Chapter 5 - Norah #2
Inside, I’ve got poinsettias stacked near the window, their red petals glowing against the frost. Roses crowd the counter in bundles of cream and blush, each one waiting to be trimmed and wrapped before the afternoon orders go out.
It’s almost peaceful. Almost.
I wipe my hands on a towel and move toward the back table, where a few stems of holly spill from a bucket. My fingers ache a little, but the ache is the good kind.
It reminds me I’ve built something with my own hands. My shop smells like everything I love. It hums with the life I’ve managed to keep alive.
I’m halfway through trimming eucalyptus when the door opens again. A gust of cold air rushes in, followed by a voice I recognize before I even look up.
“Hey, Norah.”
Jude Beckett Carter stands in the doorway, brushing snow off his jacket. The sight of him always makes the room shift a little.
He fills a space like he was built for it, broad-shouldered and easy, his hair a little damp from the snow. There’s a shy sort of energy to him, like he’s perpetually aware he’s taking up too much space and is trying to soften it for everyone else.
I smile, setting down the shears. “Jude. What brings you by? Don’t tell me you’re here for a bouquet.”
He laughs, the sound low and warm. “Not this time. Though I could use your help.”
He walks closer, careful not to track snow onto the rug. His hands are in his pockets, his whole posture that mix of confidence and bashfulness that makes people instantly trust him.
He stops near the counter, glancing around like he’s seeing the place for the first time. “You’ve been busy.”
“Always.” I lean against the workbench. “What’s up?”
“So,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck, “we’re doing the Halloween project for the festival—the community hall’s going to be part haunted maze, part harvest fair.
Brighton wants the construction team to handle the staging and build-out, but we’re kind of stumped on the look.
Thought maybe you could give some advice.
You know, aesthetics. You’ve got the eye for it. ”
I grin. “You mean because I told you not to paint the tavern’s patio orange last summer?”
He chuckles. “Exactly. You saved that place from looking like a pumpkin patch.”
“Well,” I say, crossing my arms, “I can’t have Fox Hollow losing its reputation for taste. What are you thinking for the space?”
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through photos of floor plans and half-finished mock-ups. “We’ve got this big open section in the back that’s supposed to be spooky but still family-friendly. Ryker is pushing for something industrial, but I think it needs texture. Atmosphere. You know?”
I take the phone from him, scrolling through the pictures. “You’re right. Industrial feels too cold. You need something that pulls people in, not something that feels like a warehouse.”
My mind’s already spinning through color palettes.
“What about deep purples? Amber lights? Maybe black flowers. I’ve got these new calla lilies—they’re technically a deep burgundy, but they look black in low light. We could scatter them through the tables, mix them with dried lavender and sage. Add just enough life to balance the dark.”
His brows lift. “Black flowers. You’re serious?”
“Very,” I say, and swipe to a photo on my own phone. “Look.”
He leans in close, close enough that I catch the faint smell of sawdust and cedar clinging to his jacket. His shoulder brushes mine as I scroll, showing him a display I did last year—dark blooms layered with wheat stalks and silver leaves.
“It’s elegant,” I say. “Not gory. You want mystery, not mess.”
He hums, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. “That’s… actually perfect.”
Our hands brush when I hand him his phone back. It’s a small thing, but my whole arm tingles from the contact.
The air between us shifts, just slightly, and when I look up, he’s watching me, thoughtful, like he’s trying not to give something away.
I clear my throat and move toward the counter, pretending to rearrange a vase. “So, the black callas,” I say, “and maybe some dark foliage. I can do a mock-up if you want to show the committee.”
“That’d be great,” he says, still smiling. Then, after a beat, “You thought any more about the cold room?”
I glance toward the back of the shop. The empty corner I’ve been planning to convert into a cold storage space stares back at me like a half-finished sentence. “Still weighing it,” I admit. “It’s a big investment.”
“It’ll make your life easier,” he says gently. “And it’ll pay off. Especially with holiday orders coming in.”
He’s right. I know he’s right.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “Promise.”
Jude nods, and for a second, neither of us says anything. The only sound is the hum of the heater and the faint creak of the sign outside swinging in the wind.
He glances around the shop again, his expression softening. “You know, this place feels like you. Warm. Kind of chaotic, but in a good way.”
I laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
He rubs his jaw, a shy smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s a compliment, Norah.”
“I’ll take it.”
He stays for another half-hour, helping me move a few planters and talking through layout sketches for the Halloween fair.
He’s thoughtful when he works. When he measures space, he doesn’t just look at lines and numbers; he sees how people will move through it, how it will feel.
It’s something we share. That understanding of how design shapes emotion.
By the time he’s ready to leave, the snow outside has thickened into a slow, steady fall. He pauses at the door, pulling on his gloves.
“You sure you’re okay here? Roads are getting slick.”
“I’ll close up early,” I say. “Go home, light the fireplace, maybe read.”
He tilts his head, like he’s not entirely convinced. “You need anything, you call. I mean it.”
I nod. “Thanks, Jude.”
He smiles once more, that quiet kind of smile that lingers long after he’s gone, and then he steps into the cold.
The bell chimes as the door shuts behind him, and just like that, the shop feels too still. I exhale slowly, leaning back against the counter.
There’s a warmth under my skin that has nothing to do with the heater.
Jude brings calm. He’s nothing like Dorian, whose presence feels like weather—unpredictable and consuming. Jude’s the quiet after the storm.
I turn off the front lights, leaving only the glow from the workbench lamp. The petals of the poinsettias catch the light, deep red against the frost that’s begun to creep along the windows.
My hands move on instinct, trimming stems, wiping surfaces, checking tomorrow’s delivery list. The rhythm soothes me.
But when I stop moving, the thoughts creep back in. The conversation with Wren. This whole thing with Dorian. How badly I messed up with Margaret.
I just need a night to clear my head for real.
Maybe my best friend wasn’t wrong when she recommended I rejoin the dating apps. Sex will definitely help me recenter myself.
By the time I finish cleaning up, it’s early evening. The streets outside are dusted white, and the glow from the lampposts makes everything look softer.
I stand by the window for a while, watching a couple walk past holding hands, bundled in scarves. It hits me then how long it’s been since I’ve touched someone just to feel connected.
Maybe that’s what I need tonight. Not to think. Not to feel so careful all the time.
So I change in the back room: dark jeans, a knit sweater, boots. I text Wren a quick note that I’m going out for a bit. Then, I grab my coat from the rack, lock up, and step into the cold.