Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Ruby
The door opens and I bring my dance to an abrupt stop. At least this time I don’t have music blaring. I also don’t have earbuds in. The music is in my head.
“Welcome to Oopsie Daisies!” I call automatically, reaching for a bundle of pruned ranunculus. “We’re running a special on—”
My words die when I see him.
The guy from Sweet Peak Café. Dark coat. Crisp shirt. No smile.
Oh no. Maybe my parting comment about getting unstuck, stuck with him.
“Can I help you?” I ask, though it comes out more like a squeak. Keeping my hands busy, I wrap the flowers in bright pink paper and toss out the detritus.
He glances around like he’s inspecting an alien planet. “You must be Ruby.”
I wipe my hands on my apron, leaving a green smear across my belly. “In the flesh.”
He tilts his head as if I’m a curious creature he’s never encountered before. “Griffin Renshaw.” He says it like an announcement. “I left several messages.”
My brain stalls. “You’re the—”
“Owner,” he finishes. “For now.”
I blink. “Oh. Oh, good,” I say, trying to recuperate. I go for funny. “Because I was starting to worry you were a tax auditor. Or a hitman. Or a worker at Lombardi’s.”
“Is that a pizzeria?”
“The funeral home.” I gesture to his dark, stiff clothes.
His brow furrows. “I’m none of the above.”
The phone rings and I shove the bouquet into his hands. “Hold this.”
He stares at the colorful ranunculus like they might explode. “What are you—”
“Just hold them a sec.” I rush to answer the phone, juggling the call and the panic buzzing in my head. By the time I hang up, he’s still standing there, bouquet in hand, expression locked somewhere between disbelief and dismay.
“Thanks!” I take them back. “You’re a natural.”
“I’m the owner,” he says flatly.
“And I’m the manager and main investor.” I throw my arms wide above my head like a Price Is Right model presenting the grand prize.
He stares at me with one brow raised. It’s not the first time I’ve gotten that look. When people first meet me, they’re often confused. Fair enough.
“I create bouquets for all sorts of occasions which essentially means I invest in love.”
I can almost hear his internal systems rebooting. “Right.”
Mrs. Periwinkle appears at the door and heaven help me, her arrival is a welcome sight. Even if she has been lurking outside for the last five minutes.
“Hello, Ruby, I see you’ve met our handsome new visitor!” she chirps.
Mrs. Periwinkle is the town’s one-time self-professed matchmaker. Word is she hung up her matchmaking hat after several disastrous attempts at fixing up local singles. Seems she’s still having trouble rescinding the title.
“Yep, we’ve met,” I say, trying not to sound as freaked out as I feel. This man is here to ruin Oopsie Daisies.
As usual, Mrs. P doesn’t read the room. “What brings you to town, Mr. Renshaw? Are you planning to expand this lovely shop?”
Griffin rubs the bridge of his nose like he’s developing an allergy to small-town interference. “I’m here to assess the business, evaluate operations, and determine next steps.”
Translation: sell the shop. End of story.
But Griffin Renshaw doesn’t know me yet.
Oopsie Daisies is far more than a place of work. It’s my second home. And I’m not going down without a fight.