Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
The morning hums with the kind of energy I usually avoid—the bustling, chatty, too-many-hands-on-deck chaos of a community event.
I’m more comfortable with spreadsheets, clear deadlines, and the certainty that numbers don’t lie.
But today, Mia is standing in front of me with a clipboard, tapping her pen like she’s the general of a flower army, and somehow, I’m enlisted.
“Don’t look so grim,” she says, thrusting a list into my hands. “It’s not a funeral. It’s a garden showcase.”
I scan the paper. Vendors, seating charts, floral arches—every detail inked in her tidy scrawl. “You’ve overbooked the booths. There are six spots and seven vendors.”
Her eyes flash, but there’s a spark of humor beneath it. “Then you’ll figure out a way to make it work, Mister Efficiency.”
For once, the bite in her voice doesn’t sting. I actually find myself grinning. “You realize you’re terrible at math, right?”
“Only when it’s convenient,” she shoots back.
We spend the next hour juggling deliveries and wrangling volunteers.
She’s quick with ideas, waving her hands as she describes where each arrangement should go.
I follow her lead, adjusting logistics, moving tables, tightening bolts.
Our rhythm surprises me—it’s less like sparring and more like…
harmony. Her imagination sparks, and I ground it.
I lay the bones, and she fills them with color.
At one point, she smudges dirt on her cheek while wrestling a potted fern.
I laugh, and she makes a face, swiping at me with her dirt-streaked hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, but she lunges anyway, leaving a brown streak across my shirt.
The volunteers snicker as I groan, but I can’t stop the warmth spreading in my chest.
This—this feels like belonging. Like a place where I’m not just filling in gaps, not just the guy trying not to screw up. Here, with Mia barking orders and smiling at old ladies who stop to admire the arrangements, I feel… part of something. Needed.
It terrifies me almost as much as it comforts me.
As the afternoon winds down, clouds gather thick over the horizon. I catch the shift first, the smell of rain sharp in the air. Then a crack of thunder shakes the ground, and wind whips across the street, rattling the canopy tents. Mia looks up, her clipboard clutched to her chest.
“Please tell me that’s not headed for us,” she mutters.
A gust rips through, sending petals swirling like confetti. Across the street, one of the volunteers shouts as a banner snaps loose. I grab Mia’s arm, steadying her as the first drops splatter the pavement.
And then I see it—the shop’s front awning straining against the wind, metal groaning, glass rattling in the windowpanes.
The storm isn’t just coming. It’s already here.
Mia wrestles with a roll of burlap ribbon like it’s a python, muttering under her breath while I stack folding chairs. The church hall smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old hymnals, sunlight slanting through tall windows, catching in her hair as she growls at the knot she’s made.
“Pretty sure the ribbon’s supposed to decorate the tables, not strangle you,” I say, lining the last chair.
Her head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “Do you want to do it?”
“Nope,” I reply, folding my arms. “I prefer to watch you lose a wrestling match to fabric. Much more entertaining.”
The glare lingers, but the corner of her mouth twitches. She yanks at the ribbon with exaggerated force, finally unraveling it. “Fine. Round one goes to you.”
The thing about Mia is she doesn’t know when she’s funny. She thinks her sarcasm is a shield, but half the time it just makes me want to laugh. And laugh is exactly what I do, surprising us both. It comes out unguarded, easy, like the sound hasn’t existed in me for a while.
Her brows shoot up, then soften. “Wow. Was that… humor from Mr. Spreadsheet himself?”
“Careful,” I say, crouching to adjust a wobbly table leg. “If word gets out that I can laugh, my entire reputation will crumble.”
She smirks, tugging the ribbon tight around the edge of the table. “I’ll keep your secret—for a price.”
“Extortion. Classic Mia.”
“Classic effective Mia,” she corrects, patting the finished bow with unnecessary flourish. “Admit it, the table looks better because of me.”
I glance over the line of neatly tied ribbons she’s already finished. She’s not wrong. The burlap adds texture, warmth—the kind of detail I’d never think to bother with but that makes the whole room feel less like a spreadsheet of tasks and more like a celebration.
“You’ve got an eye,” I admit, softer than I mean to.
Her hands still, fingers brushing the fabric like it might vanish if she lets go. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I tease, but the truth hums under my rib cage: she deserves more than grudging respect. She sees things I don’t. Beauty where I see logistics, heart where I see ledgers. And maybe that’s exactly what this place—what I—need.
Mia tilts her head, studying me like I’m another one of her half-finished arrangements. “You’re not bad at this, you know. Chair stacking, table leveling, making bad jokes. Real renaissance man.”
I snort, straightening the table. “If that’s your version of praise, I’ll take it.”
The air feels lighter now, less like a battlefield and more like…
something I don’t want to label. Our words still spark, but the heat is different—not fire meant to scorch, but warmth that lingers.
For the first time since stepping foot back in this town, I feel like maybe I’m not an intruder here.
She steps back from the table, brushing her hands off her jeans. “Guess we don’t make a terrible team.”
“Guess not,” I echo, and the words settle deeper than they should.
The last table is dressed, burlap ribbon tied and candles waiting in their glass jars.
The church hall looks… good. Better than good.
I step back and catch Mia standing at the far end, head tilted as she surveys the room.
Her lips purse in concentration, then spread into a satisfied little smile that she doesn’t even know she’s wearing.
I shouldn’t notice that. But I do.
“This will work,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
Something tugs inside my chest. The words are small, but the pride in them is clear, and it hits me harder than it should. Because for once, I don’t feel like I’m standing on the outside, waiting to be dismissed. I feel… part of it. Like the work I put in actually matters.
I shake it off, crouching to test another chair leg, though I already know it’s steady. “Not bad,” I say.
She shoots me a look. “Careful, Luke. Two compliments in one day and I’ll think you’re softening.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re just earning them.”
Her laugh startles me—it’s bright, genuine, filling the hollow space of the hall in a way I didn’t know I’d been craving.
She shakes her head and moves to adjust a candle.
And I realize, with a sting of unease, that I like this.
I like working with her, matching her pace, watching her ideas take shape and knowing my hands helped make them real.
It’s dangerous, this feeling. Belonging. I’ve spent years keeping my distance from people, jobs, places—never giving them enough room to claim me. If you don’t belong, you can’t be left behind when things fall apart. That was the lesson I learned early and hard.
But now? Here? I want it. I want to belong.
The thought knots in my stomach, half comfort, half warning.
“Luke?” Mia’s voice breaks in. She’s closer now, holding a sprig of eucalyptus between her fingers, the scent faint and fresh. “You okay? You look like you’re plotting a hostile takeover of the centerpieces.”
I huff out a laugh. “Just making sure everything holds.”
She tilts her head, unconvinced. Her gaze lingers a little too long, as if she can see through the armor I’ve worn for years. I force myself to turn, busying with the supply box. If she knew what was running through my head, she’d bolt. Or worse—she’d laugh.
The church doors creak open then, and Zoe pokes her head in. “Clouds look nasty out there. Might want to pack it up soon.”
Mia frowns. “Already? Forecast didn’t say rain until tomorrow.”
“Forecast was wrong,” Zoe says, shrugging before darting back out.
I cross to the window, tugging at the curtain. Sure enough, the sky is thick with storm clouds, churning like smoke. The wind picks up, rattling the panes. “She’s right. We should head back before it breaks.”
Mia sighs, grabbing her tote. “Great. Just what we need. A soggy floral shop.”
We hurry, folding chairs, stashing boxes, making quick work of what took hours to set up. The air outside is heavy, electric, the kind of quiet that comes before a storm punches through. By the time we step into the street, the first raindrops splatter against the pavement.
Her little car skids slightly on wet asphalt as we pull up to the shop.
My stomach sinks at the sight: the front awning already whipping in the wind, a loose corner snapping like a flag.
I barely get the door open before a violent gust shoves against us, flinging eucalyptus clippings across the floor.
Mia gasps. “No, no, no—” She rushes inside, shielding a stack of paper order slips from the draft.
I follow fast, slamming the door behind us, but it’s too late—the storm muscles its way through cracks we can’t stop. A sharp crack echoes above us, and I look up in time to see water streaking down the wall from a leak near the window frame.
“Mia,” I say, but my voice is swallowed by the roar of the storm. The glass shudders, rattling in its frame.
She clutches the stack of orders to her chest like they’re holy relics. Her face is pale, eyes wide, mouth parted as if she can’t breathe.
And suddenly, it’s not just a shop. Not just another storm. It’s her entire world under threat, and mine too, whether I’m ready to admit it or not.
The next gust slams against the storefront, harder than before. One pane cracks, a thin white line splitting across the glass.
We both freeze, staring at it.
The shop groans under the weight of the wind, the sound low and foreboding.
Mia’s voice comes out a whisper. “Luke… what if we can’t fix this?”
I have no answer. Only the crack spreading wider across the glass, promising that nothing—not even us—will come out unscathed.