Chapter 8
Levi
February in a flower shop is carnage.
Not the fun chaos, like a surprise snow day or a bottomless mimosa brunch where someone, usually me, inevitably ends up dancing on a table.
No, this is war. It’s waged with frantic last-minute orders, panicked boyfriends desperate to prove they’ve got game, and the bone-deep exhaustion of manufacturing miracles with magnolias.
By day seven, I’m powered by espresso, spite, and a questionable multivitamin. By day ten, I’m running on muscle memory and delusion.
“What do you mean the delivery’s delayed?” I question into the landline wedged between my shoulder and ear while I mummify a bouquet in tissue. My tone teeters between polite and homicidal. “No, we cannot wait two weeks for fertilizer, Marty. Spring orders start next month. You know this!”
A pause. Deep nose-breath. “Mm-hm, sure. Totally fine. We’ll…figure something out.”
I hang up and stare at the receiver for a long second, resisting the urge to throw it into the nearest vase.
“Everything okay?” Naomi asks, appearing with an armful of order sheets.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a tight smile. “Just a minor supplier hiccup. Add it to the ever-growing list of things conspiring against me.”
Naomi, of course, is thriving. In the last two weeks, she’s overhauled our inventory, streamlined scheduling, color-coded spreadsheets, and somehow convinced our notoriously slow mulch supplier to start delivering ahead of schedule.
I have never felt so simultaneously terrified of and grateful for someone in my life.
“Well, I ran last year’s Valentine’s numbers,” she says from behind the counter. “If we double peonies and bump the price by a dollar, we’ll significantly boost profit margins.”
I groan, wiping dirt off my hands. “You’re making me look bad.”
“You hired me. Which makes you look brilliant.”
“Or you’re plotting a takeover as we speak.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “Semantics.”
She disappears into the back, already dictating notes into her phone. Somehow, I hired an intern and ended up with a flower-shop fairy godmother.
When she’s not saving me from my own disorganization, Naomi’s been quietly taking over the community garden logistics like she was born for it.
She’s already mapped volunteer shifts, color-coded the soil test dates, and gently bullied the city planner into approving a composting grant.
I keep waiting for her to reveal she’s a time traveler sent to fix my life, but honestly, it feels like I’ve been handed a backbone I didn’t realize I was trying to grow alone.
“Oh, and by the way,” she calls from the stockroom, “the campus environmental club wants to do a seedling fundraiser for us in the next couple months. You in?”
“Obviously,” I shout back, grinning.
She pokes her head out. “Good. I already said yes.”
My cell pings on the counter, pulling me out of my bemused admiration.
Hayden: Witnessed a man wrestling for the last bouquet at the market. Desperation begins.
I bite back a grin, fingers flying over the screen.
Me: Please tell me you intervened and advised him to shop local.
Me: RIGHT?!
A pause.
Hayden: …perhaps.
Picturing Hayden policing a grocery store floral aisle shouldn’t be hot. Yet here we are, and maybe I’ve started imagining him in all sorts of places he doesn’t belong. It makes the looming floral apocalypse feel a tiny bit less overwhelming.
For a moment.
Later that afternoon, I find myself riding shotgun in Dominic’s aggressively bougie SUV as he launches into meticulous plans on our way to Party Depot.
“I want the aesthetic to be heartbreak chic,” Dominic says, tapping the wheel. “Black, red, gold accents. Dramatic. Iconic. We’re channeling revenge-dress energy. Mood lighting. Tears optional.”
I turn. “Dom, it’s a house party, not the Met Gala: Vengeance Edition.”
He waves me off. “Details, Levi. Always about the details!”
At Party Depot, the fluorescent lights burn too brightly, and the Valentine’s aisle buzzes with desperate shoppers scrambling for last-minute redemption.
Dominic shoves a cart at me. “We’ll need two of these.”
“Two carts? Really?”
“Babe, we’re throwing an anti–Valentine’s Day extravaganza. We don’t half-ass bitterness; we bedazzle it.” He hands me a carefully printed list:
black balloons
fake petals (for drama)
heart pinata—filled with candy and resentment
excessive glitter
Fuck Love neon sign
I toss glow sticks into the cart. “Glitter?”
Dominic raises an eyebrow. “Ambiance.”
“Pinata?”
“Cathartic.”
I sigh heavily. “If I find glitter in my sheets again, you’re personally deep-cleaning my apartment.”
Dominic winks. “Done.”
We roll toward another aisle filled with novelty heart-shaped everything. I hesitate, fingers tapping nervously against the cart handle. Dominic side-eyes me immediately, homing in like a gossip radar.
“What?” he demands knowingly.
I shift my weight, biting my lip. “I was thinking of inviting Hayden.”
Dominic pauses, lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Oh?”
“It’s not…” I groan, flustered. “We’ve been texting. He’s…different.”
He smirks. “You love different.”
“Shut up.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I just can’t picture him at a party. Especially this one. He’s got that…otherworldly vibe, like he’d rather linger in the corner than dance. But…I want him there. Tell me that’s not completely weird.”
Dominic tosses bulk candy hearts into the cart, eyes dancing. “Weird? Levi, he’s a funeral director. Weird is probably his comfort zone.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I barely know him. Well, not really. I know enough to be wildly confused.”
“Honey,” Dominic says, gripping my shoulders, “that’s literally how dating works.”
I groan, leaning dramatically into a shelf of plush cupids. “Okay, maybe I’m…interested. A bit. In a theoretical, definitely-too-soon, please-don’t-quote-me way.”
Dominic beams. “Finally. Just invite him. Worst case? He says no. Best case…” He hugs me, whispering, “You finally get to see him without that very tailored jacket.”
I shove him lightly, laughing, but secretly, my stomach flips at the thought.
“Also,” he adds, stepping back and giving me a once-over, “maybe make sure you’re…you know. Ready.”
I blink. “Ready?”
Dominic sighs like he’s tired. “Levi. We’ve talked about this. Ready,” he reiterates. “If you’re trying to get railed by Daddy Death, maybe don’t sabotage yourself.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “Don’t come at me with bottoming logistics like you’re the self-appointed king of anal.”
“I mean, a record is a record, babe,” he says dryly. “Besides, I see how much coffee you consume. You can’t just expect to ride into the night without consequences.”
“Okay, first: rude.” I poke his arm with my finger. “Second, I’ll have you know my digestive system is flawless.”
Dominic rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. We all know you’ve got that magical little bussy that defies science, logic, and God herself. But maybe don’t test its limits on date night.”
“Ugh, Dom…that word should be a slur,” I groan.
He ignores my dramatic dry-heaving, steering toward the checkout line, with or without me. “Oh, come on,” he calls over his shoulder, “you know you secretly love it, Sugar Buss.”
We check out, bags rustling between us as we walk to the car. On the drive back, Dom hums smugly to a playlist I remember putting together for his last birthday. By the time he drops me off, my palms are sweaty and my heart rate feels faster than it should.
Which is how I end up standing outside Harlow and Sons Funeral Home, inexplicably nervous and trying to remember how breathing works. I steel myself before pushing through the heavy wooden door.
A woman behind the desk looks up. Silver hair styled, suit immaculate. She radiates authoritative amusement and I can’t tell if I should be terrified or ask her to be my best friend.
“Levi Wilder,” she says, one brow arched. “Showing up unannounced. Bold choice.”
I flush at the fact she knows me by name. “Um, yes. I was actually just hoping to see Hayden?”
She gestures vaguely toward an office door. “Make yourself comfortable. He’ll be delighted,” she deadpans, which is code for the opposite.
I hesitate. “Are you sure he won’t mind?”
“Oh, he’ll mind,” she says, turning back to her paperwork. “That’s half the fun.”
I bite back a laugh and slip into his office. It’s…empty, just as I remember. Plain, orderly, entirely impersonal. Pure Hayden. Except for one detail.
A single dried white lily rests on the windowsill, stubbornly present.
My breath catches. It’s the one I gave him. In this pristine, impersonal room, he kept it. That has to mean something. I brush a finger against it, a thrill racing up my spine. Maybe aloof isn’t indifferent. Maybe it’s armor.
The hair on my arms lifts before I realize why.
It’s probably the old funeral home vents, but the temperature in Hayden’s office drops a degree, and from the corner of my eye, a flicker of shadows ripple softly, pooling as though darkness itself is holding its breath.
It happens so fast I could laugh it off, chalk it up to imagination or bad lighting. Too fast to be real. Except…I saw it.
I know I did.
My pulse skitters up my throat, caught somewhere between That’s weird and Do not investigate the creepy corner, you idiot.
Before I can dwell any further, the door creaks open.
I turn sharply, pulse still racing, as Hayden steps into the room.
He’s in his usual all black, coat draped elegantly like he stepped out of some gothic novel.
Born for low light and well-tailored clothes.
The room’s shadows seem to settle the second he appears, because apparently, I now hallucinate ambiance when he walks into a room.
A slim leather folio hangs from his hand, edges bent like he’s been clutching it all morning. City hall, I realize silently. The building might as well have a reserved parking spot for him by now.
His gaze shifts from me to the window where I’d just been standing, then his eyes return, unreadable, to mine.