13. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he next morning, I wake up feeling lighter than I have in days. There’s a strange sense of relief buzzing beneath my skin, like a knot I didn’t even realize was there has finally come undone.
And I know exactly why.
It’s Graham.
After everything—his coldness, the awkward pie moment, and the tension hanging between us—it feels like we’ve turned a corner. Sitting on the grass at the Holloway estate, laughing over that ridiculous chicken maze story, something shifted. For the first time, it felt like we were on the same page, like we could work together without all the weirdness getting in the way.
As I brush my teeth and pull my hair into a loose bun, I smile at the memory of his grin when he told the story and how his deep laugh seemed to warm the space around us.
For once, I’m not dreading the idea of spending the day with him. In fact, I might even be looking forward to it.
When I arrive at the flower shop, Mia is already in full swing, arranging a colorful bouquet for a customer.
“Morning!” she says brightly, glancing up as I walk in. “You’re looking chipper today.”
“Am I?” I reply, setting my bag on the counter.
“Absolutely,” she says, smirking. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” I say, shrugging as I set up at the corner table, spreading out my notes and planner.
Mia raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh. Does this sudden good mood have anything to do with a certain landscape architect?”
I roll my eyes but can’t fight the smile tugging at my lips. “We just… talked a little. That’s all. It feels like things aren’t as tense now.”
“Talked a little?” Mia repeats, her smirk growing. “That’s progress. I was starting to think you two were doomed to be enemies forever.”
“We were never enemies,” I protest, though I can’t deny that it felt that way at times. “It was just… complicated.”
“Well, whatever it was, I’m glad it’s over,” Mia says, tying a ribbon around the bouquet with a flourish. “Now you can actually enjoy working together.”
Enjoy might be a stretch, but as my laptop boots up, I realize she’s not entirely wrong.
When I arrive at the Holloway estate later that morning, Graham is already there, setting up equipment near the lake. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the sprawling garden, and for the first time, I feel excited to begin the day’s work.
“Morning,” I say as I walk up, waving.
He glances over, his expression softening just slightly. “Morning.”
I set my bag down on the table we’ve been using as our makeshift workstation and pull out my planner. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Finishing the pathways,” he says, gesturing to the sketches on the table. “Then we can start mapping out the seating areas.”
“Perfect,” I say, grabbing a pen and flipping to the section of my planner dedicated to the layout. “Let’s get started.”
The hours pass in a blur of measuring tape, sketches, and quiet collaboration. Graham and I fall into an easy rhythm, bouncing ideas off each other and adjusting plans as we go.
There are still moments of silence, but they don’t feel heavy like before. Instead, they’re comfortable, the kind of quiet that comes with mutual understanding.
At one point, I catch myself glancing at him as he works, the way his hands move with careful precision as he carves out sections of the garden. He’s so focused, so in his element, and it’s hard not to admire the quiet intensity he brings to everything he does.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, looking away as my cheeks heat. “Just… thinking.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press, returning his attention to his work.
By the time we wrap up for the day, the garden is starting to take shape, and I feel a renewed excitement for the wedding.
“Thanks for today,” I say as we pack up our supplies. “I think Riley will love how this is coming together.”
“Let’s hope so,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag.
As I climb into my car, I catch myself smiling again, the same lightness from this morning settling over me.
I’m not sure what’s happening between Graham and me, but for the first time, it feels like we’re moving in the right direction.
And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m starting to look forward to the parts of my day when I see him.
T he sun is setting as I wander through Mia’s flower shop, cradling my phone against my ear while Claire, my assistant back in Manhattan, talks my ear off about a client request that’s spiraled into a minor crisis.
“I told her the centerpieces were already finalized, but now she wants to swap the peonies for orchids at the last minute,” Claire says, her frustration crackling through the line. “I mean, who does that?!”
“Orchids? For a gala?” I murmur distractedly, running my fingers along the delicate petals of a bouquet of lilies. “That’s ambitious.”
“You mean impossible,” Claire says flatly. “Sophie, what do you want me to do?”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to focus. “Call Marcy at the floral shop on Fifth. She might have a lead on orchids. And if not, offer the client white hydrangeas as an alternative. They’re elegant and way easier to get on short notice.”
Claire mutters her agreement before launching into another detail, but my attention drifts as I move to a nearby display. My eyes land on a vase filled with bright yellow daisies, their cheerful simplicity catching me off guard.
For a moment, I can almost hear Riley’s voice in my head, gushing about wanting her wedding to feel “joyful and warm, like the start of summer.”
It’s a good reminder of why I’m here, but the vase slips from my hand before I can set it back.
The sound of shattering glass jolts me out of my thoughts, and I freeze, staring at the pieces scattered across the floor.
“Claire, I’ll call you back,” I say quickly, ending the call and dropping to my knees to pick up the shards.
The first piece digs into my palm before I realize what I’m doing, a sharp sting cutting through the haze of my distraction.
“Oh no,” I mutter, wincing as blood wells from the cut.
“Stop!”
Graham’s voice startles me, and I look up to see him standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and exasperation.
Before I can say anything, he strides over, crouching to take my wrist gently but firmly in his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up,” I say defensively, trying to pull away. “It’s fine?—”
“It’s not fine,” he interrupts, his tone sharper than usual. “You’re going to hurt yourself more if you keep picking up glass with your bare hands.”
“I’m careful?—”
“You’re not careful, Sophie,” he snaps, releasing my wrist and pulling a clean rag from the nearby counter. “You wouldn’t even think to use something else. You’d just dive right in like you’ve never had to deal with a mess before.”
His words hit me like a slap, and I sit back on my heels, my chest tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, pressing the rag against my hand a little too forcefully, “that you’ve lived your whole life as a rich kid. You don’t know how to handle stuff like this because you’ve never had to.”
I stare at him, my breath catching in my throat and in utter disbelief because I have no idea where the rich kid comment emanated from. My cousin Ethan is better suited for that phrase. I try to withhold myself from being mad as I speak. “Is that what you think of me?”
His jaw tightens, and I can see the regret flicker across his face, but it’s too late.
“Forget it,” I say, pulling my hand away and standing up quickly.
“Sophie—”
“No,” I snap, shaking my head as I back toward the door. “I can’t believe you would say something like that.” His words hurt me more than I can explain.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I just?—”
“Save it,” I cut him off, my heart pounding as I grab my bag. “I need to go.”
Before he can say another word, I’m out the door, my footsteps echoing against the pavement as I make my way home.
The cool evening air does nothing to soothe the sting of his words or the ache in my chest.
Rich kid.
I wrap my arms around myself as I walk, the weight of his comment settling heavily on my shoulders.
Why does it matter so much what he thinks?
And why does realizing that he might see me that way hurt so much?
B y the time I return to Mia’s house, the ache in my chest has only grown heavier, each step feeling like it’s dragging me deeper into a place I don’t want to be. I left the house feeling excited, and I’m back here, emotionally exhausted.
I close the door behind me quietly, the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Mia’s playlist from the kitchen filling the otherwise silent house. My body feels like it’s moving on autopilot as I head upstairs, my thoughts spinning too fast to focus.
Graham’s words replay in my mind, sharp and biting.
You’ve lived your whole life as a rich kid.
The sting of it cuts deeper than I want to admit. It’s not just the accusation—it’s the fact that he doesn’t know me at all, not really, and yet he still looked at me and decided I was some spoiled princess who’s never had to work for anything in her life.
The truth couldn’t be further from that.
Collapsing onto my bed, I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, willing myself not to cry. I haven’t felt this gutted in a long time.
Our family wasn’t wealthy—not even close. We were comfortable here in Bardstown, sure, but that was because Mom and Dad worked hard to ensure we had what we needed. They were smart about investing and planning for the future in ways most people in town didn’t consider.
But we weren’t handed anything on a silver platter. Mia, Sam, and I worked for everything we have now. I put myself through sleepless nights and endless hours to build my career in Manhattan, and I am proud of what I’ve accomplished.
And yet, all it took was one comment from Graham to make me feel like none of it matters. Like everything I’ve done, everything I’ve achieved can be reduced to the assumption that I’m some rich girl playing pretend.
The tears come before I can stop them, hot and angry, sliding down my cheeks as I curl into myself on the bed.
I don’t know why this hurts so much.
Maybe it’s because I’d started to see Graham differently.
After everything—the awkwardness, the tension, the way he let me in just enough to see glimpses of who he really is—I’d started to think that maybe, just maybe, we could be friends.
Or even more than that.
But now?
Now I feel like I was stupid to hope for anything at all.
The weight of his words presses down on me, crushing any optimism I’d been holding onto. How can I work with someone who sees me like that? Who doesn’t even care to understand where I’m coming from?
I swipe at my cheeks angrily, sitting up and wrapping my arms around my knees.
Why did I let myself get so attached to the idea of him?
Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it? An idea. A version of Graham I’d imagined based on the small cracks in his walls, the rare moments of vulnerability he’d shown.
But maybe that version of him doesn’t exist.
Maybe I’ve been holding onto a fantasy that was never real in the first place.
The thought sends another wave of hurt crashing over me, and I bury my face in my arms, letting the tears fall.
For the first time since returning to Bardstown, I wonder if I made a mistake.
Because if working with Graham is going to feel like this—like a constant reminder that I’ll never be enough—then maybe it’s not worth it.
Maybe he’s not worth it.
But even as I think it, my chest aches in a way that tells me I don’t really believe it.
A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my spiral, but the heaviness in my chest doesn’t lift.
“Sophie?” Mia’s voice is gentle, concerned.
I wipe my cheeks quickly, even though I know she can’t see me. “Yeah?”
“Dinner’s ready,” she says. “Sam brought his lasagna over, and you know how rare that is. You should come down and eat.”
My stomach twists at the thought of food. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have an appetite, but right now, the idea of sitting at the table and pretending everything’s fine feels impossible.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mia pauses, and I can almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “Sophie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly.
She doesn’t buy it. “I’m coming in.”
“No,” I say, my tone sharper than I intend. “Please, Mia. I just… I just need to be alone right now.”
The silence on the other side of the door feels like a weight pressing down on me.
“All right,” she says softly after a moment. “But if you need to talk, I’m here.”
“Thanks,” I manage, my throat tight.
I listen to her footsteps retreat down the hall, and when the house falls quiet again, I sink back onto the bed, wrapping the comforter around me like a shield.