Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Water beads along the cracked pane, then runs in thin, merciless streams, dripping off the sill like the shop is crying and won’t stop.
I’m already moving—bucket under the worst leak, towels across the floor, stems rescued from the window display and hustled to the back.
Cold air knifes in through the buckling frame and turns my wet sleeves icy against my skin.
“Unplug that outlet,” I call, voice too sharp. My hands keep going—tape, plastic sheeting, anything to make a patch that will hold for more than a heartbeat. If I keep moving, nothing breaks. If I keep moving, I don’t have to hear the clock Titan wound up in my head.
Luke doesn’t argue. He yanks the cord from the wall, slides a rack of wrapped bouquets away from the draft, then shoulders the ladder and plants it under the cracked molding. He looks at me for a single beat—waiting for a nod like this is still my shop—and I give it before I realize I’ve done it.
The leak widens. Patters into the bucket. Patters onto my nerves.
“Zoe!” I shout toward the back. “Trash bags, duct tape, and those extra towels from the workshop shelf.”
“I’m on it!” she calls, feet squeaking on the damp tile.
The eucalyptus by the window smells sharp and clean, but all I catch is the metal tang of panic.
I wrap the cellophane tighter around a clutch of peonies that should’ve been pretty, should’ve been safe, and hate the way my hands shake.
Mom would have turned this into a checklist, not a meltdown.
She would’ve hummed while she worked and the shop would have listened.
“Careful,” Luke says from the ladder. Wind hammers the glass like a fist. He braces his shoulder against the frame, tests the give with his palm. “We need a temporary brace.”
I shove a bundle of wooden stakes into his hand before he finishes the thought. “Use these. They’re for tall arrangements.”
He wedges two between the sill and the beam, muscles tight beneath his soaked T-shirt. The frame complains, then holds. For now.
Zoe skids in with supplies. I tear a trash bag down the seam, flatten it across the window, and smooth tape over the edges, sealing plastic to wood as the wind tugs and snaps.
Luke’s fingers find mine on the last strip of tape; for a half second we’re both pressing the same corner down, both refusing to let the shop slip one inch more.
“Nice save,” he says, breath visible in the cold.
I don’t look at him. “We’re not saved yet.” I toss him another strip. “Top left.”
He moves without comment, and we fall into a rhythm I didn’t plan and don’t want to think about—he braces, I seal; I triage the flowers, he secures the structure.
Buckets fill; we swap them out. Towels soak; Zoe feeds us fresh ones like we’re in a strange little battlefield hospital that only treats roses and plaster.
A new drip starts near the register. I sprint, slide, catch it with a chipped mixing bowl that’s seen more potting soil than cake batter. “Not today,” I mutter, to the ceiling, to Titan, to the ache thudding under my sternum.
“This storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” Luke says as he climbs down. He pulls on a delivery rain jacket, then hands me the spare. “Here—unless you want hypothermia on top of everything else.”
“I’m fine.” My teeth click together. I take the jacket anyway. “Inventory first. Then the cooler seals.”
He nods, as if my priorities are his, and for a breath the panic thins. It’s still my shop. It’s still ours to fight for.
The wind howls. The plastic shudders but stays. The bucket under the leak beats out a steady, stubborn rhythm. I match it, breath for breath, and refuse to let the fear win.
“Okay,” I say, louder than I feel. “We’re going to hold.” And we keep moving.
The shop is chaos—petals plastered against the floor like confetti after a party no one wanted, water dripping steady from the ceiling into mismatched buckets we dragged from the back. My hands ache from wringing out towels that can’t keep up, but Luke doesn’t stop moving.
He climbs back up the ladder with a roll of duct tape and a sheet of plastic he must’ve found in the storage closet.
“Hold this steady,” he says, pressing the corner into my hands without even looking at me.
His hair is soaked, plastered dark against his forehead, rain jacket already dripping at the seams.
I want to bite out something sarcastic—that he’s bossy, that this won’t hold, that he’s overdoing it—but the words lodge in my throat. He’s working like the shop is his too, like saving it matters just as much to him.
“Luke—” I start, but he cuts me off with a grunt as he stretches the plastic across the beam. His shoulders strain with the reach, muscles tense under damp fabric, and for some reason I can’t drag my eyes away.
He glances down, catching me staring. “What?”
“Nothing.” I staple the word too quickly, turning back to press my side of the plastic flat. “Just…thanks.”
The corner of his mouth curves like he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he climbs down, checks the seal, then moves right to the next leak. It’s relentless, the way he works—focused, methodical, like if he just keeps going, nothing can collapse.
Zoe rushes in with another armful of towels, slipping a little on the wet tile. Luke is there before I can react, steadying her with one hand on her elbow. “Careful,” he says, voice softer than I expect, before sending her off with instructions.
And that—more than the plastic, more than the buckets—is what undoes me. He isn’t just fixing the roof; he’s looking out for the people in here, too. For me.
I bend over to mop at the puddle beneath the register, but my throat is tight.
Grace’s words echo in my head—you don’t have to carry this alone.
I’ve been so set on proving I could, on making the shop a shrine that kept my mom alive in every bouquet, every receipt, every column of her neat handwriting.
But Luke doesn’t treat it like a shrine.
He treats it like something living. Something worth fighting for in the messy, exhausting present.
My hands still on the mop. The truth sneaks in before I can shove it away: I still care for him. Maybe not in the childish, hopeless crush way I used to, but in the quiet awareness that he sees me flailing and doesn’t turn away. He jumps in, shoulders the weight, even when I wish he wouldn’t.
I squeeze the mop handle until my knuckles ache, blinking hard at the mess in front of me. Caring doesn’t mean trusting, I remind myself. It doesn’t mean forgiving. But it also doesn’t mean nothing.
Luke passes by with another bucket, brushing close enough that I catch the clean, sharp scent of rain on his jacket. “We’ll get through this,” he says like it’s fact, not possibility.
For the first time since the storm hit, I almost believe him.
By the time the worst of the storm passes, the shop looks like it’s survived a war.
Flowers cling to the floor in soggy drifts, ribbon rolls float like shipwreck survivors in shallow puddles, and the scent of roses has soured with mildew.
My chest tightens at the sight. This place was my mother’s dream, her masterpiece—and now it looks like a ruin.
Luke drags the last bucket into place beneath a stubborn leak, his jaw set in that determined line that both infuriates and steadies me.
He wipes his hands on his soaked jeans, breath puffing in tired bursts.
I don’t have the heart to snap at him, not when he’s given everything he has to patching my world back together.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? My world. Yet he’s standing right in the center of it, like he belongs.
Grace’s voice threads through my head again: You don’t have to do this alone.
I bend over to wring out another towel, blinking back tears I refuse to let fall. I shouldn’t lean on him. I shouldn’t want to lean on him. And yet… I glance over, and he’s there, steady as ever, coaxing the chaos into something manageable.
The words slip in before I can stop them. I still care about you, Luke. I don’t say it aloud, but it thunders in my chest all the same. Care doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t solve the trust we’ve shattered between us. But it’s undeniable, no matter how fiercely I’ve tried to bury it.
The bell over the door jingles, startling me. I whirl around, expecting maybe Zoe with more supplies, but instead—Mrs. Delgado from the bakery down the street hurries in, rain dripping from her umbrella.
“Oh, Mia!” she exclaims, hand pressed to her chest. “I saw the storm hit your windows—I brought extra tarps.”
Behind her comes her son, lugging rolls of heavy plastic, and then—like word traveled through the storm itself—more familiar faces. Mr. Chen from the hardware store, the college kids who sometimes buy daisies for dates, even Mrs. Patterson with her cranky dachshund wrapped in a towel.
The shop fills with voices and footsteps, a current of energy sweeping in with them. Buckets are emptied, plastic stapled across the broken window, someone sweeps the puddles back out the door with an old broom. It’s clumsy and chaotic, but it’s help, and my throat burns watching them.
Luke meets my eyes across the crowded shop, and for once we don’t need words. He nods, like he’s saying, See? This is why it matters.
I swallow hard and manage a smile for Mrs. Delgado, who insists I sit down for a minute while she wrangles the broom like a general commanding troops. My pulse slows as I watch them—neighbors, customers, friends—all pitching in to rescue what I thought I had to guard alone.
For a moment, grief loosens its grip. This shop isn’t a shrine. It’s alive, because of the people who keep walking through its door.
Luke squeezes past me with a roll of duct tape, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. “Told you we’d get through this,” he murmurs, voice low but steady.
I want to argue, to remind him we’re not out of danger yet. But instead I whisper back, “Maybe we will.”
The moment feels fragile, a flower stem balanced between my fingers—something that could bloom or snap. My chest aches with the possibility.
The bell jingles again, and I turn, expecting more neighbors with towels or tools. Instead, a woman steps inside in sleek black heels, her umbrella dry as if the storm parted just for her. Her lipstick is precise, her suit too sharp for a place like this.
Ms. Eldridge. Titan’s rep.
She surveys the wreckage with a practiced smile, eyes gleaming like she’s already calculated the cost. “My, my. Quite the mess you’ve had here.” Her tone drips with sympathy that feels colder than the rain outside.
Luke stiffens beside me, his shoulders going rigid.
“We don’t need your commentary,” I say, crossing my arms even as water drips from my hair. “We’re handling it.”
“Of course you are,” she replies smoothly, heels clicking across the damp tile as though puddles don’t dare touch her. She stops at the counter, fingertips grazing the warped wood. “But handling and recovering are two very different things, Miss Mia.”
I bristle at her use of my name, sharp and professional, like I’m a line item in her report.
“What do you want?” Luke asks flatly, stepping between her and me.
She smiles, folding her umbrella with a neat snap. “To help, naturally. Titan has resources. Connections. We could repair all this—windows, roofing, even new refrigeration units—at no upfront cost to you.”
My stomach drops. I don’t trust that kind of generosity. Not from her. Not from Titan.
“And in exchange?” I ask, though I already know.
Her smile deepens, smug as ever. “Just a simple agreement. Partial ownership of Collins Floral. You’d still run day-to-day operations, of course. But Titan would ensure stability. No more storms like this derailing your livelihood.”
The words hang in the damp air, heavier than the storm clouds outside.
Around us, the neighbors keep working, unaware of the deal hanging in the air like a guillotine. My pulse hammers, and I grip the counter edge to steady myself.
Luke’s jaw clenches, his hand curling into a fist at his side.
I meet Ms. Eldridge’s gaze and force my voice steady. “We’ll think about it.”
But inside, my chest is split wide open. Because the truth is simple, terrifying, and undeniable: I don’t know if I can save this place on my own anymore.
And Titan knows it.