Chapter 3 Of Monsteras and Men
Of Monsteras and Men
Holly
My elation shifts to disappointed frustration when I realize putting up the sign is a bigger job than anticipated.
I’ve meticulously cleaned the glass, per the instructions that came with the sign, but there’s no way I can do the actual application myself.
Someone needs to hold the decal up on the inside of the glass, while also somehow verifying from the outside that it’s at the right level and straight before adhering it.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. I’m also unsure who to ask for help around here since I don’t really know anyone yet, which is one hundred percent on me and my self-imposed hermetic entry into this town.
The coffeehouse next door is probably full of locals getting their morning caffeine fix who might be up for lending a helping hand, but while I’d honestly love an espresso right now, I don’t relish the idea of asking a perfect stranger for help.
I don’t like asking anyone for help, actually.
I learned the hard way that help often comes wrapped with strings of expectation or obligation, and I don’t want to owe anyone anything.
Part of me knows that probably wouldn’t be the case here, especially given how friendly the few people I’ve actually interacted with in this town are, but my survivor instincts are still kind of hard-wired right now.
Softening them is a challenge I’ve been trying to accept and grow through, but apparently today’s not the day for that because the thought of going next door and asking for help causes a heaviness in my gut and an uncomfortable constriction in my chest.
One I’ve learned not to ignore or push through.
“Think, Holly,” I encourage myself aloud, effectively stopping the mental chatter around fictional debts and stranger danger. “There’s always a way.”
The answer appears in my mind in a flash, and I grin at the simplicity. Beatrice needs a new home anyway, and not only would she look fantastic by the front window, she’d absolutely love it there.
I make sure the front door is locked before snagging my keys and heading out the back to go get her.
My house is on the outskirts of town, closer to one of the wooded areas that abuts the river, but it’s not a long drive.
I spend it thinking of all the plants at home, and who else might like to come live in the shop.
There are quite a few candidates actually, especially considering how much natural light I get in the new space, with the front being mostly glass.
I’ll need to bring a squeegee too.
And that might help with putting up the sign, now that I think of it. The flat surface will be good for removing all the air bubbles and helping to ensure a solid seal.
I’m getting more excited as I approach my house, confident that my plan will work, and gently chiding myself for not having thought of it from the start.
“It’s not like you had any room,” I remind myself, backing into my driveway.
And that’s the truth. With all the plants I’d brought to the shop’s greenhouse earlier, there wasn’t space for much else in the car. Now, though, my cargo hold is completely empty. It’s a good thing, too.
Beatrice is a monster of a Monstera.
In no time, I’ve loaded her up in the back of my 4Runner, angling her pot so the coir pole she’s currently climbing fits without crushing any of her gorgeous, fenestrated leaves.
I’ve also packed an inch plant, several ivies and ferns, and a lipstick plant to add pops of color and vibrancy to the currently mostly empty shop.
Eventually, my flowers and floral creations will be the stars of the show, but there’s no reason not to have some other plants there too.
“You’ll be the Guardians of the shop,” I tell them as I drive.
Some would think it strange that I talk to my plants like I do, but I know the nature of each Being as if they were my friends.
And they are, even if they haven’t all shared their Names with me yet.
Beatrice, isn’t actually that Monstera’s true Name either, but it’s nice to know what to call her in the day-to-day.
“I’m so excited to have you all come to work with me,” I continue, making my way back through town. “I hope you all love it there as much as I do.”
The Philodendron reaches over the back of my seat, and I smile as it touches my shoulder, letting me know they’re pleased with the arrangement.
I knew this was a good decision.
I unload the plants in front of the shop, then drive around to the staff parking, and cut through the building from the back to bring them in, peeling my sweater off and tossing it on the counter on the way.
I swear these plants are all heavier now than when I first loaded them into the car, but maybe that’s just my energy waning.
Breakfast was a while ago. I should probably eat something soon.
Setting the Lipstick Plant next to the Philodendron, I visualize them hanging on the perimeter of the entry space.
Shoot, I’ll need the drill for the ceiling to put in the hooks, and I’m not sure where the studs are. I’ll probably need to go to Clayton’s and get a stud finder.
My to-do list is growing, but I’m not daunted by that.
In fact, I can’t help smiling as I snag a wheeled plant caddy and head back out front to get Beatrice. It feels good to have problems I can solve. Not that any of these things are actual problems, but still.
I love the fact that I’m finding nuances I wouldn’t have encountered if I hadn’t bought this place. And needing supplies gives me a good excuse to visit the mercantile again. That place is a hoot.
I’ve never seen so many disparate things all in one store.
You can buy everything from dried pasta and other shelf-stable groceries to housewares and clothing for the whole family there.
They have hardware and arts and crafts supplies at Clayton’s Mercantile too, amongst other random yet useful things like playing cards, reading glasses, and fishing tackle.
It’s definitely eclectic, and I love it.
It takes a bit to get Beatrice situated on the caddy, and I swear, she’s heavier now too.
“Have you put on weight, Bea?” I ask her jokingly. “Bulking out those roots?”
She preens in the sunlight while I take a step back for a breather, swiping a bit of hair that’s escaped my ponytail back from my sweaty face.
Now that I’ve situated her pot on the wheeled caddy, she somehow looks even bigger than before, despite nothing having actually changed about her dimensions or her pot.
“You’ve got this,” I cheer myself, getting back to work.
Even though I just hauled her out of my car earlier with no problems, rolling her through the threshold is a bit of a challenge. The extra height from the caddy means I have to angle her climbing pole just so to clear the door when I lift the wheels—
“Here,” a deep voice says. “Let me help you.”
I freeze, my cheeks heating as I imagine what I must look like right now with my back to the street, bent over like this. Great, some random stranger probably just got an eyeful of my jeans-clad butt.
Before I can dwell on that thought too long, I straighten and turn, sucking in a breath at the sight that greets me.
Surely the Goddess is playing with me right now.
The dreamiest man stands on the sidewalk outside my shop with one of those to-go coffee cups in his hand, smiling at me.
Smiling.
Even with that beard, he’s breathtakingly handsome—all tall and athletically lean with dark hair and espresso-colored eyes that are crinkled at the edges with his breath-stealing smile.
He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but with that physique, I’ll bet he’s a firefighter or a police officer or some other do-gooder on his day off.
And here I am, gaping at him like a freshly caught fish.
“Um, hi,” I say, nervously wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans before awkwardly thrusting one out to him. “I’m Holly. Just moving in.”
He takes my hand, his smile widening, and I swear I feel an energetic pulse from the connection.
One I staunchly try to ignore.
But could he be any more handsome? And could his aura be any brighter? He’s definitely one of the good ones.
The too-good-to-be-trues.
“I’m Jake.”
Goddess, that voice. Are you even kidding me?
I release his hand and try not to flatten a heated palm over my heart, which is racing, the freaking traitor. And despite severing the connection, that buzzing energy is still bubbling through my system, telling me all kinds of things I don’t want to give credence to right now.
I do not have time for some random mountain man.
Or any man.
I’m moving into my new workspace. Besides, he’s probably married.
“I thought you might like a pick-me-up,” he says in that resonant baritone that does something funny to my heart. “And made you a latte as a welcome to the neighborhood. Do you do dairy? If not, I can remake it.”
His words wash over me while I surreptitiously check out his hands. No ring, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably dating someone. Or he’s the resident bachelor. There’s a bit of grey in his beard, maybe he’s given up on love and sworn himself to a life of singledom, just like me.
I don’t know why I even care. This guy is—
His words sink in, and I glance up from where he’s holding the cup.
“You made that?” I’m pretty sure I’m frowning. But why would a guy like him make me a coffee? “Do you work next door?”
“I own next door. I’m your new neighbor.”
“J. Bryson.” I remember the name from the utilities split.
I’d assumed the J was for Jennifer or Jessica. Jewel. Jillian. Jane. Jolene. Jasmine. Any number of other J names.
Jake wasn’t even in the running, but here he is in front of me, all unfairly handsome and chipper.
“That’s me.” He holds out the to-go cup. “This is for you. Unless you’d like it dairy-free?” His dark brows lift with the question, and I’m struck again by how drawn to him I am—and not just because he’s hot.
There’s something in his demeanor that beckons me. Something in his cadence of speech and the way he holds himself that lets me know I’m safe with him.
Which is, of course, a completely fictional narrative I have no basis for. I don’t even know why my mind is trying to write it either. Stupid mind. We don’t even know him.
“Thanks,” I say roughly, taking the coffee so my hands have something to do. I don’t miss that they’re shaking when they wrap around the cup.
I also don’t miss that my skin brushes Jake’s with the handoff, and as butterflies erupt in my belly, I have to talk my traitorous body off another ledge.
Seriously, this is highly uncalled for.
And definitely unwelcome.
I take a sip of the coffee to be polite, trying not to think about what if it might be poisoned, and nearly groan aloud at how insanely good it is. “This is incredible,” I praise. “I had no idea.”
Goddess, all this time I’ve been coming at night when if I’d just come earlier in the day I could have this ambrosia?
Maybe something really is wrong with me.
“I’m glad you like it,” Jake says, giving me that handsome smile again.
I drink more of the delicious coffee, relishing the silky mouthfeel and the clean, almost nutty flavor. I’ve honestly never had such an incredible brew before.
Before I can stop myself, I tell him so, and his smile widens as he drops his gaze to the ground, almost blushing at my praise.
I don’t know why that’s so endearing. Maybe because I’m used to guys who blow off compliments, not let you see them land. Whatever the reason, as Jake visibly relaxes, I do too.
“Seriously,” I tell him. “What’s in this? I haven’t had coffee so clean in a while.”
“It starts with the plant. Speaking of which,” he gestures with his chin to Beatrice. “Can I help you get that one inside?”
I nod, taking another sip before moving to help him.
Of course, he doesn’t need my help.
In one fluid movement, Jake crouches and picks up the whole thing, angling Beatrice effortlessly, and crossing the threshold without ruffling his perfect dark hair, snagging a leaf, or spilling a single piece of soil.
“Where do you want her?” he asks, straightening.
A warmth pervades my heart space at his inquiry, even while other parts of my body heated at the sight of this man so effortlessly carrying the enormous plant.
“Her name is Beatrice.” I don’t know why I tell him that, but it feels right somehow.
“It’s nice to meet you, Beatrice,” Jake says into the mass of leaves. “Where would you like to live?”
I gasp as she responds to him, angling her upper leaves toward the main window, where I’d planned to put her. Jake doesn’t notice though, he’s watching me.
I’m not sure how I feel about that either. But I definitely don’t hate it, which is a problem.
“She’s going to go by the front window, next to the interior wall,” I say, trying to get myself back on track. “But we have to put the sign up first.”
“Great,” Jake says with more enthusiasm than he has any right to. “Where’s the sign? I’m happy to help.”
As he glances around the shop, I don’t have the heart to tell him Beatrice was going to help me hang the sign. Besides, I’m not even sure how to go about explaining that one.
“Is this it?” he asks, gesturing to the prepared decal sitting on the counter. “The Enchanted Florist, huh? I like it.”
His grin catches me off guard again, and this time I can’t help myself. My palm flattens over my racing heart, and I actually smile back.
“Thanks,” I say breathily, surprisingly thrilled at his response to my choice of names.
Yeah, I’ve got a big problem.
And I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do about it.