Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The bell above the shop door jingles as I shove it open with my shoulder, both hands full of boxes. The scent of lilies and damp soil greets me, stronger than coffee and almost as sharp. I grunt, setting the boxes down on the counter with a thud.
Mia appears from behind the workbench, hair pinned back tight, apron spotless, clipboard in hand like she was born with it. Her eyes flick to the boxes, then to me, and I can already tell I’ve done something wrong.
“You can’t put those there.” Her voice is clipped, efficient. She points to the far corner. “That’s where the supplies go. Customers need this space clear.”
I glance at the counter, perfectly neat rows of vases gleaming like soldiers. Of course. “They’re just boxes, Mia. I’ll move them when I unpack.”
Her brows lift. “And in the meantime, anyone who walks in gets greeted with… cardboard. Very welcoming.”
I bite back a sigh, resting my palms on the boxes. “It’s a flower shop, not a five-star hotel.”
Her jaw tightens, and for a second, I see the little sister who used to follow us around, trying to boss Jake and me with rules about how to play her way. But this isn’t a girl anymore—it’s a woman with a spine of steel and a voice sharp enough to cut glass.
“People come here for more than flowers,” she says, flipping a page on her clipboard. “They come for comfort. For joy. Details matter.”
“Details,” I mutter, hauling the boxes toward the corner she indicated. My boots thud on the wood floor, too loud in the careful quiet she cultivates. “Details don’t keep the roof from leaking.”
She pauses, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, though the truth is, I can’t stop noticing cracks—literal ones in the ceiling, figurative ones in the books I’ve glimpsed. She polishes petals while the foundation creaks.
Her lips press tight. “If you’re going to work here, you’ll follow the system. My system.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “System? Mia, it’s flowers, not rocket science.”
Her pen taps the clipboard, sharp little clicks that sound like judgment. “Funny. Collins didn’t think it was too simple to spend forty years perfecting it.”
That lands. I swallow hard, shifting my weight. She’s right, and we both know it. But admitting that would be like handing her a victory ribbon, and I’m not in the mood.
So I drag a hand through my hair and smirk instead. “Fine. Lead the way, Captain. Just don’t expect me to salute.”
Her eyes flash—frustration, exasperation, maybe something else beneath. Then she turns on her heel, issuing instructions like a general marshaling troops.
And me? I trail after, grumbling, but a small part of me wonders if this clash—her order against my chaos—is exactly what keeps the shop alive.
The bell over the door jingles, and before I can say anything, Mia is already pasting on that polished smile of hers. It’s like she’s been rehearsing it for years.
“Morning, Mrs. Turner,” she chirps, all sunshine and daisies. Literally. She’s halfway to the cooler, reaching for a bunch of plain white stems, when I step in.
“Got it,” I tell her, sliding in front of her before she can swoop. My hand closes around a brighter bundle—gerbera, bold and loud. The kind of flowers that look like they’re celebrating just by existing. Not the boring stuff she was going to grab.
“Those aren’t—” she starts, but Mrs. Turner’s eyes light up.
“Oh, how lovely! Such cheerful colors. You’ve got an eye, young man.”
I grin. Easy win. “Glad you like them.”
I fumble with the paper wrap—okay, maybe finesse isn’t my strong suit—but the point is, Mrs. Turner leaves smiling. That’s the part that matters.
Behind me, I can practically feel Mia’s jaw tighten like she’s chewing gravel.
“Actually,” she cuts in, smile still plastered on, “Mrs. Turner usually prefers white daisies. Simple, classic.”
Mrs. Turner glances between us, amused. “Maybe this week I’ll try something new. It’s good to shake things up once in a while, don’t you think, Mia?”
Mia swallows her annoyance, but I catch it anyway. “Of course.”
I hand off the bouquet, tape dangling off the end like a party streamer. When the door closes behind Mrs. Turner, I lean an elbow on the counter, smirking. “See? Not everything needs a system.”
She whirls on me, eyes flashing. “You just gave away half of Saturday’s display.”
“They’re flowers, Mia, not federal evidence.”
“They’re inventory,” she snaps. “And if you keep freelancing every order, this shop won’t make it six months.”
“Funny,” I say, voice low and easy, “I thought customers came here for joy, not spreadsheets.”
Her arms fold across her chest, tight enough to snap a rib. “Joy doesn’t pay the electric bill.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s wound so tight I half expect her to vibrate off the floor. “You’re wound so tight, I’m surprised you don’t snap in half.”
Her cheeks flush, but her glare stays steady. “At least I care enough to keep things running. You think charm and half-wrapped bouquets are going to save this place? They won’t.”
For a second, her words sting. Harder than I’d like to admit. My grin slips, just a fraction, but I pull it back before she notices. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
The bell jingles again, saving us both from the fight spiraling further. A young couple wanders in, arguing about centerpiece colors, and Mia steps forward instantly, switching back into her perfect-shopkeeper mode.
“Welcome to Collins Florals,” she says brightly.
I hang back, arms crossed, watching her. This time I don’t smirk. I don’t joke.
And for the first time, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—she’s right.
The shop is too quiet once the couple leaves with their “compromise” bouquet—half white roses, half blush carnations. I can still feel Mia’s glare burning a hole in my back.
I crouch near the workbench, more to give myself something to do than out of real necessity, when my hand brushes against the bottom shelf. It wobbles. No, it groans, the kind of sound wood makes right before it decides to quit.
“Perfect,” I mutter.
Mia is at the register, tapping her pen against a ledger like the ink might start paying bills if she hits the page hard enough. She doesn’t even notice the shelf tilting until I press on it again, making it creak.
“What are you doing?” she asks, suspicion dripping from every word.
“Preventing a floral avalanche,” I say, testing the joints. The screws are stripped, the wood cracked. “How long’s this been like this?”
Her nose scrunches. “It’s fine.”
“Fine?” I nudge it and the whole thing sways. “One wrong move and your precious inventory ends up in a heap on the floor.”
She sighs like I’m overreacting, but when the shelf dips again, her eyes flicker. Just for a second. “I’ve been meaning to fix it.”
I glance up at her. “Meaning to. Big difference.”
Her arms fold, chin tilts. That defense stance again. “And what exactly do you plan to do? Charm it back together?”
I grin, pulling the multitool out of my back pocket. “Better. Fix it.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she doesn’t stop me. Which feels like progress.
I get to work, stripping the shelf down, tightening the supports, replacing the useless nails with actual screws I find in the back. Years of working construction jobs between gigs taught me how to make do with what’s on hand. My fingers know the motions before my brain does.
Mia hovers nearby, pretending she isn’t watching. She fiddles with ribbons, rearranges pens, clears her throat. The longer I work, the less noise she makes.
Finally, I press my weight against the shelf. Solid. Doesn’t budge an inch.
“There,” I say, brushing sawdust from my hands. “Good as new.”
Mia steps closer, testing it herself. Her fingers press against the wood like she doesn’t trust me—or maybe doesn’t want to. But when the shelf holds steady, she goes still.
“Well,” she says at last. “It’s… decent.”
“Decent?” I laugh. “That’s the best compliment I’ve had all week.”
The corners of her mouth twitch before she clamps them down, straightening her shoulders. “Don’t get used to it. One shelf doesn’t make you indispensable.”
“Maybe not.” I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “But at least I’m not completely useless.”
For the first time since I got here, her eyes soften. Just a flicker, like sunlight breaking through clouds before the storm rolls back in.
And against my better judgment, I like the look of it.
The bell over the shop door jingles, and I glance up from brushing sawdust off my shirt. Thought it might be another customer looking for tulips, but the woman who walks in isn’t here for flowers. Not with that gray power suit and heels that strike the floor like they own the place.
Mia stiffens instantly. I can feel it even without looking at her.
“Ms. Mia?” the woman asks, scanning the shop like she’s already calculating its resale value. Her gaze flicks over the cracked window, the stacks of invoices, even the shelves I patched up this morning.
“Yes,” Mia answers, her voice tight.
The woman smiles without warmth and holds out a manicured hand. “Claudia Eldridge. I represent Titan Corporation.”
My arms fold on instinct. Titan. Of course. I’ve heard the name whispered in town like a curse.
“Titan?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean. “As in the folks gobbling up every family business within a hundred miles?”
Claudia doesn’t flinch. “As in the folks offering you a way out of financial hardship. Titan invests in community success.”
I nearly laugh. “Yeah, I’ve seen what your kind of success looks like. Starbucks on every corner.”
Her smile only sharpens. “Or stability. Survival.” She slides a glossy folder across the counter, like she’s dealing cards she knows we’ll have to play. “Titan is prepared to give Collins Florals six months under shared ownership. If the shop meets profitability targets, it remains yours. If not…”
She lets the words hang, heavy as a storm cloud. “Titan assumes full control.”
I glance at Mia. Her knuckles are white where she grips the counter. She looks like she might break apart if she lets go. I want to say something, anything, but the truth is, I’m rattled too. Six months isn’t time—it’s a fuse.
Mia clears her throat, her voice strained. “And if we refuse?”
Claudia smooths her jacket, already halfway out the door in her mind. “Then Titan proceeds with acquisition immediately. Either way, the clock has started.”
The bell jingles as she leaves, her perfume lingering like smoke after a fire.
Silence settles, thick enough to choke on. I can hear the cooler humming, the faint traffic outside, even Mia’s unsteady breathing.
Six months. Six months to keep this place from becoming another cog in Titan’s machine.
Mia looks like she’s drowning. I should feel just as panicked, but instead, there’s this strange calm in my chest. Maybe because panicking won’t fix a thing. Maybe because I’ve lived through worse deadlines.
I glance at her, still holding herself together by sheer will, and I say the only thing that makes sense.
“Well.” My voice comes out low, steady. “Guess that means we’re in this together.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide. And the terror in them tells me she’d rather face Titan alone than face it with me.
The shop feels too quiet after Ms. Eldridge leaves, the echo of her heels still bouncing around in my head. Six months. That’s not a business plan—it’s a countdown.
Mia leans against the counter, arms wrapped tight around herself, like she’s bracing for impact. Her face is pale, but her eyes—those sharp, unyielding eyes—are blazing. “She makes it sound so neat. Targets, deadlines, conditions.” Her voice wavers on the edges. “But if we fall short—”
“If,” I cut in, sharper than I mean. I step closer, trying to ground us both. “Not when.”
She doesn’t look convinced. Her gaze darts to the ledger by the register, the stack of bills tucked underneath, the shelf I just screwed back together, all of it like evidence in a case she’s already lost. “Luke, you don’t understand.
Collins Florals doesn’t make Titan-level numbers.
We’ve been holding on by threads and prayer. Six months is… it’s impossible.”
I rake a hand through my hair, jaw tight. Part of me wants to agree. To say what she’s thinking—that Titan stacked the deck. But another part of me, the one that walked out of boardrooms in San Francisco, the one that’s made a living out of surviving, refuses.
“Then we’ll make it possible,” I say.
Her laugh is soft, bitter, and it guts me more than I expect. “You waltz back into this shop after years away, and suddenly you think you can just fix everything with determination?”
I bite back my first response, force my voice steady. “I don’t know what else to do but try.”
Silence stretches between us, taut and brittle. For a second, I think she might snap at me again. Instead, she presses her palms flat on the counter, whispering almost to herself.
“If we fail, we lose the shop.” She swallows hard, her eyes glossing. “We lose Collins’s legacy. We lose everything.”
Her words hang in the air like a verdict. And even though I want to argue, want to promise her we won’t let that happen, the truth slams into me like a weight I can’t shake.
She’s right.
Failure doesn’t just mean closing doors—it means erasing the man who gave me this second chance, the place that shaped her whole life, the one tether still tying me to a town I thought I left behind.
Six months.
The bell over the door jingles again. For a moment, hope flares—maybe a customer, a distraction. But it’s just the wind pushing it open, rattling the frame before it clicks shut again.
The sound makes it feel final, like the shop itself knows the clock has started ticking.
And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve dragged us both into a fight we can’t win.