Chapter 7
Alex
Ipull up behind the shop just before four, switch off the engine and head round to the back of my Range Rover.
The oak boards I brought with me catch the afternoon light, the grain dark and smooth after the few frantic hours I spent in the workshop earlier.
They were only offcuts from a farmhouse job, but after I’d trimmed, sanded and stained them they look like they are made for her shop.
I grab the tin of moss-green paint as well. I tried a few shades before settling on this one, the one that matched the picture I had in my head the moment Emma described her idea.
It probably was more effort than a simple favour required. But I stopped pretending it was just a favour about three planks in.
The bell above the florist door chimes when I step inside.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” Emma calls from the back.
Her voice is soft, not quite nervous.
“No rush,” I say. “I’m just bringing the remaining bits in.”
Silence. I can’t help but grin because I am sure she’s definitely plotting escape routes.
I make three trips from the pickup, carrying wood, drill, fixings and paint. When I close the door, she finally appears.
She walks in with that quiet, slightly unsure energy she seems to carry everywhere, and for some reason it pulls my focus straight to her.
“Hey,” I say.
She gives me a small, cautious smile. The kind you only earn after a long battle.
“Hi.”
There’s a tiny fleck of glitter on her cheek, the sort that clings to you for days. Before I can think better of it, I reach out and brush it away with my fingertip.
She startles at the light touch.
Too quickly.
Her heel catches the edge of a flower bucket and the whole thing wobbles like it’s considering a dramatic exit. I grab for her, but she jerks back in panic and sets off a chain reaction worthy of a comedy sketch.
One bucket tips.
Then another.
Then the next three, like a floral avalanche.
Water sloshes across the floor, tulips spinning like tiny pastel casualties, and Emma goes down in the middle of it with an undignified little squeak that would be funny if it didn’t punch straight into my chest.
“Whoa—hang on.” I get to her before the last bucket finishes its slow-motion topple and slide an arm round her waist, lifting her gently to her feet. “You alright?”
Her hands land on my chest, warm through my T-shirt. She smells faintly of roses and eucalyptus, and something softer I can’t place but already want to.
“I—sorry—oh god,” she stammers, cheeks blazing.
“No need to apologise.” I steady her a second longer than strictly necessary, and she feels… right there. Right against me. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”
She looks down at the water-flooded floor with despair. “I should clean that.”
“Probably,” I say lightly. “Unless we’re going for ‘swamp chic’.”
She lets out the smallest laugh. A real one. It lands somewhere stupidly important inside me.
I ease my arm away from her waist, slow and reluctant, giving her space even though every instinct wants to keep her close.
She steps back, cheeks flaming, brushing damp petals off her clothes as if that might hide the blush climbing her neck.
But when she glances up for the briefest second, there’s something new in her eyes.
Still shy, still unsure… but softer. Curious.
Like maybe she hasn’t ruled me out completely.
She looks away quickly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as if she’s caught doing something she shouldn’t.
We lock the door so no customers wander into the scene of floral carnage. She fetches a mop; I grab my tools. The room fills with the quiet sounds of cleaning and measuring.
Every time she moves, I feel it. Not in a dramatic way, just a quiet awareness threading through the room, tugging at my attention no matter how much I pretend to focus on my measuring.
After a minute, I risk breaking the silence. “Busy day?”
She gives a soft, tired snort. “Busier than I hoped. Mondays like to test me.”
When I glance over, she’s crouched over a puddle of water, carefully rescuing the least bedraggled flowers. Her bottom lip is caught gently between her teeth as she concentrates, and for a moment I have to look away before I get the urge to smooth it free with my thumb.
I turn back to the wall, marking up the plasterboard. “Well, at least you were able to rescue most of the flowers from the swamp life.”
She lets out a small, embarrassed groan. “Please don’t remind me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. A beat, then, “Although if someone had filmed that bucket domino, I’d pay good money to watch it again.”
Her head snaps up and she shoots me a mortified glare. It only makes me grin.
She tries to glare harder, fails spectacularly, and the corner of her mouth betrays her with the tiniest twitch.
It’s the first proper sign she’s relaxing around me, and something about that small shift settles pleasantly under my ribs.
I take mercy on her and change the subject. “Anything you miss from London?”
She leans on the mop, thinking. “Travelling,” she says at last. “Not London-travelling. My London life was… loud. Too loud. But before taking over the shop, I used to take myself off anywhere I could breathe. Just little trips. Nothing fancy.” She shrugs.
“I liked having escape routes. But until we can hire help, I’m grounded. ”
“That won’t last forever,” I say. “Shops grow. People settle in. You’ll get it back.”
She gives a shy half-smile. Small, but warm enough to give me some hope.
I go back to drilling the final holes, and the silence that falls this time is different. Calmer. Easy. Like we’ve both stepped into a gentler version of the moment without realising when it happened.
The shelves go up smoothly after that. Solid, level, exactly how I pictured them.
When I turn around, Emma is perched on the little stool behind the till, elbows propped on the counter, chin in her hands. She looks completely absorbed.
It takes me another second to realise she isn’t watching the shelves at all. She’s watching my arse.
I clear my throat.
She jolts so hard the stool squeaks across the floor, and in her scramble she knocks over a jar of pens. They scatter everywhere. She dives forward to grab them and promptly smacks her forehead on the underside of the counter.
“Ow.”
I cross the room. “Emma, are you alright?”
She presses her hand to the sore spot, mortified beyond belief, but she doesn’t pull away when I gently take her wrist and move her hand aside. Her breath catches, and mine almost does too.
Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips. There’s a pull in the air between us, soft but unmistakable.
“You’ll bruise,” I murmur, brushing lightly over the forming bump. “But you’re okay.”
She bites her lip again. Hard. And it’s that tiny movement that makes something inside me wobble.
With my finger, I trace a slow line down her cheek. Her lips part on a whisper of breath, as if the simple act of breathing has become a decision.
My heartbeat hammers in my ribs.
I step closer without thinking.
She doesn’t move.
Not away, anyway.
“Emma,” I whisper.
Her fingers curl into my T-shirt. Barely there. Tentative. But it feels like someone’s lit a flare in the middle of the room.
I back her gently against the wall, waiting, giving her every possible chance to change her mind. She doesn’t. She closes her eyes. Lifts her chin just a fraction.
And that’s all the permission I need.
I lean in and kiss her.
Her lips are soft, then warm, then suddenly eager.
She melts into me with a desperate kind of honesty that nearly knocks me sideways.
Her hands slide up to my chest, one drifting to my cheek, and when she lets out a tiny, breathy moan, every thought I’ve ever had is replaced by the need to get closer.
I kiss her deeper. She kisses back with a heat that floors me.
We stumble sideways and bump my toolbox, sending it crashing across the floor. The metallic bang snaps us both back to earth.
We freeze.
She stares at me, breathless, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide with shock and something that looks a lot like hunger.
I kiss her once more, gentle and slow, then force myself to step back before I forget how to behave.
“Let me take you out,” I say, voice low. “A proper date.”
Fear flickers across her face. Then longing. Then worry.
“It might be just dinner for you,” she says quietly. “But for me it’ll be anxiety and overthinking and trying not to say something stupid.”
“You won’t,” I say, brushing a curl behind her ear. “Everything you’ve done today has made me want to know you more.”
She swallows. “You can do better.”
“I don’t want better,” I tell her. “I want you.”
Her breath catches.
“One hour,” I say. “One meal. No pressure.”
She hesitates. Then she nods.
Relief hits so hard it almost makes me dizzy.
“We’ll tidy up here, then I’ll take you.”
“Today?” she squeaks.
“Today,” I say, unable to hide the grin. “Can’t risk you skipping town.”
Now she has said yes, I won’t let her back out. No chance in hell.