Millie, Be Mine (Willow Pines #1)
1. Millie
CHAPTER 1
Millie
I ’m not sure which is bigger: the number of people that live in Willow Pines or the number of items on my to-do list. What I am sure of is that the current temperature is a chilly forty-five degrees, my head should be resting on my pillow instead of my desk at four in the morning, and I have approximately seven hours to complete the floral arrangements needed for two weddings today.
And on top of that, Valentine’s Day is next week, and I’ve now thought of two other things I need to jot down.
Text the girls about helping with bouquets
Promise them coffee from Miss Jane’s
There.
The front door swings open and my mom rushes inside as I’m contemplating what task to check off first. The door has an awful squeak I’ve been meaning to fix for months, crossing out and re-writing the task day after day. I shrug, because it’s not a priority today, and stand from my pink criss-cross chair in my office.
My office isn’t much, but it’s been my sanctuary since I purchased this old storefront with a business loan eight years ago at the age of twenty-three to open Rose & Ivy. A lot of blood, sweat, love, and tears have been put into this shop.
After I grab my favorite pink notebook and pen from my desk, I walk to the front of the store to find my mom hunched over the front table. She’s been here for two minutes and is already rearranging the seed display.
“Not to your standards?” I ask, walking over to give her a hug.
She hugs me back and chuckles. “I can’t decide if having them organized by colors is better than alphabetical.”
“Most people in Willow Pines don’t garden anyway,” I say, grabbing the stack of seeds from her and plopping them into the open spot on the rack. “I’m thinking of doing a class to spring people into planting their own wildflower gardens.”
“How timely of you.” Mom smiles and wanders to the left-side of the store to check on the floral displays.
I let her do her thing, knowing she willingly woke up before the sunrise to help me with the arrangements for today. Mom has always loved making sure everything has a place in this store, and seeing as she’s the only other employee, her part-time help has been a huge asset.
Over the years, Rose & Ivy has been perfected and updated when I had spare time and money. The old wallpaper has been stripped and replaced with a soft pink paint. My younger brother, Jeremy, surprised me by lining the walls with white board and batten for my twenty-fifth birthday. Where Mom is on the left-side is a build your own bouquet bar, with various in-season blooms, ribbons, and vases. On the opposite side, there are discounted flowers from the previous weekend’s events and dried flowers that are perfect for any season.
My vision became a reality with the help of incredible friends and family.
Flowers are in my blood. They have been since I was raised with a wildflower field on the western side of my family’s ranch.
When Rose & Ivy first opened, I had a business partner. Kira Ivy was one of my best friends. We grew up together, but we weren’t close until college when we were paired to write a business proposal. Two years in, Kira blindsided me with quitting to pursue her own venture.
It was a messy departure with many nights spent crafting pros and cons lists of keeping the store open. I wasn’t sure if I could manage it myself.
Mom convinced me it was worth trying, and I’m glad she did. I took full ownership of the business. For the past six years, it’s been me, my mom, and occasionally my best friends who pitch in when I’m in a bind. It would take a miracle for me to trust someone outside my immediate circle.
The only upside to everything that’s happened is the people in Willow Pines supporting me. Albeit small, our town is supportive in every way that matters.
And since accepting the role of town event planner over the last two years, I’ve needed all the extra support I can get.
“Okay,” Mom says, wiping her palms on the front of her dark denim jeans to rid the dirt from cleaning the bouquet bar.
“Thank you. I was planning to get to that at some point today.”
Mom raises her brows, silently judging me because we both are aware I wouldn’t have made time for it. Like the squeaky door, the task would’ve been pushed to tomorrow.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say as she passes me and walks into the back room. I flip to today’s list in my notebook and cross out ‘ Clean bouquet bar before Monday.’ Even though I wasn’t the one to complete the task, I still find satisfaction in marking it off a day early.
Mom’s muffled voice comes from the back, but I’m only half paying attention.
The back room is where all the magic happens. My favorite thing is the portable design station, which sits in the middle of the room but can be wheeled around depending on the task. The right side houses large buckets full of water with flowers organized by type. There are also organized ribbons, vases, and various other bulk supplies in the back-left corner.
“What did you say?” I ask after I walk through the swinging door. She’s facing the white board on the left side of the room.
Mom has learned a lot from me over the years, so I’d consider her as much of a lead designer as I am. But since her availability is limited by helping my dad with his mayoral duties, she mostly assists. Most days I feel like all I do is sort flowers, prune them, and change water in the cooler.
But there’s days like today where we get to make two couples overjoyed.
Mom turns to face me, a marker in one hand and a coffee in the other.
“I asked for details on today’s event. Can I see your list?” Mom asks, then points in front of her. “Don’t forget about your coffee.”
“Oh, thank you.” I walk over to pick up the to-go cup she sat near the white board. The coffee gives me life as I take a sip, handing her my notebook still flipped to today’s date.
“Victorian?” she asks.
“Oh, yes. I might need to make this an activity for the flower bar. Did you know that in the Victorian era there was a concept called floriography?”
“I did not. But—” Mom points her finger toward me to make a point. “I do know that roses are referred to as the ‘Queen of Flowers.’”
“That they are. But in floriography, the couple picks flowers that encapsulates their love story. It’s romantic.”
“Is that why they chose roses, lavender, lilies…”
“Yes. The bouquets will have either ivy or fern for the base with the flowers. We still need to add the finish of lace or pearls. I drew a few design options for the centerpieces too, so we can figure out which looks the best once it’s bundled.”
Mom tries to follow along. “Got it. Okay. And the other wedding is…garden party? Where do people come up with these ideas? You know when your father and I got married, I carried?—”
“A single rose.” I finish the sentence for her, having heard the story about their wedding a million times. A rose to signify both their joining, since Dad’s last name is Rose, and her favorite flower. “The garden party is a bit simpler. We’ll use avalanche rose, gardenia, and try to find a high-centered rose. It’s on the next page.”
Mom dips her chin and flips to the following page. “Okay. And all that’s left is double checking everything and the centerpieces?”
“And assembling the arch.”
“Oh, I see that here.” Her finger points to a spot in the notebook. “Arch for garden party.”
“Yep. Okay, let’s get started.” I grab our aprons from the back hook. I toss one to Mom and loop the other around my neck and waist, tying knots to secure it.
We spend the next three hours checking each and every bouquet. Every petal, every ribbon, every bow double checked for the high quality we are known for. I would have made the centerpieces before today, but I ran out of time. It’s one of the reasons we started early. The other is due to my being nervous something will go wrong. I can never be too careful when I have more than one event in the same day.
Mom’s phone rings as we’re deciding on which bouquet to go with. It’s honestly great timing for a break and more coffee. I check the list one last time to ensure we aren’t missing any details.
“Who was that?” I ask when she ends the call.
“Oh, your brother.”
“Jeremy is calling you this early? He’s never awake before ten.”
My brother is two years younger and owns a bar in town, so our sleep schedules differ a bit. At seven in the morning, he’s normally still passed out and would only ever wake for a special occasion.
Mom chuckles. “He’s meeting Will at Miss Jane’s. ”
“I…didn’t know Will was coming to town,” I somehow find words to say.
I’ve had an ‘ I don’t reminisce or speak about Will ’ mentality since we stopped being friends three years ago. Last I heard, he got engaged shortly after surprising Jeremy for the grand opening of his bar. He and Jeremy have been best friends since the age of three and somehow I found myself enraptured with his dark hair, tattoos, leather jacket, glasses…God. One mention of him, and I throw all caution out the window.
Mom continues, oblivious to my worrying mind. “Something about helping Grandpa Rob. I don’t pay any mind to town gossip.”
I narrow my brows at Mom because she always entertains the chatter during her weekly book club with the town ladies. She ignores me and goes back to telling me which centerpiece she likes the best.
After we agree on the one with the added lace she says, “You want to go grab us coffee and scones? We might need more fuel to get through the rest of these.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to go? Get some fresh air? Bring Miss Jane her flowers?” I ask, crossing my fingers she says yes.
“No, no. You go. I’m good to finish this and gather items needed for the arch before you’re back.”
“Okay. I’ll be back soon.” I fake a smile, hoping it hides my fear of seeing Will for the first time in years.
My apron is replaced by my coat. Mom hands me the flowers for Miss Jane, reassuring me of what’s on her agenda while I’m gone, before I head out the back door. Taking the long way around the back of the complex gives me extra time to mentally prepare myself to run into the one man that’s perpetually been my weakness. My feelings for him never fully disappear, always coming back like a damn boomerang.
He’s my brother’s best friend first but will always be the one who cared enough to listen when I needed someone. One drunken kiss at a New Year’s party when I was twenty-one and he was nineteen turned into friends with benefits whenever he was back in town.
I miss him sometimes. I miss our conversations. Even though he’s spoken for and our relationship will never be what it was, has he forgotten everything? I know I haven’t.