Chapter 4
JULIETTE
Morning in the shop is my favorite version of the world.
The light comes in soft and slanted through the front windows, dust motes floating like they have nowhere else to be. The plants look calmer before customers arrive—leaves glossy and patient, vines still, like they’re holding their breath with me.
I unlock the register, slide my bag under the counter, and start my opening routine. We’d been busy over the weekend, nothing superb but at least we had sales. The weather warming up helps, but we could have used many more sales than we managed.
Behind the counter, I shuffle my paperwork into stacks: invoices, supplier receipts, last week’s sales report that makes my stomach clench. Twelve customers on Saturday. Twelve. I need forty to break even on a weekend day.
I pick up the invoice from my soil supplier—the one I’ve been avoiding for three days—and force myself to actually read it this time.
PAST DUE: $847.00 ACCOUNT WILL BE SUSPENDED IF NOT PAID BY 3/28
That’s four days from now. I set it down carefully, like if I’m gentle enough it might become less true.
I pick up the other pile. This pile is less official but just as stressful.
It lives in a shallow wooden tray beside the register, and it’s where Theo’s school demands live.
Permission slips. Fundraisers. Announcements printed in cheerful fonts that assume every kid has two parents, unlimited time, and a spare twenty dollars lying around.
I thumb through the papers, bracing myself for the usual.
Bake sale sign-up, which means I’ll be baking dozens of cupcakes or cookies at some point.
Spirit Week reminder, so he needs school colors one day.
Everything’s manageable…but Wacky Hair Day is going to test me.
I still have flashbacks because of last year’s ‘spider-do.’ Temporary black spray everywhere.
Cotton batting stretched into a web across his head while I tried not to glue my fingers together, but I still did.
My hands were also stained gray for days.
He thought it was epic, while I briefly reconsidered parenthood.
The field trip, though? Blissfully normal. Easy yes.
Charlie appears from the back room carrying a watering can. “Morning. Don’t forget to check Theo’s stuff,” he says casually. “He mentioned something about needing a signature for a field trip.”
“I just saw that, thank you,” I say, already annoyed with the universe for being so organized against me.
Okay. So far so good. Demands are not terrible, so I flip the next page.
And there it is.
Father-Son Breakfast. Bold letters. Smiling stick-figure dads on the clip-art banner. A date circled in red at the top like it’s something to celebrate. We’ve entered a hostage situation, folks.
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a growl.
Charlie peers over my shoulder. “Oof.”
“Birthday month,” I say flatly. “And the Father-Son Breakfast. Nice double-punch to the gut, huh?”
He gently plucks the flyer from my hand before I can crumple it. Reads it once, then lowers it. “You can’t win, can you?”
“No,” I say. “I really, truly can’t.”
Charlie doesn’t rush to fix it. That’s one of the reasons he’s good at this—at the shop, at people. He just slides the flyer back into the tray, face-down, like it might hurt less if it can’t see me.
“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, “Theo’s got you. That counts for something.”
“I know,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I do know that.”
“If you want, I can go. Or Tom.” Tom being Charlie’s husband.
I think about this for a minute, that it might be exciting for him to show up with two dads.
I mean, I can get behind an overachiever with this kind of strategy.
But, as fun as it sounds, and as much as I appreciate Charlie’s offer, I don’t want to add the pressure of my world to theirs.
“You’re the sweetest,” I say, patting his arm. “Thank you, but I’ll see how this plays out.”
Charlie’s eyes then drift to the supplier invoice still sitting on the counter. He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tightens slightly.
“I’ll figure that out, too,” I tell him.
“I know you will.” He picks up the watering can. “But if you need me to take fewer hours—”
“Charlie, no.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “You’re the only reason this place runs when I can’t be here. I’m not cutting your hours.”
He opens his mouth to argue.
“End of discussion,” I say firmly.
He nods once, but the concern doesn’t leave his face. “Okay. But Juliette? We’re at that point where something has to give.”
I know. Trust me, I know.
“I’m working on it,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. I’m always working on it. Working on it is basically my full-time job alongside my actual full-time job.
The bell over the door jingles, triggering me to look up.
Sawyer Stockton fills the doorway like he belongs there, filled with confidence and early-morning cheer.
He’s wearing jeans and a dark Henley that fits him in a way that my tired brain notices before I can stop it, and he’s holding a cardboard drink carrier with three coffees like this is the most natural place in the world for him to be.
“Morning,” he says easily. “I come bearing peace offerings.”
My brain stalls. Completely. All I can think is two things simultaneously: Oh.
The giant’s awake now. And: I cannot afford to find this man with his sexy vibe attractive right now.
I have an $847 problem, a missing-father breakfast problem, and approximately zero bandwidth for noticing how someone’s shoulders fill out a Henley.
“Hi,” I say, which feels inadequate but is the best I’ve got.
He steps inside, careful not to brush against anything, eyes flicking to the plants like he’s memorized Rule One. There’s something about the carefulness—the way he’s moving through my space like he understands it matters—that makes my chest flutter in the most inconvenient way possible.
“I wasn’t sure what everyone drinks, so I went with a variety. Black. Oat milk. And…something aggressively sweet.”
“That one’s mine,” Charlie says immediately, delighted.
Sawyer grins and hands him a cup. “Knew it.”
“You’re a legend.” Charlie accepts it like a prize. “You’re off to a strong start, kid.”
Sawyer turns to me, offering the remaining coffee. “For you.”
I hesitate for half a second—because accepting things is a slippery slope—and then take it. “Thank you.”
Our fingers brush for a moment. His hands are warm, softer than I expect, and the touch lands like a quiet shock, traveling further than it has any right to before I pull back.
“You’re early,” I say, because my mouth insists on participating.
“I was told ‘on time,’” he says. “Didn’t want to push it.”
“Okay, points for you,” I reply. “The coffee helps, too.”
His smile widens like he’s filed that away as a small victory, and I realize with creeping horror that I’m trying not to smile back.
Charlie takes a loud sip behind me. “Congrats on the win Saturday night,” he says, tipping his drink in the air. What a traitor, but I can’t get mad at him. He’s been a Dominion fan from the moment it was announced they were coming here.
But, something happens that surprises me: Sawyer’s cheeks go bright red, flushing fast before settling into a softer, almost endearing pink. “Thanks, man,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Means a lot.”
Sawyer’s blush makes him look younger. More human. Less like a PR problem I didn’t ask for and more like an actual person who just wants to be liked. Is he a little embarrassed right now?
“While I have you both here, I need you to know that at some point in the next few weeks, a mystery shopper will be coming in.” I turn to Sawyer to explain what Charlie already knows.
“The store is up for a business grant, and the shopper is the last step in the process. So, if you aren’t confident when someone asks you a question, please make sure to get one of us. Got it?”
“Got ya, boss lady,” Sawyer answers with a mock salute.
“No.” I hold up a hand, slicing it through the air. “Don’t do that. We don’t do that.”
Sawyer’s hands immediately fly into surrender. “You’re right. I’ve been told that before. Got ya…you.”
I fight my jaw’s sudden urge to unhinge itself, but it’s hard to do when your face insists on twisting into a shape that I’m sure does not reflect trust and confidence in the situation.
“Thanks for the update, Juliette.” Charlie grins as he inclines his head toward the back of the store. “I’m going to leave you two to it. I’ve got a box of stationery in the back that’s judging me for ignoring it.”
He disappears through the doorway, coffee in hand, only to pop his head back out a second later. “Forgot to tell you that Carol from the Community Program was here bright and early. She dropped off that envelope on the counter for you and Sawyer this morning.”
I cast a glance at the large manila envelope resting against the cash register, with my name written across it in red magic marker.
Sawyer watches him go, then looks around again, eyes landing on the shelves of notebooks and cards. “So,” he says, nodding toward the walls, “Leaf & Letter. Plants and stationery.”
“You got it,” I say, grabbing the envelope and tearing it open. “It’s a dual-threat situation.”
He considers that. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, looks back at me. “So I can’t touch plants…but I can touch paper, right?”
I blink at him. Then I shake my head, already exhausted.
“Seriously? Of course you can touch the paper. Just—” I gesture vaguely at the shop, the shelves, the fragile ecosystem I’ve built leaf by leaf. “Try not to be a bull in a china shop. That’s all I’m asking. Please.”
“I was kidding, but of course,” he says quickly. “Absolutely. I will be gentle. Respectful. I’m a man who is very aware of my surroundings.”
He takes one careful step backward, as if to prove this point, and the edge of his exceptionally “gentle” elbow bumps a hanging planter.