Chapter 14
JULIETTE
Ilock the front door of Leaf & Letter and flip the sign to CLOSED, even though I’ve checked it twice already. Possibly three times. I tell myself I’m just being thorough. Responsible. A business owner who does not leave things to chance.
I set my workshop clipboard on the counter and stare at it like it’s about to confess something. The list is neat. Bullet-pointed. Highlighted in two colors, because apparently, I’m a person who owns two highlighters now.
– Soil bins filled
– Extra gloves
– Hand wipes
– Name tags
– Payment tablet charged
All checked. All handled. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that something feels off.
I tap the pen against the paper, then flip the page over as if the missing problem might be hiding on the back. It isn’t. The shop is quiet, lights low, plants settling into their after-hours stillness. Everything is exactly as it should be.
Which makes the tight knot in my chest deeply suspicious.
“You’re pacing,” Charlie says mildly from the back table.
I stop mid-step, one foot hovering like I’ve been caught sneaking cookies before dinner. “I am not.”
“You’ve walked past the pothos display six times,” he says, not looking up from the tray he’s wiping down. “Seven, if we’re counting the dramatic pause.”
“I like to circulate,” I say.
Charlie hums. A knowing little sound. “Big workshop jitters?”
“No,” I say immediately. Too immediately. “I’ve run a dozen of these. They’re fine. People repot things. They leave happy. No one cries. Very straightforward.”
“Mmm.” He finally looks up, silver brows lifting. “You alphabetized the name tags.”
“That’s efficient.”
“That’s spiraling,” he corrects gently. “At least when you do it.”
I sigh and lean my hip against the counter, glancing back at the clipboard. At the list. At the very reasonable, very normal event that is happening tomorrow.
It’s not the workshop.
It’s him.
The realization hits so cleanly it almost knocks the breath out of me.
Sawyer is helping. In front of people. Actual, paying, plant-loving people. And my brain—traitorous, unhelpful thing that it is—keeps replaying every chaotic moment he’s ever had. Soil spills. Over-watering. That one time he apologized to a fern.
I press my lips together. I’m nervous he’s going to mess up.
Which would be fine. Except—
I’m not nervous about the workshop.
I’m nervous about him.
About him looking foolish. About people laughing. About him realizing, mid-sentence, that he’s said the wrong thing and flashing that crooked, hopeful smile like he’s bracing for impact.
When did I start caring if Sawyer Stockton succeeds?
The thought lands, fully formed and deeply inconvenient.
I straighten, suddenly very interested in rearranging a stack of pots that absolutely do not need rearranging. “I just want things to go smoothly,” I mutter.
Charlie watches me for a beat, then smiles in that soft way of his that feels like being seen without being exposed. “They will,” he says. “And if they don’t, that’s usually where the good stories come from. You know, the ones they tell on repeat for years and years.”
I don’t answer. I just look back at my checklist, heart doing something unfamiliar and fluttery in my chest.
Because apparently, along with extra soil and hand wipes, I’m now responsible for caring whether a hockey player with too much charm and not enough fear makes a good impression.
A few minutes later, when the bell over the door jingles, my stomach drops.
I don’t need to look. I know. My body knows. The same way it knows when a delivery is late or a payment hasn’t cleared or something important is about to go sideways.
“Please tell me this counts as after closing,” Sawyer says.
I turn.
He’s just inside the shop, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair still damp like he’s come straight from the rink. He’s holding two coffee cups, steam curling into the air like he planned this entrance.
Of course he brought coffee.
“I’m glad we’re doing this tonight.” He pauses, eyes flicking to my face, then softens his grin. “Coach always makes us do a walkthrough before a game. You don’t wing it when people are watching.”
Something tightens in my chest. I take the coffee he offers, mostly so my hands have something to do. “This isn’t a game.”
“Sure it is,” he says. “Different uniforms. Same pressure.”
Charlie makes a low, amused sound from the back, but I don’t look at him. My attention is locked on Sawyer.
“I don’t want this to go late, so we’re going to jump right in.” I grab a plant from the counter—a healthy pothos, long vines spilling over the edge—and place it carefully in his hands. My fingers brush his wrist. I pull back faster than necessary.
“You’ll stand here,” I say, positioning him near the worktable. “You’ll hold the plant. You’ll explain basic care, then repot it, showing folks how easy it is. Nothing fancy. Clear. Confident.”
He nods, focused. “Got it.”
I step back, arms folding tight across my chest.
This shouldn’t matter to me.
So why does it feel like I’m watching him take a penalty shot?
Sawyer looks down at the plant. “Okay, so this philodendron—”
I wince.
“—does great in indirect light—”
“It’s a pothos,” I blurt.
He stops. Looks up. “It is?”
“Yes.”
He glances back at the leaves, then at me. “Huh. They look…related.”
“They are not.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Noted. Pothos. Friendly. Chill. Not a philodendron.”
I press my lips together, fighting the urge to smile. Not yet. I’m still nervous. I don’t know why, but I am.
“Try again,” I say.
He exhales, resets, then reaches for another plant without asking. A small barrel cactus.
“This succulent—”
My eyes widen.
Sawyer looks up, already bracing. “No?”
“That,” I say carefully, “is a cactus.”
He blinks. “Cactus is a succulent.”
“It is a type of succulent,” I say, teeth clenched. “But you cannot call all succulents cacti.”
He nods solemnly. “I have learned something important today.”
I stare at him. At the earnestness. The way he’s trying so hard not to mess this up. The way his shoulders tense like he’s waiting for a whistle.
And something in me cracks. A laugh slips out. Quiet. Unplanned.
Sawyer’s head lifts immediately. His expression changes—not smug, not teasing. Relieved.
“There,” he says softly. “I was hoping you’d do that.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh. Means I didn’t totally blow it.”
I swallow, a tight feeling in my chest beginning to deepen. I don’t like it. I definitely don’t understand it.
“This isn’t about being funny,” I say, stepping closer, lowering my voice. “People are trusting you. They’re here to learn.”
“I know,” he says. And he means it. “That’s why I wanted to practice.”
I adjust his grip on the pot, my hands steady even though my pulse isn’t. “You don’t need to impress anyone,” I tell him. “Just be you and be careful.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. “You sound like you’re worried about me.”
I straighten, immediately retreating into professionalism. “I’m worried about the workshop.”
“Uh-huh.”
I step back, clearing my throat. “Again. From the top.”
He nods, serious now. Focused. Sawyer sets the plant back on the table and exhales, long and steady, like he’s resetting his breath before a shift change.
“Okay,” he says. “From the top.”
I nod, but my chest is still tight. Too tight. The shop feels smaller suddenly. Quieter. Like it’s holding its breath with me.
“What if no one comes?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Sawyer cocks his head to the side. “Isn’t it sold out?”
“People have signed up, but…” I gesture vaguely at the tables, the neatly laid-out supplies, the sign-in sheet waiting by the register. “What if they’re only coming because you’re—you.” I wince. “A hockey player. What if they don’t actually care about plants?”
There it is. The thing that’s been needling at me all evening, poking holes in my checklist.
Sawyer doesn’t laugh at my fear. Doesn’t deflect. He steps closer instead.
“Then we make them care,” he says. Simple. Steady. “Together.”
The word lands harder than it should.
We.
Not you. Not your shop. Not your problem.
I blink, caught off guard. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says gently. “But I want to.”
He glances down at the table, at the mess of plant care cards and sample pots. “I get nervous before games,” he admits. “Every time. Doesn’t matter how many I’ve played. There’s always that moment where I’m sure I’m about to screw it up in front of everyone.”
I snort softly. “You don’t seem like the nervous type.”
He huffs a dry laugh. “Did you see that press conference?”
“Fair point.”
“I care,” he continues, quieter now, “because people are watching. Because I don’t want to let anyone down.” His eyes flick back to mine. “Sound familiar?”
My throat tightens. I don’t answer.
He reaches for one of the care cards, holding it between us. I lean in without thinking, our shoulders nearly touching as we both look at my phone, then the card, comparing notes.
“You taught me this stuff,” he says. “Plants. Patience. Not overdoing it.” A beat. “Let me help you with this.”
His hand brushes mine as he adjusts the card.
Just a touch. Barely there, but it’s enough.
The air shifts. Thickens. I’m suddenly aware of everything—how close he is, the warmth at my side, the way my pulse jumps stupidly at the contact. When I glance up, his gaze has dropped to my mouth. Then back to my eyes.
He lifts his hand, hesitates, then tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I forget how to breathe.
“Juliette—”
“Hey!” Charlie calls out before he appears from the back. “Before I forget—did we decide on two or three extra soil bags for tomorrow?”
I jerk back like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
Sawyer steps away at the exact same moment, running a hand through his hair, suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
“Three,” I say too quickly. “Definitely three.”
Charlie’s eyes flick between us. A slow, knowing smile spreads as he retreats. “Right,” he says. “Three. Thanks.”
The shop settles again. A bit quieter, and definitely more charged.
Sawyer clears his throat. “So. Should I start again?”
I nod, heart still racing. “Yeah. From the top.”
We both know something just happened, yet neither of us says a word about it.
And this space between us feels louder than the bell over the door ever could.