Chapter One #2
“I'm not most people.” His mouth curved up, and I found myself tracking the shape of it, the fullness of his lower lip, the way the smile changed his whole face. I looked away before he could catch me at it.
“Thanks, Flower Guy.”
He was gone before I could respond, the bell ringing behind him. The shop fell quiet again. Just me and the spreadsheets and the faint trace of soap that hung in the air where he'd been standing.
Back to work. Tried to, anyway. But my hands had lost their rhythm, and I kept glancing at the door like I expected it to open again.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and made myself focus on the spreadsheet. Valentine's Day was coming. I had work to do. I didn't have time to think about bright hazel eyes.
I thought about them anyway.
Jamie
Marceline and Bubblegum knew where they were going before I did.
They pulled me down Main Street like tiny sled dogs, the January wind cutting through my jacket and reminding me that Colorado winters hit different here than in Denver.
Colder up here, sharper. The kind of cold that found every gap between your clothes and your skin.
We made a quick pit stop at the small park across from the Copper Kettle, where I'd eaten breakfast three times this week.
Prospect Ridge wasn't big, just four blocks of Main Street, a handful of residential neighborhoods at the base of a ski lodge, mountains in the distance like they were keeping watch. Everyone knew everyone.
That was going to be a problem.
A month in this town had taught me a few things.
The Copper Kettle had better pastries than the chain near the highway.
The coworking space above the old hardware store was the only place with reliable wifi.
And this situation I'd found myself in—following my ex to his hometown for shared custody of two corgis—might actually work.
The florist's shop had been a discovery.
I'd walked past it a dozen times without noticing, but this morning something pulled me to that building.
Was it the urge to treat myself? Yeah, maybe I'd been a little down last night, simultaneously mourning the death of my love life by moving to this tiny town, feeling hurt that Landon ignored me when we ran into each other at the grocers, and oh yeah, my still bruised and tender heart.
Sending flowers had sounded like a great plan at the time.
Then there was the florist himself. I hadn't been prepared for that. For him.
Flower Guy was the tallest person I'd ever seen up close.
Not just tall—towering, the kind of height that made the shop seem smaller, that made me aware of every inch I didn't have.
Standing near him felt like being next to a building.
My head had tilted back at an angle that should have been ridiculous just to meet his eyes, and something about that, the vulnerability of the position, or maybe the way he'd straightened when I stepped closer, had done something to my brain.
Dark hair cut short. Dark eyes that gave nothing away.
Broad shoulders, long limbs. Hands that had caught my attention when he reached for the order form—large, careful, with a small scar on his left thumb I'd wanted to ask about.
The muscles in his forearms shifting under rolled-up flannel sleeves.
He moved with a precision that seemed at odds with his size, like someone who'd learned to be gentle with the world because he knew he could break things.
Handsome wasn't the right word. Too simple. He was handsome the way old buildings were handsome, something you had to look at properly to appreciate, something most people probably walked right past. He had an old-fashioned kind of face, like those movie stars of old.
And I'd said “you're tall” like an idiot. Out loud. To his face.
What a fucking loser I was. Landon was right.
But he'd made a joke. A dry, deadpan thing that had surprised a laugh out of me, and for a second his face had shifted into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't quite not one either.
His ears had gone red when I'd looked at him too long.
I'd noticed that—the flush creeping up from his shirt, the way he'd looked away first.
Interesting. My gaydar was usually impeccable, and something told me that Flower Guy played for my team.
But the attraction was inconvenient. I was supposed to be focusing on myself, on rebuilding, on figuring out if Prospect Ridge could be home, and not just 'home for now.'
After the girls were done with their business, we crossed the street and I ducked into the Copper Kettle, dogs in tow.
Mags behind the counter raised an eyebrow at me; she always did, like she was perpetually waiting for me to say something interesting.
But today she waved me through when she saw I just wanted a to-go cup.
The usual, which now meant a large coffee with extra cream and sugar because, alas, I couldn't get my beloved venti iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot and light ice within an hour's drive of this town.
“Cold one today,” she said as she poured. Mags was somewhere in her sixties, gray hair pulled back in a practical bun, the kind of woman who'd seen everything twice and wasn't impressed by any of it.
“Getting used to it.” I took the coffee, wrapping my hands around the cup for warmth. “Slowly.”
“Denver boy.” She shook her head, but there was something almost fond in it. “You'll toughen up.”
Let's hope so.
The coworking space was up a narrow staircase, the sign on the door reading PROSPECT RIDGE CREATIVE in letters that were starting to peel. Inside, Brandy Branson was at her desk, surrounded by real estate listings and a mug that said brANDY SELLS PROSPECT RIDGE! in aggressive pink lettering.
The large room was divided into four smaller areas, separated by tall movable walls, though right now only Brandy and I were renting space here.
“Jamie!” She looked up over her reading glasses—bright fushia today, matching her blazer. “You look flustered, hon. What happened?”
“Nothing.” I unclipped the dogs' leashes and let them find their spot under my desk. Marceline circled three times before flopping down; Bubblegum waited for her to settle, then curled up against her side. “Just stopped by the flower shop on Main. Hutchinson's?”
“Oh, you met Holden.” Her eyebrows rose. “How was that experience?”
Holden. The name fit him somehow. Solid, a little old-fashioned. I filed it away.
“Fine.” I dropped into my chair, pulling my laptop from my bag. “He's tall.”
Brandy laughed, warm and knowing. “That he is. What else?”
“He barely said ten words to me.” I took a sip of coffee. “Is he like that with everyone, or did I do something wrong?”
“That's just Holden. Grumpy as they come, always has been.” She leaned back, mug in both hands.
“Don't take it personally. He doesn't do small talk.” She considered me over the rim.
“Doesn't do big talk either, come to think of it.
But he's good at what he does. Been running that shop since his grandmother passed, keeps to himself mostly. Good kid, though.”
“Good to know.”
I opened my laptop but didn't start working. Kept thinking about the way he'd straightened when I stepped closer and let himself take up space for just a moment. Like he'd been trying to disappear and then, briefly, decided not to.
He hadn't laughed at my order, either, or asked probing questions. He'd been serious, but not… mean or anything.
The flowers weren't a joke. My therapist back in Denver would have been proud.
I was doing the work, showing up for myself even when no one else would.
After two years with Landon, I'd learned that waiting for someone else to make you feel worthy was a losing game.
So I bought myself flowers. Took myself on walks.
Reminded myself, on the bad days, that I was worth the effort even when it didn't feel that way.
Landon. The name made my shoulders creep up toward my ears.
We'd met in Denver a few years ago, started dating soon after that.
He was in tech sales, all confidence and polish, the kind of guy who walked into a room and made everyone look.
I'd been building my freelance design business, still figuring out who I was.
He'd seemed like an answer to a question I hadn't known I was asking.
We were happy. We were in love.
Two years together. We'd adopted Marceline and Bubblegum as puppies six months in, and for a while things had been good. The dogs, the apartment, the life we were building together. The family I'd always wanted.
When things fell apart, when I finally admitted to myself that they'd been falling apart for a long time, Landon's company had gone under.
Tech layoffs, the whole industry contracting, and suddenly the man who'd always had an answer for everything was unemployed and unmoored.
He'd get angry and take it out on me and our relationship, easy targets.
One day he decided to move back to his hometown. Prospect Ridge. The place he'd grown up, where his family owned the ski resort up the mountain, where he could regroup and figure out his next move.
I told him that I understood.
Honestly, I didn't, but what else could I say? Things had been civil enough, dividing up any possessions we'd acquired together… except—
I looked down at the girls.
I wasn't giving up the dogs, and neither was he. Eventually we agreed to shared custody, alternating weeks, which meant I had a choice: stay in Denver and drive ninety minutes each way twice a month where we'd make the switch, or follow Landon to a town I'd never seen so we'd be closer.
Pathetic, probably. My mother certainly thought so. But my girls were worth it, and I had no real ties to Denver.
Under my desk, Marceline rolled onto her back, paws in the air. I reached down to scratch her belly, my fingers brushing the tattoo on my wrist—the two pointed Corgi ears I'd gotten a year into having them, back when I'd thought Landon and I would last forever.
The tattoo had outlasted the relationship. So had my love for these two ridiculous animals.
“You're thinking hard over there.” Brandy's voice cut through. “Everything okay?”
“Just settling in.” I pulled up the design project I was supposed to be working on, a logo for a craft brewery in Denver that wanted something “rustic but modern, classic but fresh.” The kind of brief that meant seventeen versions before they picked the first one.
“It takes time, right? Getting used to a new place?”
“It does.” She set down her mug and shuffled through papers on her desk. “But Prospect Ridge is good at taking people in. Give it a few more months.”
I wanted to believe her. My lease was month-to-month, a safety net because I wasn't ready to commit to anything permanent. Not after Landon. Not yet.
But sitting here in this cramped coworking space, with the mountains visible through the window and my dogs at my feet and coffee warming my hands, I felt something I hadn't felt in a while.
Not happiness, exactly. More like the possibility of it.
The sense that I could breathe here, maybe, if I let myself.
Through the frost-edged glass, I could see the road that wound up toward Hawkin's Ridge—Landon's family's ski resort, the reason he'd come back, the reason I was here at all.
The slopes were busy this time of year, cars crawling up the mountain.
But down here in town, everything moved slower.
Quieter. After Denver's constant noise—the traffic, the construction, the bars spilling crowds onto the sidewalks at all hours—this icy stillness felt almost alien.
Beautiful, though. The kind of desolate beauty that made you feel small in a way that wasn't entirely bad.
I started sketching ideas for the logo. Thought about grumpy florists and dry humor and the way Holden's ears had flushed red when I'd caught him looking.
Probably nothing. Definitely nothing. The man had barely spoken to me, and I was supposed to be focusing on myself, not getting distracted by broad shoulders and careful hands and the challenge of making someone that closed-off smile.
But the flowers would come later this week. He'd said he'd surprise me with the day.
I found myself looking forward to it more than I should have.