Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
ALLISON
“You are a miracle worker!”
Two lovely brides-to-be clutched their silk prototype bouquets as Allison talked them through her vision for their wedding flowers.
“Your wedding is going to be beautiful,” Allison told them. “I promise.”
This was her favorite part of her job: making people so happy. Making their very specific vision happen for their important moment in a way that celebrated them. She’d poured herself into this wedding design since the sperm-bank disaster two weeks ago, and luckily, it had paid off.
“This is absolutely perfect,” Courtney said, fawning over the bouquet of mossy green flowers with accents of burgundy and black that complemented her fiancée Xio’s all-black calla lily bouquet. “Thank you for being so patient with us as we figured out what we wanted.”
Allison wrapped them both in a hug. “It’s the least I could do for always making my hair the perfect shade of peachy pink. You’re the only hairstylist that’s ever gotten my vision.” Courtney squeezed her back, and Allison decided that maybe she’d be okay just focusing on her career for a while.
Maybe this could be enough.
They finished ordering two more arrangements for their bridal shower, and when Allison looked up to wave them off, she was greeted by an unexpected sight.
The imposing figure of Wells stood in front of the cooler cases, studying the arrangements. His trench coat was dotted with snowflakes, and a navy sweater stretched across his broad chest.
She waited until Courtney closed the door to Bloom before she marched up to the front door to lock it. “We’re closed,” she said, sailing past him.
He grabbed a large bouquet. “It’s my mom’s birthday on Thursday. You’re going to deprive her?”
I almost missed Martha’s birthday? Allison scrambled for the calendar on her phone. “Hold on. You said this Thursday?”
“Or was it last Thursday?” Wells said, toying with her.
The. Worst. “I told her I’d take her yarn shopping, but I didn’t write down the date. Just tell me when it is.”
Allison loved Martha. She was so jealous of Olivia and the hulking idiot in front of her for having such a kind and warm mother. She wanted to put Martha in her pocket and keep her forever.
“No,” he said with a satisfied smile.
She rang up his arrangement and was so tempted to overcharge him, but like always, she did the sensible, honest thing.
Snow fell in heavy flakes in the light of the street lamps outside. “The sooner you leave, the sooner I can avoid the storm we might get and go home.”
Wells dismissed her with a shake of his head. “It’ll probably be nothing. They always overestimate how much lake effect we’ll get. No hot Friday night date plans?”
Allison squinted at him sarcastically. “I have a hot date with David Tennant in a murdery small town and a new knitting project.”
Last night, she’d unraveled the newborn hat she’d almost finished. She’d make a scarf instead.
It’s not like I’ll need an adorable little bear hat anyway.
“Knitting and British television?” Wells chuckled as he grabbed his receipt. “So I assume you’ll go to bed in a floor-length flannel nightgown, Scrooge-style stocking cap, with a tall glass of Metamucil?”
Allison clenched her jaw. “My flannel pajamas are none of your—”
A crash sounded in the basement of the building. They both froze.
Wells darted his eyes to the basement door. “Somebody down there?”
Allison felt a chill run up her spine.
“Not that I know of.”
Wells’s brows narrowed with concern.
She pushed the flowers toward him again. “It’s fine. I’ll check it out. Have a terrible evening.”
Anxiety tingled along her skin. The bottom of Bloom was an old Michigan-style basement—dirt floors, cobwebs, untold horrors in every corner.
Wells leaned against the counter, looking mystified. “So you’re not going to check on the crash in the basement? Just going to lock up and hope for the best?”
She whipped her hair into a ponytail and tugged it tight for bravery. “I will. I’ll do it once you leave.” Subtext: I’d never ask you for a favor, Wells Maroo.
“It could be a wild animal, or a rat. Or a man. Or a rat-man.” Wells walked to the basement door, peering into the darkness.
Rats? “Why would I need your help? I’m an adult. Not dainty. I’m not scared.” I’m terrified.
“Tell that to your face,” Wells said with a smirk.
She pasted on a bright smile to cover it.
He looked at her like she was a fool. “You’re doing everything you can not to ask me for help, aren’t you?”
She slumped back, exhausted by him. “Fine. Such a drama queen. Come with me.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
“Exhausting,” she muttered, stomping to the basement door, flicking on the light that only made everything creepier.
“So annoying,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and walking down the rickety wooden steps first.
Boxes, lumber, and extra supplies were all stacked haphazardly throughout the basement.
They both paused at the bottom. No rat-men, people, or hobgoblins appeared.
“Maybe it was an uneven stack of boxes?” Allison asked.
Scurrying started in the corner, and Allison yipped. A flash of gray fur ran between the boxes.
“Is that a rat?” Allison yelled, her worst nightmare coming true.
“Yes. Fairwick Falls is absolutely crawling with fifteen-pound rats.” Wells scoffed as he poked his way through the boxes. “It’s a cat.”
“How on earth did it get down here?” She shined her phone’s flashlight until she found a broken window in the back corner. It was too high up to seal tonight.
Wells crouched, looking under a box for it. “You could let it live down here. Take care of the mice.”
“No, it’s too cold,” Allison said, horrified that he’d even suggest such a thing. “Plus, it might try to go out in the snow. We have to grab it.”
Allison slowly crept toward where a gray matted tail peeked out from the boxes, but as she bent down it scampered off—pink toe beans high in the air—and landed in a maze of boxes.
And so a chase around the dusty, dirty basement began.
Her zigging, Wells zagging, and the cat somehow evading both of them.
They almost called it quits after Allison had tripped, ass over tea kettle, on a box of old Playboys from 1957, hidden under a mountain of floral foam.
She’d almost peed herself with laughter as Wells lifted her up from the chaos.
They tried to surround the cat; they tried to corner it. They begged, and pleaded. The cat was unrelenting.
Nothing worked, and they were sweaty messes until Wells shouted “Aha” suddenly.
He held a piece of unwrapped beef jerky up high. “Forgot I had this.” He broke off pieces, creating a small line to where they could finally pick it up.
A fluffy gray head poked out of a box, and Allison squealed, “Oh, my gosh, he’s so cute. I’m going to call you Harry, Harry.”
Wells crouched by the beef jerky. “Clearly, I’m winning. Keep your name to yourself.”
“He wanted to leave you here to fend for yourself,” she cooed to the cat. She held out her fingers, and the cat gingerly sniffed them, looking unsure.
Allison co-opted a piece of the beef jerky and let him eat it from her hand. The gentle motor purr of the cat switched on, and it rubbed its head against Allison’s hand.
Allison snatched the cat up. To its credit, it went limp as a noodle and purred. She held it up to Wells. “Are we dealing with a Harry or Harriet?”
Wells squinted. “Harriet, I believe.”
“I’ll still call you Harry. Harry Styles,” Allison said, scratching the cat’s soft head.
Wells stood, offering a few more pieces of jerky. “I would like to argue for split custody.”
Allison picked cobwebs off the cat’s fur. “You can’t split custody of a cat.”
“Hmm.” He grabbed the limp noodle of a cat and held it against his chest. The cat burrowed in, her purring motor running at full tilt.
“Traitor,” Allison muttered. “I can grab her some water, and then we’ll go home and get you settled into my place, Harry.”
“Smokey wants to come home with me.”
They picked their way through the chaos of the basement and up the stairs. “Smokey? For a gray cat? So creative,” Allison said, shaking her head.
“You don’t think Smokey Maroo has a ring to it?”
Allison snorted. She had to agree—silently—it was a pretty cute name. She walked onto the main floor of Bloom. “I’ll give you cre…”
Allison stopped in her tracks.
Wells bumped into her. “What are—Holy fuck.”
The wide picture window of Bloom was completely whited out with blowing snow.
Light from the street lamps dipped in and out from the whipping, gusty winds.
Oh.
Shit.
She gulped, walking to the front.
Allison’s face pressed against the cold glass of Bloom’s front door, looking into the tundra in horror. “We were only down there for thirty minutes.”
Ice pelted against the window, and everything outside shone, coated with a heavy layer of ice in the dim streetlight. Her car had at least six inches of snow and ice on it.
Wells looked at his watch. “It was almost two hours.”
She pulled her phone out to check the weather and saw texts from her landlords, a nice older couple who lived next door.
PATTY (LANDLORD)
Hi dear, power is out on our block. You need to come over? We know the cottage can get cold.
Shit.
PATTY (LANDLORD)
Power company estimates it’ll be on tomorrow.
“What?” Wells muttered, staring at her phone over her shoulder. “Is it worse?”
“The power’s out on my block,” she muttered, typing back a response that she wasn’t at home. “I’ll stay here in the studio upstairs until the storm passes.”
She texted the Parker sisters saying she’d stay in the studio upstairs overnight. It wasn’t the first time she’d hunkered down in Bloom during bad weather. The apartment above Bloom was Lily’s art studio, but there was a bathroom, a kitchenette, a queen bed, and sheets.
“Where did you park?” she asked.
Wells blanched as he looked outside. “I, um…” He gulped, petting the ball of gray fur that had fallen asleep against his chest. “I walked.”
“From your mom’s house?” she screeched. It was easily a mile away.