Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Jamie
Seven came too early and not early enough.
I'd barely slept. The house felt wrong without Holden, too quiet, too much space in the bed.
Just a couple of weeks and his morning kisses had become part of my routine.
Marceline had tried to compensate by sprawling across his usual spot, but it wasn't the same.
I'd stared at the ceiling for hours, running through everything that could go wrong today and everything that might go right.
I'd chosen my outfit carefully this morning. Not the beat-up Converse and ratty jeans I usually threw on. The dark green henley that brought out my eyes. My nicer boots. If this was going to be our last day together, I wanted him to remember me looking good.
Now the girls and I stood outside Hutchinson Florals with two coffees from the Copper Kettle, breath fogging in the predawn dark, pulse ticking faster than it should at this hour.
Holden opened the door before I could knock.
He looked ready for battle: clean flannel in charcoal and navy, sleeves already rolled to his elbows, canvas apron tied in that efficient knot he'd probably been making since childhood.
His hair was damp but combed, his jaw freshly shaved.
This was Holden in professional mode, the version of himself he'd spent years perfecting for the biggest day of his year.
He took the coffee I handed him as the dogs ran past him, and for a moment we just stood there in the doorway, cold air swirling between us.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
“Happy Valentine's Day.”
His mouth twitched. “Ask me again in twelve hours.”
He stepped back to let me in, and the day began.
The shop was already humming with preparation.
The whiteboard behind the counter was covered in names and pickup times, Holden's neat handwriting filling every inch.
The coolers were packed so tight you could barely see the glass, roses in every shade of red and pink pressed against wedding arrangements.
Buckets of stems lined the work counter, waiting to be transformed.
The whole place smelled green and alive, that sharp scent of cut stems that I'd come to associate with him.
Jake showed up at seven-thirty, shrugging off the early morning cold as he pushed through the door.
Eighteen, gangly, with a beanie pulled down over his ears and the eager expression of someone determined to prove himself.
Holden had hired him Thursday after his aunt's relentless campaign, and today was his trial run as delivery driver.
“Morning, Mr. Hutchinson.” Jake straightened his spine like he was reporting for duty. “Ready when you are.”
“Here.” Holden handed him a stack of printed addresses. “First three are downtown. Fourth is up near the resort. Take Highway 7, not the back road. Fifth is the Morrison place on Spruce.”
Jake studied the list, nodding as he reviewed the route. “Got it. Highway 7, not the back road.”
“GPS will get you there if you get turned around,” I added. “Just keep the arrangements out of direct sun, and don't leave them in a cold car too long.”
“Yes, sir.” Jake grabbed a carrying flat from the stack by the door—sturdy cardboard with cutouts sized for the crystal vases—and loaded the first batch from the cooler.
Three dozen red roses, the classic Valentine's order.
He slid each vase into place with more care than I'd expected, checking that they were secure before lifting the flat.
“I'll be back in an hour. Maybe ninety minutes if traffic's bad near the resort.”
Holden watched him go, something like approval flickering across his face. “His aunt said he's a hard worker.”
“He seems like a good kid.”
“We'll see.” But his voice had lost the edge I'd expected. He was already turning back to the workbench, mind on the next task.
The first customer arrived at nine, right on schedule.
A man in a rumpled suit, clearly on his way to work, picking up a dozen red roses he'd ordered last week.
Then a woman with three kids in tow, collecting centerpieces for a family dinner.
Then a teenager, nervous and blushing, buying a single rose for a girl in his class.
By ten, we'd settled into a rhythm. Holden in the back building arrangements for tomorrow’s big wedding, his hands moving through stems with that particular focus I'd never get tired of watching.
Me at the register, handling the steady stream of customers picking up their orders, and a few walk-ins who just remembered what day it was.
Prospect Ridge wasn't Denver. We weren't seeing hundreds of customers.
But the bell chimed every few minutes, the phone rang between, and the whiteboard behind me emptied name by name as orders went out the door.
The chaos had a shape to it, a pattern I was starting to recognize.
This was Holden's element. This was what he'd trained his whole life to do.
I found joy in the small moments between rushes.
The satisfaction of wrapping a bouquet without tearing the paper.
The way customers' faces lit up when they saw their arrangements.
The older woman who cried when she picked up the roses for her late husband's grave, and let me hold her hand while she composed herself.
This was what flowers did, I realized. They allowed people to feel deeply.
Not just me, but for everyone who walked through that door.
Around ten, Holden emerged from the back carrying a large paper bag, the top folded over but not sealed. Pink and red and white peeked through the gap.
“What's that?” I asked.
“Rose petals, close to a thousand if you can believe it. Ordered them last week.” He crossed to the tall oak cabinet by the front door, the one that held extra vases and ribbon spools, and set the bag on top, pushing it back from the edge. “For the flower girl baskets tomorrow.”
I whistled. “That's a lot of petals.”
“Three flower girls. Mrs. Redding said they're very enthusiastic.” He dusted his hands on his apron. “Needed them out of the way. We'll be tripping over everything by noon.”
Jake came back at eleven, cheeks red from the cold, grinning like he'd conquered Everest. “No wrong turns,” he announced, grabbing another batch without being asked. “Mrs. Morrison tipped me five bucks.”
“Don't let it go to your head,” Holden said, but there was warmth underneath.
By the third run, Jake started asking questions about the arrangements themselves. Which flowers paired well together. Why certain colors worked for certain occasions. Holden answered in clipped sentences, but he answered, and that was something.
“He's curious,” I said, watching Jake through the window as he loaded the van with the same careful attention he'd shown all morning. “That's good.”
“Curious and competent aren't the same thing.” But Holden's mouth curved, just slightly. “He hasn't dropped anything yet. That's more than I managed my first week.”
The morning blurred into afternoon. Saturday Valentine's Day meant heavier foot traffic than a midweek holiday would have brought.
I handled customers while Holden worked in the back, and we fell into that rhythm that had become second nature over the past weeks.
His hand on my lower back when he needed to pass behind me.
My shoulder brushing his arm when I ducked into the back for more wrapping paper.
Small touches that said everything words couldn't.
Around two, the pace slowed enough for me to breathe.
I leaned against the counter, watching Holden finish a centerpiece for tomorrow's wedding. Lilies and roses, soft and romantic, catching the afternoon light through the front windows. His sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, forearms flexing as he adjusted each stem.
After today, our arrangement was done. He could thank me for my help and shake my hand and that would be it. Back to his quiet shop, his quiet life, his quiet apartment above me right now.
I didn't want quiet. Fuck quiet.
I wanted this. Wanted him.
But did he?
He looked up and caught me staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head, but I was smiling. “Just thinking we make a good team.”
Something shifted in his face. The focus he'd worn all day cracked, and underneath I saw something unguarded. Raw. Something that looked a lot like what I was feeling.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice came out rough. “We do.”
He turned back to the workbench. Pulled out a few stems: ranunculus in shades of peach and coral. Some silvery eucalyptus. A single garden rose the color of a summer sunset. His hands moved quick and sure, building something small and perfect without consulting any order slip.
“What's that for?” I asked.
He didn't answer until he'd finished. Wrapped it in brown paper, tied it with twine, set it on the counter in front of me.
“Just because,” he said. The words landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there, echoing the card from that very first arrangement. “You deserve flowers too.”
I picked it up. The ranunculus were still tight, just starting to unfurl at the edges. By tomorrow they'd be open, layers and layers of petals like something from a painting. The garden rose was soft against my fingers. The eucalyptus smelled like something clean and safe.
“Holden—”
The bell rang. Another customer. He was already turning away, toward his workbench and the next order, and the moment passed.
But I kept the little arrangement close for the rest of the afternoon, tucked behind the register where I could see it.
Every time I glanced at it, the weight of everything we hadn't said pressed against my chest. And every time I caught Holden looking my way, I let myself hope that he was feeling it too.
Holden
The last customer left at six-forty-five.