Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Irun a hand down the back of my neck, trying to leash the frustration before it snaps. “Mia, we can’t just tread water anymore. Fine isn’t going to cut it.”
She’s trimming stems like each one owes her money, the blades of her scissors flashing in the shop light. “And what do you suggest, Luke? Another hashtag campaign?” The words drip sarcasm.
“No.” I shake my head, pushing past the instinct to snap back. “I’m talking about partnerships. Strategic ones. The café across the street, the yoga studio two blocks over. We get Collins arrangements in their spaces, they send business our way. That’s visibility.”
She finally looks up, eyes narrowed, like she’s weighing whether I’ve lost my mind. “So you want me to give away flowers for free?”
“Not free. Smart.” I move closer, lowering my voice like the blooms themselves might be listening.
“Bundle packages. Coffee and carnations. Yoga and eucalyptus. Things that stick in people’s heads.
Things Titan would never think of because they don’t care about the community—they just care about profit. ”
Mia sets the scissors down with a sharp click, folding her arms. “And you think the community is going to keep us afloat when Titan’s measuring spreadsheets?”
“I think loyalty counts for more than you’re giving it credit for.
” My chest tightens, because the truth is, I believe it down to my bones.
I’ve seen what happens when people rally for each other.
“When I was still with the department, we had a fundraiser for a firefighter’s family after a line-of-duty death.
The city showed up. People who never set foot in a station before.
You give them a reason to care, they show up. That’s what Collins needs.”
Her expression falters for just a beat before she hardens it again. “Luke, this isn’t a firehouse. It’s a flower shop.”
“Exactly.” I lean on the counter, close enough to catch the stubborn set of her jaw. “And right now, it’s not enough to just keep trimming stems and hoping business walks through the door. We’ve got to pull them through the door. Give them a reason.”
She grabs the scissors again, snipping clean through a rose stem with more force than necessary. “And what if I don’t want Collins Florals to turn into a gimmick circus?”
“It’s not a gimmick.” My voice sharpens before I can rein it in. “It’s survival.”
I eye the counter display like it’s an enemy formation—too much lace ribbon, pastel vases straight out of a retirement catalog, and a chalkboard sign in handwriting so curly it looks like a toddler got ahold of it.
Mia stands beside me, arms crossed, that stubborn tilt to her chin I know means I’m about to get steamrolled.
“We could streamline this,” I say, gesturing at the clutter. “Neutral tones, clean lines. People don’t want to feel like they’ve walked into their grandmother’s attic.”
Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me? That’s charm, Luke. People love charm. It’s called personality.”
“Personality or chaos?” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly, but she’s already bristling.
“People don’t come here for sterile catalog spreads,” she snaps. “They come because the shop feels warm and alive. You start stripping it down to beige and chrome, and you might as well slap Titan’s logo on the door.”
I bite back a laugh. “There’s a middle ground between Titan and hoarder chic.”
Her mouth drops open, scandalized, but before she can retort, the bell over the door jingles. An older couple ambles in, eyeing the arrangements. The woman leans close to her husband and whispers, not nearly quietly enough, “Oh, I just adore how quaint it all feels, don’t you?”
Mia smirks at me like she just won the Super Bowl.
“See?” she whispers.
I refuse to back down. “One customer does not make a business, strategy does.”
I stride over to the cooler, pull out a bouquet wrapped in shiny foil that clashes violently with its container. “Case in point. This looks like it belongs on a gas station counter.”
“Don’t you dare insult my seasonal display,” Mia fires back, storming over to snatch the bouquet from my hands.
The husband chuckles under his breath, clearly entertained. The wife clutches her pearls like she’s stumbled into a soap opera.
“Everything okay here?” she asks.
Mia flashes her brightest customer smile. “Of course! Just… spirited creative discussion.”
“More like a tactical standoff,” I mutter, earning a sharp elbow to my ribs.
The woman beams. “Well, I think it’s lovely. So much more heart than those big-box stores.”
I gesture toward her. “Exactly! That’s what I’m saying—keep the heart, but tighten up the presentation. You don’t need fifteen bows on one bouquet for it to be special.”
Mia glares. “You don’t need everything boiled down to some sterile efficiency chart either. This is art, Luke. Not a military operation.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you’d notice a profit margin if it smacked you in the face.”
“Better that than turning Collins into FlowerBots Incorporated.”
The couple exchanges amused glances. The husband clears his throat. “Young man, I’d listen to her. Women usually know best about these things.”
Mia practically glows with victory. I pinch the bridge of my nose, suppressing the urge to groan.
This is what working with Mia feels like: one step forward, three steps back, all of it on display for an audience that thinks they’ve bought tickets to a rom-com.
Still, I can’t deny one thing. The customers are smiling. They’re engaged. Even when Mia is driving me up the wall, she brings a spark into this place that I can’t quite argue away.
I just wish that spark didn’t make me want to argue with her more.
I shuffle the invoices in my hands, more to keep from saying something reckless than because they need sorting. Numbers glare up at me, black ink against white paper, the kind that doesn’t lie. Our costs are higher than they should be—way higher. And I know exactly why.
I clear my throat. “These growers,” I say, tapping the page, “they’re charging us a premium. There are other suppliers out there who could cut these numbers down by a third.”
Mia’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing like I’ve just insulted the family dog.
Her head snaps toward me. “You want me to ditch the growers Mom trusted for years? People she built relationships with?”
I lower the papers, my voice softening without meaning to. “I’m saying loyalty won’t matter much if Titan takes over. We have to be smart.”
Mia doesn’t answer right away, just presses her lips together like she’s swallowing words she doesn’t trust herself to say in front of customers. Finally, she hisses under her breath, “You don’t get to come back and tear apart everything she built.”
I bite back the retort on my tongue, suddenly aware of the two women at the counter watching us like they’ve scored front-row seats to a soap opera. I force a grin, sliding the invoices back into a neat pile. “Just a friendly business debate,” I tell them.
One of the women winks. “If this is friendly, I’d hate to see you two argue.”
Mia shoots me a glare sharp enough to draw blood. And me? I can’t help the laugh that escapes, because as much as she hates it, she’s proving my point—this shop isn’t just tradition, it’s theater. And right now, the audience is eating it up.
I linger after closing, the shop smelling faintly of roses and floor cleaner.
The register drawer clicks shut, and Mia disappears into the back to finish paperwork.
I should be relieved—the shift’s over, another day survived without Titan breathing down our necks.
But I don’t leave. I just stand there, staring at the rows of flowers in their buckets, their heads bowed as if they’ve worked just as hard as we have.
I tell myself I don’t belong here. This was supposed to be a temporary detour, a pit stop before I figured out my next move.
Firefighting, the military—those jobs made sense.
Action, urgency, adrenaline. This? Arranging lilies in a vase for a woman’s anniversary dinner? It feels too quiet, too… fragile.
And yet. Somewhere between the morning rush and the squabbles with Mia over ribbon budgets, I’ve started to care.
About the flowers, about the shelves that keep breaking, about the old cash register that rattles like it’s holding on for dear life.
About her. I catch myself fixing displays when she isn’t looking, making mental notes about what the shop needs.
Not because Titan demands it, but because the thought of this place going under makes my chest ache in a way I don’t want to examine too closely.
I rub the back of my neck, annoyed at myself. I came back to help, not to get attached. Not to start feeling like Collins Florals—the place I once thought of as background noise in my childhood—is suddenly the ground I don’t want to lose.
The front bell jingles. Mia reappears, frowning at her phone, her brows knitting so tight I know something’s wrong before she says a word.
“Luke.” Her voice is flat, too controlled. She holds out the phone, the screen lit up with an email. I step closer, my pulse already ticking faster.
It’s from one of our biggest wedding clients—June, the woman who wanted white hydrangeas and blush roses for her reception.
I remember because Mia made me carry the sample arrangements across town in the rain.
Now June’s apologizing. Saying she’s grateful for our time, but another florist has offered her the same order for a lower price.
My jaw tightens. “Who?”
Mia swallows, her gaze flicking up to mine. “Bloom & Vine.”
I mutter under my breath. They’re flashy, new, all glass storefront and trendy Instagram reels. And they’re circling like sharks, waiting for a chance to bleed us dry.
I look back at the screen, the words glaring at me like a challenge. A rival florist undercutting us isn’t just bad luck—it’s a direct hit. And if we lose the wedding contracts, Collins Florals won’t make it to Titan’s next review.
Mia’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence. “What if this is just the beginning?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is, it probably is.