Chapter 17 Norah #2
I grab it and toss it in the trash, the clink of glass against metal making me wince. I make a mental note to throw out the rest of the mess later, when I have a bit more energy.
I hunt for my phone, realizing I left it on the counter. My stomach twists again. I pick it up and find it dead, black screen reflecting my messy hair and flushed face.
I stick it into the charger and frown, watching the tiny battery icon flicker reluctantly to life. I sigh and run a hand over my face.
First order of business, survive the day. Second, don’t think about Ryker too much. Third, maybe survive seeing Hank and the butcher’s family without dying of embarrassment for missing their delivery.
I take a deep breath and pull my sleeves up, moving to the workspace. The flowers sit in buckets, a riot of colors and textures. Lilies, daisies, tulips, roses, the petals still slick with condensation from the fridge.
I tie my hair back properly, wipe my hands on a rag, and start arranging them, feeling the familiar rhythm of work settle my mind. The scent of fresh greenery, the rustle of leaves, and the tactile pleasure of petals under my fingers ground me.
I select a vase, trim the stems, remove the thorns, and start arranging the flowers for the butcher’s son. I pick colors carefully—bright yellows and soft whites with splashes of orange—something cheerful, hopeful.
The arrangement takes shape under my fingers, and I step back to inspect it, satisfied with the balance and flow.
The shop bell jingles while I step outside with the bouquet. My hands clutch the arrangement as I walk toward the butcher’s house.
Snow crunches under my boots, cold air stinging my cheeks, and I glance around nervously.
Mrs. Callahan is on the porch when I arrive, knitting in a rocking chair with a blanket over her legs. She tilts her head, squinting at me through her glasses. “How are you feeling, dear?”
I freeze, confusion knotting in my stomach. “I’m… fine,” I manage, voice low.
Her gaze softens, and she nods toward Hank, who’s leaning against the railing beside her. “Hank, yesterday, the construction boy, Ryder—” She pauses, blinking at me. “He mistook my house for Norah’s.”
Something clicks in my brain. Ryker. That’s him. I flush a deep red, mouth opening and closing.
“I… I had food poisoning,” I lie, voice shaky. “I’m okay now.”
“Glad to hear it. You were out in a pretty bad way. When Hank said you’d not opened the shop, I almost called the police,” Mrs. Callahan says cheerfully. “We’re glad you’re feeling better.”
I hand over the bouquet, trying to keep my hands steady, my cheeks burning. Hank thanks me politely, still looking a little bewildered, and I nod before turning to leave.
Back at the shop, I pick up my phone and find the battery still low. I stare at it for a long moment, curling my hands around the device, wishing I had at least been able to thank Ryker properly.
He did all of that—cleaned, stayed awake with me, made food, handled all of it—and I’d stumbled around, barely coherent, leaving him with a mess and not even a proper “thank you.”
My stomach knots, half embarrassment, half gratitude. I pick up a rag and start wiping down surfaces, moving through the motions automatically. Dust the shelves, rearrange flowers, sweep the floor.
My hands are busy, but my mind keeps drifting back to Ryker. Shirtless. Pine-scented. That ridiculous, impossible, infuriatingly perfect man who carried me home like I weighed nothing, who stayed up with me, who…
I shake my head, trying to reset. No, I can’t go there. Focus. Flowers. Work. Survive.
I start prepping another bouquet, this one for a customer who will pick it up later. The petals are softer than they look, delicate and resilient.
My fingers brush against the leaves and thorns, cutting tiny nicks into my skin, and I curse under my breath. It’s a normal day in my shop, but my mind refuses to calm completely.
I arrange the flowers carefully, tying them with ribbon, trimming excess stems. My hands shake slightly as I work, still a little weak from last night.
I finish the bouquet and step back, looking at it critically. Good. Balanced. Bright. Enough to make someone smile.
I tuck it gently into a bag, then start tidying up the shop, stacking vases, straightening blooms, sweeping fallen leaves and petals from the floor.
By the time I pause, I’m slightly breathless, and I realize the shop is spotless, flowers arranged neatly, counters wiped, the air carrying a soft floral scent mingled with the faint bleach from yesterday’s cleanup.
I sink into the chair behind the counter, exhaling. The sun is rising higher, snow outside softening to a quiet, sparkling drizzle.
I glance at my phone one more time. The battery is halfway charged now. I pick it up, holding it in my hands like a talisman.
Then I sigh and lay it down. Some things can wait. Other things—like trying to untangle the mess of last night, Ryker, Dorian, and my own disaster of a life—can wait, too.
For now, there’s just the shop, the flowers, and the small, absurd, exhausting miracle that I survived this morning.
And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll find a way to thank Ryker properly later.
Somehow.