's.

Last year's order numbers told me I'd need four hundred roses by February tenth.

The wholesale prices told me I couldn't afford to order them yet—not with the January markup, not when I could wait two more weeks and hopefully save twelve percent.

So I waited, and planned, and triple-checked my math, because running Valentine's solo meant there was no room for mistakes.

Lynda would have had all of this organized by now. She'd worked here for thirty years, first for my grandmother, then for me when I inherited the place five years ago. She'd retired in December, with a cheerful wave and a promise to stop by for tea.

I hadn't found anyone to replace her. Told myself I hadn't found the right person.

The truth sat closer to the bone: I liked the quiet. Had built my life around it, in fact. Prospect Ridge, Colorado was small enough that everyone knew everyone's business, which meant everyone knew I wasn't interested in the women Mags at the Copper Kettle kept trying to set me up with.

She'd figured it out eventually.

The options for men in a town this size were limited to nonexistent, and I didn't do casual hookups with people I'd run into at the grocery store for the next thirty years. So I'd made my peace with solitude. My hand worked fine. The shop kept me busy. It was enough.

It had to be enough.

The shop had good bones. Exposed brick along one wall, wide windows that let in decent light, wood floors that creaked in the spots where my grandmother used to stand while she worked.

I'd grown up watching her hands move through stems and petals like she was conducting an orchestra only she could hear.

She'd run this place for four decades before her heart gave out, and when everyone I'd gone to school with left Prospect Ridge for bigger towns and better opportunities, I stayed.

The shop was the only place that ever felt like mine.

It was quiet now. I was alone with the spreadsheets and the satisfaction of not having to make small talk.

My hands found work: updating inventory counts, cross-referencing supplier catalogs, flagging the ribbon samples that weren't even close to the wine-red I'd requested.

Work I could do without thinking. Work that didn't require me to be anything other than what I was.

The bell rang again. Fuck my life.

Two corgis burst through the door first, straining at their leashes like they'd discovered the promised land.

Golden and white, stubby legs churning—the slightly larger one in front, nose working overtime as she tried to investigate every corner of the shop.

The smaller one hung back near the door, waiting, watching her companion for the all-clear.

Behind them, pulled along like an afterthought, was their owner.

The top of his head might reach my shoulder if he stood on his toes.

I was used to looking down at people—six foot seven made that unavoidable.

But this felt like more down than usual.

Enough that I noticed the angle of his jaw, the way his neck would have to tilt back to meet my eyes.

Then the rest of him caught up with my brain: sandy blond hair, wavy, curling behind his ears where it had grown long. Bright, curious eyes.

He moved like someone comfortable in his own body, quick and expressive, already talking with his hands before he'd said a word.

He looked up at me and his mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.

“Okay, wow,” he said. “You're tall.”

I got that a lot. Six foot seven made people comment. Made them ask if I played basketball, if the weather was different up there, if I could reach things on high shelves. I'd heard every joke, every observation, every awkward attempt at connection. I waited for his.

“Sorry.” He shook his head, a flush creeping across his cheekbones. “That was rude. I'm sure you've never heard that before.”

“Never once.”

He laughed, louder than necessary for this small space “Fair enough. I deserved that.” He tugged at the leashes, accomplishing nothing. “Marceline and Bubblegum have opinions about your merchandise.”

His eyes that caught the light from the windows, somewhere between green and brown.

“Marceline and… Bubblegum?”

“The dogs.” He gestured at them with his free hand.

The bold one—Marceline, I assumed—had discovered the potted fern near the register and was sniffing it with the intensity of a sommelier evaluating a vintage. Bubblegum had finally ventured past the doorway, settling at her owner's feet now that the space had been declared safe.

“Can I help you?” I asked, because I had to say something, and that was safer than commenting on his dogs' weird names or his laugh or the way he was looking at me.

Not the way most people looked—the curious glances at my height, the quick assessments and dismissals.

This was something else. Something I recognized because I'd trained myself not to do it.

He was looking at me the way I looked at men I couldn't have in a town this small.

“I need flowers.” He moved toward the counter, and I found myself straightening from the hunch I'd held all morning. Unfolding, just slightly.

His gaze traveled up my body, eyes moved slow, deliberate. Heat crept up the back of my neck.

“For delivery,” he added. “To my office.”

I waited for the rest. The name of someone—a girlfriend, his mother… maybe even a boyfriend? The explanation that always came with flower orders, the story I didn't ask for but received anyway.

“For myself.” He said it when I didn't respond. “I want to send myself flowers.”

My pen paused over the order form. “You want to send yourself flowers.”

“Is that weird?” He didn't wait for an answer.

“My dad used to bring my mom flowers every Friday.

Not because of anything special. Just because he wanted her to know he was thinking about her.

He'd sign the cards 'Just Because.' My last boyfriend thought it was ridiculous, and said I was too sentimental.” Something flickered across his face, there and gone.

“But he thought a lot of things about me were too much, so. I figured I deserve flowers even if no one else is going to buy them for me.”

Last boyfriend.

I had no idea what to say to the rest of it.

In five years of running this shop, no one had ever ordered flowers for themselves with that kind of earnestness.

People sent flowers to apologize, to celebrate, to mourn.

They sent them because they'd forgotten something important or because they wanted to impress someone.

They didn't send flowers to themselves because they deserved them.

“What kind of arrangement?” I heard myself ask.

“Something beautiful, crafted by a professional,” he said, waving a hand at me.

He came closer to the counter, close enough that I caught a trace of soap and something spicy.

He leaned forward on his forearms, and my gaze caught on his hands—slim fingers, a small tattoo on the inside of his wrist. Simple line work.

“Not the sad grocery store kind wrapped in plastic.”

“I don't make sad arrangements.”

“Glad to hear it.” He was looking around the shop now, taking in the supplier catalogs stacked on the back table, the ribbon samples spread across the counter.

He wore layers, a cream sweater under a jacket that looked too thin for January, and he'd wrapped his hands around his elbows like he was already cold.

“This place is great. How long have you been here?”

“Five years. My grandmother had it before me.”

“I'm new. Just moved here about a month ago.” He said it like he expected me to welcome him to town, to ask where he was from, to engage in the kind of conversation I'd been avoiding all morning. “I'm Jamie, by the way. Jamie Redford.”

I didn't offer my name. Didn't need to. It was painted on the window in gold letters that had been there since before I was born.

“Budget?” I asked instead.

“Whatever makes something beautiful.” He pulled out his wallet, handed me a card. “Don't tell me how much. Just make something good and charge me for it.”

“And the card?”

He thought for a moment. The bolder dog, Marceline, I assumed, had grown bored with the fern and was nosing at Bubblegum, who tolerated the attention with the air of a long-suffering sibling.

“Just because,” he said. “Because you deserve it. Something positive like that.”

I wrote it down. His own handwriting would have been better, more meaningful, right? But he didn't offer to write it himself and I didn't suggest it. I took his office address—the coworking space above the old hardware store down the street—and told him I'd deliver sometime this week.

“Surprise me,” he said. “Pick a day.” He glanced down at the dogs, then back up at me, lifting his head to meet my eyes. The angle shouldn't have done anything to me. It did anyway. “We're there most mornings. And I like surprises.”

“Most people don't.”