Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The town square is already alive when I haul the first crate of flowers out of the truck.
Banners ripple in the morning breeze, laughter spills from food stalls, and the air smells like cinnamon sugar and fried dough.
It’s the kind of festival that draws every soul in town, which means one thing: our booth has to shine or Titan wins without lifting a finger.
Mia’s already at the stall, crouched over a bucket of peonies, sleeves rolled, hair twisted into a knot that’s slipping loose. She’s biting her lip as she fiddles with the arrangement, frowning at it like it insulted her.
“Careful,” I say, setting the crate down beside her. “Those flowers are innocent. They didn’t do anything to deserve that glare.”
Her head snaps up, and for a second I think she’ll bite back with one of her sharp comebacks. But instead, her mouth curves. Small, reluctant, but there.
“Maybe they shouldn’t be so stubborn,” she mutters.
I crouch beside her, pick up a stray stem, and spin it between my fingers. “Flowers aren’t stubborn. They just know what they’re meant to be. Sometimes you just need to give them the right soil to belong.”
She blinks at me, then laughs, shaking her head. “Luke, philosopher of petals. Who knew?”
The sound loosens something in my chest. I didn’t realize how badly I missed that laugh until now.
We get to work side by side, arranging buckets, stringing garlands across the wooden frame of the stall, draping linen cloths that catch in the wind.
My hands are steady, practical—I measure, balance, anchor.
Mia’s are quick and imaginative—tilting stems just so, tucking sprigs of green in places I never would’ve thought to.
Together, it looks like something better than either of us could’ve done alone.
“Slide that display three inches left,” she calls, standing back with her hands on her hips.
I move it, and she squints, then shakes her head. “No, back an inch.”
I give her a look. “Are we arranging flowers or calibrating NASA equipment?”
Her grin flashes bright. “Precision is everything.”
I grunt, but move it anyway. And when I see the finished effect—the way her design pulls eyes straight to our shop’s name—I can’t argue.
The hours blur. People wander by to watch us set up, and I catch a few murmurs—beautiful, so fresh, better than Bloom & Vine. Each word sparks a quiet pride I haven’t felt in years.
When I glance at Mia, cheeks flushed, hair coming loose as she leans over the table to adjust one last bouquet, it hits me square in the gut: I’m falling.
It sneaks up quiet, like roots pushing deep without you noticing. But now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. The way she hums when she works, the way she tilts her head just before she laughs, the way her fire makes me want to be better, sharper, more alive.
I swallow hard, adjusting the garland one more time just to keep my hands busy. This was supposed to be temporary—help her, redeem myself, then leave before the town swallowed me whole again. But the truth is here, staring me in the face. I don’t want to leave. Not from her.
And that’s the most dangerous thought I’ve had in years.
By the time the booth is finished, the sun’s high and the festival’s in full swing.
Music drifts from the gazebo—fiddles and banjos threading through the crowd.
Children run with sticky fingers and balloons, couples meander with paper cones of kettle corn.
It’s small-town chaos at its finest, and somehow it feels good to be in the middle of it.
Mia brushes pollen off her jeans, then steps back to survey the stall. The garlands sway gently in the breeze, the buckets are bursting with color, and the hand-painted sign she insisted on hangs proudly across the top: Evergreen Blooms.
I whistle low. “Not bad. Almost looks like we know what we’re doing.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s mischief in them. “Almost? That’s the best you’ve got?”
I shrug, leaning against the post. “I’m just saying, if this whole florist thing doesn’t work out, you could probably get a job… maybe as an overly critical art teacher.”
Her jaw drops in mock offense. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know, this display is perfection. People will be talking about it all day.”
“They’ll definitely be talking,” I say, keeping my tone serious. “Probably about how the buckets are off-center.”
She gasps, scandalized, then smacks my arm with a ribbon spool. “You did not just say that.”
The laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. It’s been years since I’ve laughed like this—with my guard down, easy. And the best part? She’s laughing too, shoulders shaking, cheeks pink from more than just the sun.
I don’t even notice when my hand drifts, catching hers as she tries to swat me again. The contact is quick, accidental maybe, but electric all the same. She stills, eyes flicking to mine, and for one reckless second I almost forget where we are.
Almost.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to let go, but the warmth lingers.
“Anyway,” I say gruffly, dragging the crate closer. “We should probably stop joking and focus on selling before Titan strolls by with their perfect little army.”
Mia arches a brow, clearly unimpressed with my retreat. “Fine. But for the record? You’re wrong. This display is perfection.”
I can’t help grinning. “You keep telling yourself that, sunshine.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to argue, but then she surprises me—she just shakes her head and laughs again, softer this time. Almost… fond.
The afternoon rush hits hard. We work shoulder to shoulder, handing out bouquets, answering questions, wrapping stems in brown paper. And somewhere between the fifth compliment and the tenth sale, I realize we’re moving in perfect sync. No sharp words, no stubborn clashes—just… us.
Her hand brushes mine as we pass ribbon, our heads lean together over a stubborn arrangement, her shoulder bumps mine when she reaches across the table. Each touch feels unintentional, but the pull between us is impossible to ignore.
And the more I fight it, the stronger it gets.
Because the truth is, I like this. I like the way she snaps her fingers when she’s excited, the way her eyes spark when she talks to customers, the way she doesn’t back down when I tease her.
She’s fire and grit and heart, and I’m starting to believe I could stand here with her forever and not want anything else.
That thought scares the hell out of me.
So when she tosses me a crooked smile and says, “Not bad, you almost look like you belong behind a flower stand,” I do the only thing I can to keep from blurting the truth.
I smirk back. “Careful, Mia. Keep complimenting me like that and people will think you actually like me.”
Her laugh is quick, bright, but there’s something softer under it—something that makes my chest tighten. And for one dangerous moment, I think she might actually say it.
But then a gust of wind rattles the garlands, breaking the spell. She busies herself tying them back down, and I swallow the words I’ll never admit aloud.
Because falling for her? That’s a risk I don’t get to take.
Not again.
The morning sun hits the festival square, bright and unforgiving, and already the crowd is moving in a steady tide.
I glance at our booth, and my chest tightens.
Every petal, every vase, every ribbon has to be perfect.
This is our booth on display, and there’s no margin for error—not with the community watching and Titan lurking in the background.
Mia flits around the tables like a whirlwind, adjusting stems and muttering under her breath. I can’t help the way I watch her, the way she throws herself into the work with that mix of chaos and genius. She’s distracting. Dangerous. And somehow impossible to look away from.
“Are you sure these daisies aren’t too… happy?” she asks, frowning at a cluster near the front.
“Too happy?” I say, cocking my head, keeping my tone light even as my heart beats faster. “There’s no such thing as too happy. But maybe these need a little less… exuberance,” I add, adjusting the petals just so.
She rolls her eyes, that familiar spark in them. “Exuberance? Since when did you start using flower vocabulary like it’s a personality trait?”
“Since I realized my company was boring without it,” I tease, hoping the grin on my face doesn’t betray how much I care what she thinks. “Besides, it matches your chaotic style.”
She shoves a stray ribbon at me. Reflexively, I catch it. “Same difference,” I reply, and I can’t stop the way her corners twitch, almost smiling. Almost—but not enough for me to let my guard down entirely.
We move around each other with practiced precision, elbows brushing, hands reaching for the same stems. Every accidental touch sends a spark through me, and I have to remind myself: focus, Luke. Focus on the flowers, the booth, the festival. Not… her.
By mid-morning, the booth looks incredible.
People stop, admire, snap photos, and I can’t help but notice Mia’s shoulders relax for the first time in months.
She’s radiant when she’s in her element, completely alive.
I feel a twist in my chest, something I’ve been trying to ignore: I’m falling for her, and I know it.
“Not bad for a last-minute pairing of chaos and control,” she says, leaning against a crate.
“Not bad at all,” I murmur, letting my eyes linger on her a second too long before shifting back to the arrangements.
Then—I notice it. The subtle shift in the air, the curl of petals that shouldn’t be curling. My stomach drops.
“Wait…” Mia says, voice tight.
I step closer, scanning the centerpiece. Half the roses are shriveling, petals curling like they’ve been poisoned. The main vase is tipped slightly, water sloshing over the edge. Titan. Sabotage. My jaw tightens.
“Not all ruined,” I say, forcing calm into my voice, though my gut churns. “We can fix this. We just… need to move fast.”