Chapter 45
Amber
The bell above the door jingles, the familiar chime echoing through the little florist. The scent of eucalyptus and damp earth fills my lungs, grounding me in the place I used to feel most alive.
‘Wild Ones’ looks the same as always—buckets of lilies and alstroemeria by the window, the floor scattered with stray petals, sunlight spilling through glass that really needs a polish.
But I don’t feel the same.
It’s been nearly three months since Dad drove me away from Norway, since I left Bas standing in that cabin with my heart still in his hands.
Months of silence. Months of pretending that coming home was what I wanted.
Months of realising his fear is greater than what he feels for me.
Months of hurting in silence, as if missing him is the only language I know now.
“Morning, boss!”
Andrea’s voice rings out from behind the hydrangeas. She’s got a rose tucked behind her ear and a streak of yellow pollen on her cheek. “We’ve got a wedding consult at two and three sympathy arrangements for pickup. Also, the Velvetiser is on strike again.”
Jess snorts from behind the counter, her bubblegum-pink pixie cut poking out from under a bandana. “On strike because Andrea here doesn’t clean it properly. Again.”
Andrea gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s been mortally wounded. “Excuse me? I would never neglect our beautiful hot chocolate making goddess.”
Jess rolls her eyes and flicks a petal at her. “Mm-hmm. Tell that to the sad, gurgling noises it made this morning.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the heaviness in my chest. “I’ll grab the descaler later. In the meantime, maybe talk nice to it. Positive reinforcement and all that?”
Andrea crouches down to the Velvetiser, hands in prayer. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie. Keep making that chocolatey goodness for mama.”
Their banter flows around me like sunlight, familiar and warm, and for a moment, I can almost forget the empty space carved out in my chest.
I start trimming roses for the funeral sprays, letting the repetitive motions settle my nerves. The clink of scissors, the rustle of stems—it’s like muscle memory.
Jess leans on the counter, watching me. “You’re awfully quiet today, boss. Again.”
I glance up and force a smile. “Just thinking.”
She tilts her head. “About the Hot Dutchman?”
Andrea straightens so fast she nearly knocks over a bucket. “Ooh, the Hotchman?”
I groan, setting down the scissors. “Can we not call him that?”
Jess grins, brown eyes glinting. “What? It’s accurate. He’s hot. He’s Dutch. He’s the Hotchman.”
Andrea wiggles her brows. “Did he wear glasses when you… you know? Asking for a friend.”
My face flames. “Andrea!”
Jess cackles. “That’s a yes. Ooooooeeee! Glasses and man-bun—she’s doomed.”
I grab a handful of baby’s breath and shake it at them like a white, fluffy threat. “You two are the absolute worst.”
Jess runs to the door. “Don’t wave that vile stuff at me! Ew.”
Andrea grins, unrepentant. “We’re the best, and you love us.”
I do. God, I do. I just wish love was always that simple.
The ache in my chest pulses again. I bend over the counter, letting the scent of the roses wrap around me. This used to be my happy place. Now every soft pink bloom reminds me of the man I left behind—and the life I could have had if he’d just… fought.
The bell over the door jingles again.
“Welcome to ‘Wild Ones’!” Andrea sings, her voice warm.
I glance up and freeze.
A little boy, maybe six or seven, stands in the doorway. Sandy hair sticking out from under a knitted hat, cheeks pink from the December chill. His mittens clutch a single crumpled note.
But it’s his eyes that stop my heart.
Wide. Curious. So impossibly blue.
I know those eyes.
My voice wobbles. “Hi there. Can I help you?”
He stomps his boots on the mat and marches to the counter with all the seriousness of a businessman. “I need flowers,” he says solemnly. His Dutch accent curls the words just slightly. “For my pa.”
Jess chokes on a laugh, glancing at me with wide eyes. Andrea’s mouth falls open in slow-motion understanding.
I walk around the counter and kneel so I’m level with him, my heart pounding. “For your pa? That’s very thoughtful. Do you know what kind he likes?”
He shrugs, lips pursed in concentration. “He likes… you.”
Jess loses it, snorting into her hand. Andrea ducks behind a display to hide her grin.
Heat rises in my face as my heart cracks wide open. “He… likes me?”
The boy nods, proud of himself. “Yes. But he is sad. So I bring him flowers. Maybe then he smile again.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, blinking hard to keep my tears at bay.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Then we’ll make him something very special.”
I gather soft cream roses, sprigs of eucalyptus, and tiny white waxflowers—gentle, quiet blooms for a man who carries his grief like a shadow. My hands tremble as I wrap the stems in brown paper and tie them with twine.
“Here you go,” I say, voice breaking just a little. “For your pa.”
He beams, eyes bright like a winter sky, and places the money on the counter. “Dank je wel, Miss Amber!”
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.”
The bell jingles again as he scampers out, bouquet clutched in both hands.
I step to the window without thinking, breath fogging the glass.
Across the street, leaning against a lamppost, stands Bas. Dirty blonde hair pulled back, black coat against the cold, tall and still as if the whole world is holding its breath with him.
Even from here, I can feel the pull of him.
He doesn’t wave.
Doesn’t come inside.
Just waits while his son carries a piece of my heart back across the street.
The ache inside me blooms like a bruise.
Jess sidles up next to me, brown eyes soft with worry now. “Are you gonna go out there?”
My throat works, but the words don’t come. Finally, I whisper, “Not yet.”
Andrea comes up on my other side, looping an arm through mine. “You look like you want to cry and run into his arms at the same time.”
I laugh, broken and wet. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
Through the glass, Bas crouches to accept the bouquet from his son. His big hands cradle the flowers like they’re the most fragile thing in the world. He glances up at the shop once—just once—and the look in his eyes is a punch to my ribs.
Then he straightens, takes Abel’s hand, and walks away.
And I’m left standing behind the glass, pretending my world isn’t still in pieces.