Chapter 8
HOPE
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, reaching for it, I frown when I see who it is.
“It's the florist,” I explain. “I should take this.”
“Go ahead. I'm gonna grab a shower.” Frost swings his legs out of bed. “Wash off the rest of the plague.”
My stomach still feels like it’s going to rebel when I hit the button on the screen.
I take a deep breath, willing it to settle down. “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Hope Webster?” a woman asks, her voice bright and chipper. Too chipper to someone who spent half the night puking.
“This is Hope.”
“This is Danielle from Blooms. I'm calling about your wedding order for Valentine’s Day.”
My heart does a little flip. “Yes? Is everything okay?”
There's a pause that makes my stomach drop for entirely different reasons than food poisoning.
“Well, that's actually why I'm calling. I'm so sorry, but we're not going to be able to fulfill your order.”
I sit up too fast, and my head spins. “What?”
“It's Valentine's Day weekend, and we're completely overbooked. We took on too many orders, and with the holiday rush, we just ca—”
“Don’t you dare say you can’t.”
“I'm so sorry. We should have realized sooner, bu—”
“You're calling me a few days before my wedding to tell me you can't do my flowers?” My voice cracks. “I ordered those flowers six weeks ago.” I'm standing now, pacing, my hands shaking. “Six weeks… You confirmed everything. You took my deposit. Yo—”
“I know, and we're issuing a full refund, of cour—”
“I don't want a refund. I want my flowers! I'm getting married in three days.” I glance at the bathroom door, thankful the water is running, and Frost can’t hear my freak out.
“I understand you're upset.” She sighs. “Unfortunately, these things happen sometimes.”
“Upset?” I laugh, and it sounds a little unhinged. “I spent last night throwing up everything I've eaten in the past week. I feel like I got hit by a truck, and now you're telling me I'm not going to have flowers at my wedding?”
“These things happen with rush weddings,” Danielle says, and there's something in her tone that sounds awfully like judgment. “Is there a reason you needed to get married so quickly? Are you... pregnant?”
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it with blind rage. The audacity. The absolute fucking audacity of this woman.
“Yep,” I say, voice way too calm and clear. “I'm pregnant. Sure, why else would I be getting married in a hurry?”
I lower my voice, trying to get control of myself, trying not to completely lose it. “Look, I don't care what you think about my timeline. I care about having flowers at my wedding. Can you refer me to someone? Anyone?”
“On Valentine's Day weekend?” She sounds doubtful. “I can give you some names, but I don't thi—”
“Just give me the names.”
She rattles off three florists, and I scribble them down on the hotel notepad with shaking hands. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let the tears fall. I’m not going to cry over flowers.
“Is there anything else I can do?” Danielle asks, and she sounds genuinely apologetic now, but it's too late.
“No.” I hang up before she can say anything else.
I stand there, staring at the list of names, feeling the weight of everything crashing down.
The food poisoning, the exhaustion, and now this.
I should’ve realized that the wedding planning being done so quickly without any hiccups was giving me false hope that everything would turn out perfect. Instead, everything is falling apart.
Calm down, Hope. They’re only flowers. You’re still going to marry Frost.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, phone clutched in my hand, and take a shaky breath. I can hear the shower running in the bathroom. Frost is in there, probably feeling just as awful as I do, and I need to pull myself together. I need to fix this. I dial the first number on the list.
It rings four times before someone picks up. “Petals and Stems, this is Marcus.”
“Hi, my name is Hope Webster, and I'm getting married on Valentine’s Day. My florist just canceled on me, and I was wond—”
“Valentine’s Day? As in three days?”
“Yes. I know it's last minute, bu—”
“I'm sorry, we're completely booked. Valentine's Day weekend is our busiest time of year. You would’ve needed to book with us at least six months out, if not a year.”
Of fucking course.
“Do you know anyone who mig—”
“Not on Valentine's Day weekend. I'm really sorry.”
I hang up and immediately dial the second number, but there’s no answer. The third number goes straight to voicemail. I drop the phone onto the bed and press my hands to my face.
I’m fine… It’s fine, right? People get married without flowers all the time.
It's not the end of the world. Except it feels like it is.
I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted Frost to see me walk down the aisle with those star gazer lilies and the venue decorated with all the arrangements we picked out together.
Now I'm sitting in a hotel room, still queasy from food poisoning, with no flowers and no backup plan.
I hear the shower turn off, and I quickly wipe my eyes, straightening my shoulders.
I can't fall apart, not today. Today, I need a plan and quick.
Flowers or no flowers, this wedding is still happening.
I take a deep breath and grab my phone again.
Maybe Amy knows someone, or maybe Vegas has a connection since this is his town.
The bathroom door opens, and Frost steps out, steam following him into the room.
He's wearing jeans, his chest still bare with water droplets in his hair.
I look up at him, ready to vent about the florist disaster, but the words die in my throat.
Something's off. His expression is... blank. Not tired, not sick, but empty.
“Hey,” I say slowly, studying his face. "You okay?”
“Yeah.” His voice is flat. “Still not feeling quite right.”
I stand up, crossing to him. “Stomach still upset?”
“Uh huh.” He doesn't meet my eyes, moving past me to grab a shirt from his bag.
I reach out and touch his arm. “Do you need anything? I can get you more ginger al—”
“I'll be fine.” He pulls the shirt over his head, and when his face reappears, he's looking somewhere past my shoulder. “You should get ready.”
There's something in his tone I can't place. “Frost?”
“I'm fine, Hope. Really.” He finally looks at me, and for just a second, I see something flicker in his eyes. Something that makes my chest tighten.
But then it's gone, and he's turning away, pulling socks from his bag.
I want to push and ask what's really wrong. I could be reading too much into it. The florist threw me for a loop, and we were both sick as shit last night. He's probably just exhausted.
“Okay,” I say softly. “I'm gonna shower.”
He nods but doesn't say anything else.
I grab my clothes and head into the bathroom, glancing back at him once before I close the door. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. My stomach twists, but I push the feeling away as I start the water.
By the time I'm showered and dressed, Frost seems a little more present. He's on his phone, scrolling when I emerge from the bathroom.
He looks up at me. “Ready?”
“Let’s go.” I grab my purse, checking my reflection one more time in the mirror. My hair's still damp, but I've managed to make myself look somewhat human. “How about some breakfast? That might help us feel better.”
Frost stands, pocketing his phone. “You never know.”
We head down to the hotel restaurant together, and I reach for his hand in the elevator. He takes it, but his grip is loose. He seems distracted, but I don’t call him out for it because my mind is racing with solutions to the flower debacle.
I squeeze his fingers. “You sure you're okay?”
“Positive.”
The elevator doors open, and we step into the lobby. The restaurant is just off to the side, and I can already hear the familiar rumble of voices. Sure enough, when we walk in, half the tables have been pushed together, and the brothers are sprawled across them like they own the place.
Chaos spots us first. “There they are! The walking dead!”
Hawk raises his coffee mug. “Thought you two might sleep the day away.”
“Don't tempt me,” I mutter, sliding into an empty chair next to Amy.
Frost sits across from me, next to Colt, who claps him on the shoulder. “You look like shit, brother.”
“Feel like it, too,” Frost says, reaching for the coffee pot in the center of the table.
Amy leans over, lowering her voice. “You alright? You look stressed.”
I glance at Frost, who's pouring coffee and not looking at me, then back at Amy. I keep my voice barely above a whisper, “Florist canceled.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“They called this morning and told me they're overbooked for Valentine's Day weekend and can't do our flowers.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I were.” I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. “I've called four other places. No one can do it on such short notice.”
Amy's jaw tightens. “Those assholes. What are we gonna do?”
“We?”
“We,” she reiterates. “You’re not alone.”
I give her a weak smile. “I don't know.” My voice cracks a little, and I hate it. “I-I-I wanted everything to be perfect, you know?”
Amy's expression softens as she reaches over to squeeze my hand. “It’ll be okay. We’ll come up with a solution.”
“How?”
She's quiet for a moment while she thinks. Then her face lights up. “Silk flowers.”
I blink. “What?”
“Silk flowers. We’ll go to a craft store, buy a bunch of silk flowers, and make the bouquets ourselves. It'll take a couple hours, but we can do it.”
“Amy, I don't know how to—”
“I do. Remember when I worked for that wedding planner briefly, during my ‘don’t know what the fuck to do with my life’ phase?
” I nod. “The lady used to make arrangements for weddings all the time, and I helped her.” She's already pulling out her phone, typing rapidly.
“There's a huge craft store like twenty minutes from here. They should have everything we need.”