Chapter 12 #2
“It would have been,” I reply, dusting my hands off.
“But the bulk order was twice the size of our usual delivery. We’re overflowing.
And to make matters worse, the compressor on the main cold room unit died this morning.
It’s holding at forty degrees, but that’s not cold enough for the roses. They’re wilting fast.”
“Damn,” Fallon says, dumping a pile of sausage onto his pizza. “That’s a nightmare. What are you doing with the overflow?”
“We’re running back and forth to Fox & Fern,” I explain. “Wren—Norah’s best friend, she owns the bakery—let us hijack their walk-in cooler for the buckets of roses until we can get a repair guy out. But lugging heavy buckets through the snow in the middle of winter isn’t exactly fun.”
“No, I imagine not,” Eli says, sliding a pizza peel under Maisie’s creation. “Have you thought about dehydrating them? Instead of trying to keep them fresh?”
“Dehydrating?” I ask, watching him slide the pizza into the wood-fired oven.
“Yeah,” Fallon chips in, turning around. “Some flowers actually dry better than they keep. Roses preserve their color pretty well if you dry them right. Eucalyptus dries perfectly. You could sell them as dried arrangements. Potpourri, wreaths. It saves the stock from rotting.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
Fallon lets out a laugh. “I once had a girl take me on a flower arrangement date. It was…something.”
“You’re something else.” Eli laughs.
“Something like what?” Maisie asks.
Fallon is laughing as he explains the expression, but I’m focused on what he said. I hadn’t even considered that. I’ve always been so focused on the fresh product, the perfection of the bloom.
“You know, that’s… actually a really good idea. The brides this weekend definitely want fresh, but I could use the damaged ones for drying. Save the inventory.”
“Eli’s the idea man.” Fallon grins, tossing a mushroom at Eli. “I’m just the muscle.”
Eli catches the mushroom and eats it. “I just hate seeing things go to waste.”
Maisie is listening to all of this, even though she doesn’t understand half of it. She’s watching the easy way Fallon and Eli interact and having fun in the process, asking about types of cheese, picking toppings, tearing the basil leaves.
It hits me then, how strange this is. These are two men I barely know. Alphas. Strangers, really. But they are here, on a Sunday night, making pizza with my daughter.
They’re kind to her. Fallon is patient, answering her endless questions about knives and dragons. Eli is gentle, guiding her hands, praising her messy dough work.
I watch Fallon hand Maisie a piece of pepperoni to snack on, and he winks at her. She giggles.
A cold, hard knot forms in my stomach.
I remember Luke. I remember bringing Maisie around his apartment once, when she was barely three.
Luke had been annoyed by the noise. He told me to make her sit in the corner and be quiet. He hated the clutter of her toys. He snapped at her when she spilled juice on his carpet.
Bile rises in my throat, sour and acidic. I swallow it down hard, gripping the edge of the counter.
Luke made me feel like a burden. He made me feel like Maisie was a mistake. He made our life feel like something to be ashamed of.
These men… they don’t make me feel that way. They make me feel like I’m part of the team.
“You okay?”
I look up. Eli is standing right next to me, his voice low. The pizza oven is roaring behind him. His eyes are searching mine, concerned.
I force a smile, pushing the memories away. “Yeah. Just… a long night. It’s catching up with me.”
He nods, understanding. “The pizzas will be done in five minutes. I promise. Then we can get you guys home to bed.”
“You’re a good man, Eli,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He looks surprised, then a little shy. “I’m just making dinner.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. The tarts. Coming to the shop. Paying for our tickets. Being nice to Maisie.” I look at him, really seeing him. The flour on his cheek, the kindness in his eyes. “You’re the kind of man I should have fallen in love with.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and honest. I see the impact they have on him. His breath hitches. He opens his mouth to respond, but I don’t let him.
“If I had known men like you existed,” I whisper, “I would have waited. I wouldn’t have settled for… for less. I would have waited for you.”
Eli stares at me, his throat working. He reaches out, brushing his thumb over my cheek. The touch is electric. “You’re here now, Amber. That’s what matters.”
“Pizza time!” Fallon shouts, pulling a steaming pie out of the oven.
The moment breaks, but the feeling remains. I stand there, watching them, and I know with sudden and blinding clarity that I am in trouble.
I’m falling for him.
I’m falling for this gentle baker who looks at me like I’m the only flower in the shop.
And for once, I think that maybe I deserve to be picked.
The phone propped up on the counter shows Stella’s face in pixelated high definition, the background of her London flat a blur of canvases and paint-splattered drop cloths. It’s late there, past midnight, but she’s wide awake, fueled by caffeine and creative energy.
“Okay, so, let me get this straight,” Stella says, leaning closer to the camera, her dyed black hair falling into her eyes. “Jude and Dorian actually agreed to this?”
“They actually agreed,” I confirm, stripping the thorns off a particularly vicious rose stem.
“They sat down with the contractors this morning. The plan is to knock out the back wall of the storage unit and extend the foundation. They’re going to install a commercial-grade walk-in cooler that’s triple the size of the current one. ”
“Holy shit,” Stella whistles. “That’s a massive renovation. It’s going to take forever, right?”
“Months. Probably two, maybe three if the weather holds.” I drop the thorn into the waste bucket.
“Which means we have to clear out the existing stock before they start demolition. Norah is talking about running a ‘clearance sale’ for the next two weeks to get rid of everything. And then? Then we close the doors.”
“Closed for months?” Stella’s eyes widen. “What about the income? You guys can’t just shut down for a quarter.”
“That’s the problem. Norah has some savings, and the guys are obviously footing the bill for the construction itself, but the operational costs… and my pay…” I sigh, rubbing my temple. “If the shop isn’t open, I’m not working. And if I’m not working, I’m not getting paid.”
Stella frowns, the blue light of the screen washing out her pale complexion. “That sucks, babe. What are you going to do? Do you have enough saved up to float you for three months?”
I hesitate, glancing at the order book on the counter. “I have some. But…”
I trail off. I haven’t told her about the car. Three days ago, the old sedan decided to protest its existence.
A minor breakdown turned into a major repair bill—new alternator, serpentine belt, a battery. It ate through the emergency fund I had been meticulously building since we moved to Fox Hollow.
And then there was the email from the school yesterday. The debate club fees. Uniforms, travel expenses for the regional competition in Eugene, registration fees. It was four hundred dollars. It might as well be four thousand.
I look at Stella on the screen. She’s vibrating with excitement about something else.
“Anyway, I’ll figure it out,” I say, keeping my voice light. “So, what’s this big news you were dying to tell me?”
Stella’s face instantly transforms. The worry for me vanishes, replaced by a manic, brilliant grin. “Okay, so, you know that gallery in Shoreditch? The one that represents that street artist who does the massive murals?”
“Vaguely?”
“Well, I’ve been networking my ass off at this bar I work at—you know, the one with the pretentious craft cocktails?
Anyway, the owner’s brother is a curator.
He came in last week, saw some sketches I did on the back of a receipt, and he invited me to a private viewing next month.
He thinks if I can put together a solid collection, he might feature me in their emerging artists exhibition in the summer! ”
“Stella, that’s amazing!” I exclaim, and I mean it. “That’s huge.”
“It’s huge!” She practically bounces in her chair. “But I need money. Like, serious money. I need to buy canvases, high-quality oils, rent studio space for a few weeks to get the work done without my cats knocking paint jars over. I’m already picking up extra shifts, but I need a lump sum.”
I feel my stomach clench. This was it. This was my window. I was going to ask her for a loan. Just five hundred bucks to get me through the month, to cover the debate fees and the groceries.
She’s the only person I trust enough to ask, despite the distance.
I look at her hopeful face. I think about the deposit for the studio space in London, the cost of paints in the city.
If I ask her for money, she’ll give it to me. She won’t hesitate. But then she’ll be short for her dream.
I can’t do it. I won’t be the thing that holds her back, not when she’s finally clawing her way out of the hole we used to share.
“That’s incredible, Stel,” I say, forcing a smile. “You’re going to kill it.”
“I hope so,” she sighs, her excitement dimming slightly. “It’s just… the money is tight. But I’ll make it work. I always do.”
“You will,” I assure her. “Hey, I have to go. I’ve got a delivery coming in.”
“Okay, babe. Keep me posted on the shop closing. Maybe you can come visit me in London while they renovate?” she suggests.
“Maybe. That would be nice.”
We say goodbye, and the screen goes black.
I stand there in the silence of the shop. The reality of my finances sits on my shoulders like a wet wool blanket.
The car repair drained me. The upcoming lost wages from the renovation are a dark cloud on the horizon. Maisie’s debate fees are due by Friday.