Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Norah
“Can we talk?”
This can’t be fucking happening.
My pulse surges so fast I forget how to breathe. Every muscle locks.
That voice once ruined me.
I start walking faster, trying to outrun the ghost of my past, but then a hand closes around my arm, gentle yet firm enough to stop me. He turns me to face him, and there he is.
Dorian James.
He looks impossibly put together. Six-one, lean frame wrapped in a charcoal coat, dark brown hair swept just enough to look like he hasn’t tried too hard.
Those espresso eyes watch me, same as they always did. Intent, unreadable, too much at once.
“Don’t touch me,” I manage, pulling my arm free.
“You’re mad.”
“Of course I’m mad.” The words come sharper than I mean them to. “The last time I saw you, I was in your bed, and by morning, you were gone. No call. No note. Nothing.”
He tugs his hand through his hair, looking down, looking guilty, which only makes me angrier. “I can explain.”
“I don’t care for your explanation.” My voice wavers, but I steady it with effort. “I have work to do.”
“Please, sweetheart—”
“Don’t call me that.” I take a step closer before I realize what I’m doing.
He smells the same. Warm cedar, bergamot, and leather. It hits like a memory I never wanted to revisit. I force myself to breathe through it, to not let my instincts surface.
“Go back to Portland, James.” My words scrape against the cold air as I turn away. “Whatever reason you had for leaving before—just stick to it.”
I walk toward the square without looking back. Every step feels like dragging a weight uphill. Snow flurries cling to my hair, melt on my scarf.
I want to cry, but anger burns too hot beneath my skin for tears.
The thought of going to the Fox and Fern café crosses my mind. Wren’s usually there, or at least she used to be before her mother moved back in.
I don’t know if she’s around this morning, and the last thing I want is to run into anyone else who’ll see how shaken I am.
My hands are trembling by the time I unlock the door to Knightly Blooms.
The bell jingles, sweet and familiar, as I push inside, and warmth wraps around me.
Buckets of fresh blooms line the front display: blush-pink garden roses, white ranunculus, autumn chrysanthemums in shades of amber and rust. My little oasis in the heart of Fox Hollow.
I flick on the fairy lights woven across the window and set my cocoa on the counter. For a few breaths, I just stand there, taking it in.
This shop is mine. All of it. My aunt left it to me years ago, and sometimes I still feel her here—the way she used to hum while trimming stems, the notes she scribbled in the old ledger I keep tucked under the register.
I shrug off my coat, down half of my now lukewarm cocoa, and start arranging a new bouquet for the display window. My hands find their rhythm, trimming stems, binding them with twine, nestling roses beside sprigs of cedar.
This is where my world makes sense. I lose myself in color and texture: the way peonies open like secrets, the silky brush of tulip petals against my fingers.
Outside, traffic hums faintly through the snow. Inside, the only sound is the heater clicking to life.
The door creaks open.
I turn and exhale when I see who it is.
“Morning, Norah,” calls Caleb, the delivery driver from Rosewood Gardens down in Ash Creek. He’s bundled in a puffer vest, cheeks pink from the cold, arms full of long cardboard boxes stamped with Fragile – Live Plants.
“Hey, Caleb. You made it through the snow.”
“Barely.” He stomps his boots on the mat, scattering a trail of slush. “Highway’s slick. Took me twice as long as usual. You’d think the county would’ve learned how to plow by now.”
“Welcome to Fox Hollow.” I grin and hold the door wider so he can bring the boxes inside. “Same complaint every winter.”
He laughs, setting the shipment on the prep table near the sink. “Got your standing order—two cases of tulips, one of ranunculus, plus the greenery. Oh, and the special box from Florida.” He lowers his voice. “The one with the imported orchids.”
My mood lifts instantly. “Those are finally in?”
“Fresh from the growers.” He opens the smaller box with a practiced flick of his knife, revealing a bed of tissue paper and pale lilac orchids glistening with dew. “They’re stunners.”
“They’re perfect,” I breathe, reaching out to touch one of the blossoms. Their petals are smooth as silk, their scent light but intoxicating.
Caleb pulls out his clipboard and hands me the invoice. “Sign at the bottom for delivery.”
I scrawl my name, then tuck the carbon copy into my ledger binder. “Do you want something warm before you head back?”
He shakes his head, smiling. “Appreciate it, but I’ve got three more stops before noon. If I sit down now, I might not get up again. See you next week, Norah.”
“Drive safe,” I tell him, holding the door open as he disappears into the swirl of snow.
When he’s gone, I carry the boxes to the workbench and start unpacking the blooms. The shop fills with the fresh scent.
I trim each stem, snip the leaves that will sit below the waterline, and set them in buckets to breathe. Tulips in ivory and coral, ranunculus in soft blush, eucalyptus leaves silver-green under the overhead lights.
It’s tedious, meditative work. Numbers get checked off on the inventory sheet, invoices filed in their binder, receipts slipped into envelopes marked for the month. Every small motion reminds me why I love this job.
Here, everything has order. Everything has beauty.
By mid-morning, a few regulars drift in.
Hank Mills, the butcher’s son, stops by to pick up a bouquet for his girlfriend. He’s red-cheeked from the cold and smells faintly of smoke.
“Need something simple,” he says, shuffling awkwardly. “She’s mad I forgot our anniversary.”
I hand him a bundle of pink carnations and eucalyptus. “Apologize with these and maybe a pie from Lorelai’s to smooth things over.”
He grins. “You’re a lifesaver, Norah.”
Later, Ruth Evans comes in, her silver hair pinned into a bun. She’s one of the town’s oldest Omegas, still spry and always dressed in wool and pearls.
“I’ll take a few lilies,” she says, “for my mate’s resting place. He loved them.”
I wrap the stems carefully, adding a sprig of baby’s breath. She touches my hand before leaving, eyes soft. “You keep this place alive, dear. Your aunt would be proud.”
Her words linger long after she’s gone.
At around eleven, my phone buzzes with a text from Wren. Finally woke up. Rough night.
I call her immediately.
“Hey,” she answers, voice warm but tired.
“Are you at the shop?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“No, at Simon’s,” she says. I can hear voices in the background. Levi’s low laugh and the sound of dishes clinking. “We were just thinking of grabbing breakfast before my checkup. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to sound casual. “Just checking in.”
“Norah.” Her tone softens. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
There’s no point in pretending. “Dorian’s back in town.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out thinner than I want. “Oh, shit indeed.”
Wren blows out a breath. “I can’t believe he’d just show up like that. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, eyes on the half-finished bouquet in front of me. “You’ve got enough going on. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re my best friend, I always worry about you,” she says. “My checkup will be done by one. Meet me at the B&B for lunch?”
“Okay.”
“Promise me you’ll be okay till then?”
“I’ll be okay,” I repeat, though it doesn’t sound convincing even to me.
When we hang up, the shop feels too still. The heater hums, petals brush softly as I tie another ribbon, and I let myself sink back into the rhythm of work. It’s safer here, behind the counter, surrounded by things that bloom even in winter.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, heavier now, covering footprints and mistakes alike. Inside, I breathe in the scent of roses and cedar, and tell myself that’s enough.
The sign for Blade & Butter gleams above the door, gold lettering against weathered wood. The place hums with warmth, the air thick with roasted coffee, maple syrup, and something sweet from the bakery case.
Every table glows beneath low-hung pendant lights. Locals linger over brunch plates, laughter spilling between sips of cider and the crackle of the fire.
This town loves B&B. It’s where people come to celebrate, to gossip, to commiserate over hot meals and sugar-dusted pastries.
I’m not sure why I agreed to meet Wren here. Maybe I needed noise to drown out the thoughts chasing.
Wren spots me from our table near the window, waving with her free hand. The other rests protectively over her stomach.
Her copper-red hair gleams under the lights, and the dress she’s wearing barely hides how far along she is now. Pregnancy looks beautiful on her, even when she swears she feels awful.
“Hey,” I greet, slipping into the seat across from her.
“You look like hell,” she says, grinning.
“Thanks.”
She reaches for her cocoa. “Doctor says I’m twenty-four weeks. Which apparently means I’ll stay nauseous and exhausted until this kid decides to give me a break.”
“Still sleepy?”
“Always.” She laughs, but there’s a yawn tucked behind it. “At least my mom’s back from her cruise to help out. I swear, if I drop one more glass or forget my phone again, Simon’s going to start bubble-wrapping the furniture.”
Her mates fuss over her constantly. It’s sweet, really. Fox Hollow has that effect on packs. They’re close, protective, never too far from each other’s orbit.
We order from Fallon, the tattooed butcher who doubles as the most unexpectedly charming server in town. He winks at Wren, jots down her craving for pancakes, and then glances at me.
“Avocado toast and chai, right?”
“Always.”
He grins and heads back toward the kitchen, where Knox, the chef, is probably scowling at a skillet while Eli the pastry perfectionist sprinkles powdered sugar with near-religious precision.